Loe raamatut: «The Parson O' Dumford», lehekülg 22

Volume Three – Chapter Seven.
Where John Maine had been

It was a very miserable breakfast at the farm the next morning, for old Bultitude was looking very black and angry, and it was quite evident that poor little Jessie had been in tears.

“What time did that scoundrel go out?” said the farmer, stabbing a piece of ham savagely with his fork, and after cutting a piece off as if it were a slice off an enemy, he knocked out the brains of an egg with a heavy dash of his tea-spoon.

“Don’t call him a scoundrel, uncle dear,” sobbed Jessie. “I don’t know.”

“I will, I tell ’ee,” cried the old man furiously. “I won’t hev him hanging about here any longer, a lungeing villain. Leaving his wuck and going off, and niver coming back all neet. Look thee here, Jess; if thee thinks any more about that lad, I’ll send thee away.”

“No, no, uncle dear, don’t say that,” cried the girl, going up and clinging to him. “He may have been taken ill, or a dozen things may have happened.”

“O’ coorse. Theer, I niver see such fools as girls are; the bigger blackguard a man is, the more the women tak’s his part. Sit thee down, bairn; theer, I aint cross wi’ you; I on’y want to do what’s best for you, for I wean’t see thee wed to a shack.”

He kissed poor Jessie affectionately, and bade her “make a good breakfast,” but the poor girl could not touch a morsel.

“Hillo! who’s this?” said the farmer, a few minutes later. “Oh, it’s young Brough. Come in, lad, come in.”

“Hooray, farmer!” he cried, all eagerness and delight. “I telled you so – I telled you so, and you wouldn’t believe it, and Miss Jessie theer turned like a wood cat, and was ready to scrat my eyes out.”

Jessie’s colour came and went as her little bosom heaved, and she turned her chair so as to avoid the keeper’s gaze.

“What did’st tell me?” said the farmer gruffly.

“Why, that John Maine was out ivery night skulking ’bout the vicarage whiles he should ha’ been at home i’ bed like an honest man. And I telled ye he was in co. wi’ a couple o’ poachers and thieves over here fro’ one o’ the big towns; and I telled you he weer nobbut a tramp hissen.”

“How dare you speak of him like that?” cried Jessie, starting up with flashing eyes, and stamping her foot. “You wouldn’t dare to speak so to John Maine’s face, for fear he should beat you.”

“Hoity, toity!” exclaimed the farmer. “Who told thee to speak, lass? Let the man finish.”

“I will not sit here and listen to such talk,” cried Jessie, angrily, and with an energy which plainly told her feelings towards the missing man. “Let him wait till John comes.”

“That wean’t niver be,” said the keeper, with a grin of satisfaction. “Because why? Just as I towd thee, farmer, there weer a robbery at the vicarage last night.”

“No!” cried old Bultitude, starting up with his mouth full.

“Ay, mun, but there weer,” cried Brough, in an exulting tone. “Just as I said theer’d be, all plotted and planned out to get parson’s silver cups and toots – all plotted and planned out by John Maine and his blackguard mates. Thank your stars, and you too, Miss Jessie, as you haven’t both been robbed and murdered.”

“I wean’t believe it,” cried the old farmer, angrily. “John Maine’s got a bit wrong somehow, but he isn’t the lad to rob nowt. He’s raight to a penny always wi’ his accounts.”

“That’s his artfulness,” sneered Brough.

“Yah!” cried the farmer. “You’ve got hold of a cock and bull story up town, wheer they’ll turn a slip on the causay into fower fatal accidents ’fore the news has got from the top of the High Street to the bottom.”

As he spoke Jessie crossed over to her uncle, laid her hands upon his shoulder, and stood with her eyes flashing indignant protest against the accuser of her lover.

“Hev it your own waya,” said Brough, quietly. “I were up at ’station, when parson comes in hissen, and tell’d Bowley that the party on ’em broke in at the vicarage last night, ’bout half-past twelve, and that he’d fote the men, and got ’em locked up, and John Maine wi’ ’em. Them’s parson’s own words; and if parson’s words arn’t true, dal it all, who’s is?”

“I’ll never, never believe it,” cried Jessie, with an angry burst of indignation; and then, bursting into tears, she ran out of the room, sobbing bitterly.

“Poor little lass!” said old Bultitude, softly; “she thinks a deal more o’ John Maine than she does o’ thee, my lad. But look here: I believe i’ John Maine after all, and shall go on believing in him, though I am a bit popped agen him, till I sees him foun’ guilty. Yow set me watching the lad one night, you know, Brough, and it all turned out a bam, for there he weer, safe in his bed. Just you let things bide till we know more ’bout ’em; and I don’t thank ye, young man, for coming and spoiling my brackfast.”

“Just as yow like, Master Bultitude,” said the keeper, sourly; “but just answer me one question, Weer John Maine at home all last night?”

“No,” said the farmer, savagely, “and he aint been back yet; but that don’t prove he weer lungeing ’bout parson’s. How do I know he wasn’t at Bosthorpe Dancing?”

“Bostrop Dancing weer day afore yesterday,” said the keeper, grinning as he made this retort about the village feast. “Oh, here comes parson.”

“Morning, Mr Bultitude,” said the vicar, coming in, looking rather grave. “Ah, Miss Jessie, how are you?” he continued, as, on hearing his voice, the girl stole back into the room. “Nice neighbours you are, to lie snug in bed and let your poor vicar be robbed, and murdered, and carried off in a cart.”

Jessie sank into a chair, looking as white as ashes, while Brough rubbed his hands joyously.

“Then it is all true?” said the farmer slowly.

“True? Oh, yes, true enough,” said the vicar. “I got the scoundrels safely locked up in the cellar.”

“Howd up, my lass, howd up,” whispered the farmer, kindly, as he laid his hand on Jessie’s shoulder; “be a woman and let’s hear the worst.” Then to the vicar: “An’ was John Maine wi’ ’em, sir?”

“Oh yes, he was with them,” said the vicar, wondering.

“Theer, I telled you so,” cried Brough exultantly, “I know’d how he’d turn out.”

The vicar smiled slightly at this, as he noticed the malice of the man, and he repeated slowly —

“Yes, John Maine was there.”

The last trace of colour faded out of Jessie’s cheeks, and a dull look of stony despair came over her countenance, while the old farmer shifted his position and began to dig a fork savagely into the deal table.

“Dal me – ” began the old man, but he stopped short.

“Just as I telled thee,” said Brough, eagerly.

“Dal thee! don’t set thee clapper going at me,” roared the old man. “I know it, don’t I?”

“Yes,” said the vicar, smiling, as he took and patted Jessie’s hand; “John Maine was there, and a braver ally I never had.”

“What?” roared the farmer.

“After watching my house, and setting young Podmore to watch it,” said the vicar, “he came and warned me about his suspicions, and – ”

“Dal me!” cried old Bultitude, “you kep’ him there all night, parson, to help you?”

“I did,” said the vicar.

“And took the rascals?”

“Yes, with John Maine’s help.”

“It’s a-maazing,” said the old man, slapping his thigh, and bursting into a tremendous series of chuckles. “Oh, parson, you are a one-er, and no mistake.”

The vicar was conscious of two looks as Jessie ran from the room – one of black indignation, directed at Brough; the other a soft, tender glance of thankfulness at himself, ere the poor girl once more ran up into her own room to “have a good cry.”

“Let me see,” said old Bultitude, dryly; “I don’t think theer was owt else as you wanted to tell me, was theer, Master Brough?”

“Not as I knows on, farmer,” said the keeper, looking from one to the other.

“Because, being churchwarden, theer’s a thing or two I want to talk ower wi’ parson – calling a meeting for next week, like.”

“Oh, I can go,” said the keeper, in an offended tone – “I can go if it comes to that;” and then, as no one paid any attention to him, he strode out, his departure being made plain by a loud yelping noise outside, and the voice of one of the labourers being heard to exclaim —

“I shouldn’t ha’ thowt yow’d kick a dog like that, Master Brough.”

While the vicar sat down and told the adventures of the past night.

Volume Three – Chapter Eight.
A Busy Night

As soon as John Maine had promised to stay with him, the vicar sat down, and seemed for a few minutes to be thinking.

“I should like,” he said at last, “to have a regular good stand-up fight with these scoundrels if they come; but I’m a man of peace now, Maine, and must act accordingly.”

“I’ll do the fighting, sir,” said Maine, excitedly.

“No, that will not do either, my man. We must have no fighting. We must bring the wisdom of the serpent to bear. You must not stir from here, or we shall alarm the enemy. They may have seen you come, but that’s doubtful; but if I let you go and come back again, the chances are that they may have scouts out, and then they must see you. Let the farm people fidget about you for one night. Old Bultitude will get in a rage, and Miss Jessie will cast you off; but I’ll go and smooth all that to-morrow. Mrs Slee will go home, and we’ll send the girl to bed as usual. If I keep you out of sight, she will think you are gone. By the way, who’s that?”

He slipped behind one of the window curtains, and watched as a decrepit old man, carrying some laces and kettle-holders for sale in one hand, a few tracts in the other, came slowly up the garden path, to stand as if hesitating which way to go; but glancing keenly from window to door, making observations that would not have been noticed at any other time, before slinking painfully round to the back of the house, where Mrs Slee’s sharp voice was soon after heard, and the old man came back at last with a good-sized piece of bread and meat.

“You old rascal!” said the vicar, as he shook his fist at the departing figure. “That scoundrel, Maine, not only tries to rob the rich, but through his trickery he indirectly steals from the poor by hardening the hearts of the charitable. There’s no doubt about what you say, John Maine; that fellow’s a spy from the enemy’s camp – the siege has commenced.”

The time flew by: evening came, and at last the hour for prayers. All had seemed quiet in the town, and at last the vicar rang, and Mrs Slee and the maid came in.

“You’ll stay to prayers, Maine?” said the vicar, quietly; and the young man knelt with the rest, while in a low, calm voice, the evening supplications for protection and thanks for the past were offered up – as quietly as if nothing was expected to shortly occur and quicken the pulses.

“Good night, Mrs Slee,” said the vicar; then, “I’ll see to the front door myself.”

Then the fastening of shutters was heard, followed by the closing of the back door, and its fastening, Mrs Slee’s steps sounding plainly on the gravel path, as she went to her cottage. Lastly, the maid was heard upon the stairs, and her door closed.

At the same time John Maine followed the vicar into the hall, the latter talking to him loudly for a few minutes, and then the front door was noisily opened and shut.

“The girl will think you have gone now,” said the vicar; “so come into the study, and pull off those heavy boots.”

The vicar set the example, placing his afterwards at the foot of the stairs in the hall, and hiding; those of John Maine in an out-of-the-way cupboard.

“Now then, we’ll have these two in case of accident,” he said, detaching a couple of Australian waddies from the wall; “but I don’t think we shall want them. I’ll prepare for the rascals in the study, for that’s where they will break in, and we must not be long before my light goes up to my room. They know all my habits by this time, I’ll be bound.”

There was a neat, bright little copper kettle on the hob in the study, and on returning, the vicar unlocked his cabinet, placed a cut lemon on the table, and a sugar-glass, a knife with which he cut some slices of lemon, placing one in a tumbler, pouring in a little water, and macerating the slice after it had been well stirred. Then by the side he placed a half-smoked cigar and an ashpan, sprinkled some of the ash upon the cloth, and finished all off with the presence of a quaint little silver-tipped bottle labelled “Gin.”

“They’ll give me the credit of having been enjoying myself to-night, Maine,” said the vicar, smiling, as he held the bottle up to the light, took out the silver-mounted cork, and from one side of the cabinet, amongst a row of medicine phials, he took a small blue flask, removed the stopper, measured a certain quantity in a graduated glass, and poured the clear pleasant-smelling fluid into the gin.

“I see now, sir,” said Maine, who had been puzzled at the vicar’s movements, as he re-corked the spirit-bottle, and placed back the glass and tiny flask – movements which seemed indicative of arrangements for passing a comfortable night.

“To be sure,” said the vicar. “Let them only sit down to a glass apiece of that – as they certainly will, for the rogues can’t pass drink – and all we shall have to do will be to bundle them neck and crop down into the cellar to sleep it off, ready for the attendance of the police in the morning. There will be four in the gang – three to come here, and a fourth to wait somewhere handy with a horse and cart. It will only be a glass apiece.”

“What makes you think that they will break in here, sir?” asked John Maine.

“Because there are no iron bars to the window, and no one sleeps overhead. Now, then, all’s ready, so we’ll go upstairs.”

“But won’t you stay and stop them from getting in, sir?”

“Certainly not, Maine. Let them walk into the trap, and we will keep awake as well as we can in the dark.”

Lighting a chamber candle, the vicar turned out the lamps, and led the way to his bedroom, where, after placing an easy chair for his companion, he apparently busied himself for a quarter of an hour in undressing, taking care to cast his shadow several times upon the window-blind, then placing matches ready, and the door open, he extinguished the light.

“Half-past ten, Maine,” he whispered. “Now for a long watch. Can you keep awake?”

“I think so, sir,” was the reply. “Good; then listen attentively, and warn me of the slightest sound, but no word must be spoken above a whisper. No conversation.”

One hour in the solemn silence of the night, and no sound was heard. Once the vicar stretched out his hand to have it pressed in reply by way of showing that his companion was on the alert.

Another hour passed, and all was perfectly still. The vicar had had no difficulty in keeping awake, for his thoughts were upon the scene that had taken place up at the House; and though he strove to drive away the remembrance, and to nerve himself for the struggle that must be his for weeks to come, there was Eve Pelly’s sweet gentle face before him, seeming to ask him wistfully to accede to her wish.

At last John Maine, believing him to be asleep, touched his arm.

“Yes,” was the whispered answer. “I heard them five minutes ago. There they are.”

At that moment a singular low grating noise was heard.

“Diamond cutting glass,” said the vicar, with his lips close to his companions ear.

A sharp crack.

“There goes the pane,” whispered the vicar.

Then there was the creak – creak – creak of a window being softly raised, after the fastening had been thrust back. Then, again, perfect silence, succeeded at last by a gentle rustling noise; but so quietly had the entry been made that but for a faint glimmer of light seen now and then through the open door, there was nothing to indicate that anything below was wrong.

The watchers sat listening with their hearts beating with a heavy dull pulsation, till at length a stair creaked, as if from the weight of some one ascending, and they fancied they could hear the hard breathing of some listener. This ceased in a very short time, and they instinctively knew that the burglar had returned to the study, where the clink of a glass warned them that the bait had proved sufficient attraction for the wolves.

There was another pause and a faint whisper or two, followed by the soft rustling made by the men crossing the little hall to the dining-room, from whence arose the metallic sound of silver touching silver. Then there came more rustling and chinking, and John Maine whispered,

“Pray, let’s go and stop them, sir: they’ll get away with the plate.”

“Oh, no,” said the vicar in the same tone. “Wait.”

They waited, and the rustling made by the men crossing the hall back to the study was again heard, and then, for some little time, there was silence.

“They must be gone, sir,” whispered Maine, but almost as he spoke there came up from below a dull, heavy, stertorous snore, which was soon after accompanied by the heavy hard breathing of a sleeper, and an occasional snort and muttering, as of some one talking in his slumber.

“I think we may strike a light now, Maine,” said the vicar, quietly; and as he did so, and lit the chamber candle, John Maine moistened his hand to take a good grip of his waddy.

“Oh, we shan’t need that,” said the vicar, smiling. “Come along.”

He led the way downstairs to the study, where, on looking in, there lay one man extended upon the hearth-rug; another was on the couch; and the third slept heavily in the easy chair, with his head hanging over the arm, his uneasy position causing him to utter the snorts and mutterings that had ascended the stairs.

It was only a matter of ten minutes or so for the watchers to drag their prisoners down to the little cellar, where some straw was placed beneath their heads to save them from suffocation. Then the great key was turned, and the vicar and his companion returned to the study.

“Now for number four, John Maine,” said the vicar. “Come along.”

He resumed his boots, and John Maine was following his example when a low chirp was uttered, and a head appeared at the window.

John Maine was nearest, and he made a dash at the owner; but with a rush he disappeared, and before the garden-gate could be reached wheels and the sound of a horse galloping came to the pursuers’ ears.

“He has gone, John Maine,” said the vicar, coolly. “Never mind, the police may come across him. We have to go back and watch our prisoners.”

They re-entered the house, to find that the servant girl had not been alarmed, and taking it in turns to lie down on the couch, the vicar and John Maine kept watch and ward till morning, when, awaking in a fearful state of alarm, the scoundrels began to try the door, and at last appealed pitifully for mercy, as the vicar was replacing in order the cups and pieces of plate arranged ready for conveyance to the cart.

Soon after he walked up to the station, and afterwards made his way to the farm, to set them at rest about John Maine, with the result that has been seen.

Volume Three – Chapter Nine.
A Mysterious Warning

The day following that on which the scoundrels who had made the attempt on the vicarage had been sent off to the county town, the vicar was in his garden musing on his future, and thinking whether it was his duty to leave Dumford and go far away, as life there had become a torture; but everything seemed to tend towards the point that it was his duty to stay and forget self in trying to aid others. In spite of the past, it seemed to him that he had done good; Richard Glaire had listened to reason; the strike was nearly over, and the men had settled down into a calmer state of resignation to their fate. So quiet were they that he more than suspected that they had some inkling of the change coming on. Then, too, he had made peace at the farm, where the wedding of John Maine and Jessie was shortly to take place, John, at his instigation, having frankly told the farmer the whole of his past life, to be greeted with a tremendous clap on the shoulder and called “a silly sheep.”

“Just as if thou could’st help that, lad,” said the old man. “Why didstn’t out wi’ it at first?”

And then Eve’s wedding.

“Poor girl! she wishes it,” the vicar said to himself, continuing his musing, as he stooped to tie up a flower here and there. “It would be madness to interpose, and God help her, she will redeem him, and – I hope so – I hope so.”

“Well, I must stay,” he said, with a weary smile upon his face. “I am a priest, and the priests of old looked upon self-denial as a duty. Let it be mine to try and perfect the peace that is coming back to this strange old place.”

“Paarson!”

He started and looked round, but no one was visible, and yet a deep rough voice he seemed to know had spoken.

“Paarson!” was repeated, apparently close to his feet where he was standing by the garden hedge.

“Who is it?”

“Niver mind who it is,” said the voice. “I joost want a word wi’ you.”

“Where are you?”

“Lying down here i’ th’ dyke. I had to creep here ’mong the nattles like a big snail.”

“Well, come out, man, and speak to me.”

“Nay, nay, that wean’t do.”

“What, is it you, Harry?”

“Howd your tongue, wilt ta, paarson. I don’t want the lads to know as I comed and telled you. I’ve come along fower dykes.”

“What does it all mean?” said the vicar, leaning over the hedge, to see the great hammerman lying on his face in the ditch on the field side.

“Don’t ask no questions, paarson, for I wean’t tell nowt, ’cause I’m sweered not to; but I don’t like what’s going on.”

“Well, but tell me, Harry, I beg – I insist – ”

“I wean’t tell thee nowt, paarson, on’y this here. Yow wouldn’t like them as you knows hurt, so joost tell Dicky Glaire to look out.”

“But why – when? I must know more.”

The only answer was a loud rustling, and the great body of the hammerman could be seen crawling through the nettles as he made his way pretty quickly along in the opposite direction to that in which he had come, and the vicar forbore to pursue, as it might have tended to betray him.

“I’m not without friends, after all,” he said, musing. “Then this quietness is only the precursor of some other storm. I’ll go up at once.”

He made Iiis way straight to the House, and all was very quiet in the town. Men were lounging about, and their thin sad-faced wives were to be seen here and there busy within, but no sign was visible of the coming storm; and for a while the vicar was ready to doubt the possibility of anything threatening, till he recalled Big Harry’s action, and felt certain that the man’s words must be true. Any doubt he might have had was, however, dispelled a moment or two later, for he saw Tom Podmore coming towards him; but as soon as the young man caught sight of the vicar he turned sharply round and went away.

“There is something wrong, and he’s mixed up in it,” muttered the vicar. “Of course, he is Big Harry’s friend, and so the great fellow knew it. Perhaps, though, he sent him to caution me!”

It was a random shot, but it hit the mark, for Tom, being held in suspicion by his fellows, could not well stir in the matter; and in talking it over with Big Harry, the latter had declared he would warn parson, and so he had.

The vicar was shown in directly, and found the family at the House seated together. He was rather shocked to see Eve’s pallid face; but she brightened up at his coming, and seemed to him to be trying to show him how happy they once more were.

Mrs Glaire, too, looked pale and careworn, but she was eager in her ways, and glad to see him, while Richard, in a half-civil way, but with a shifty look in his eye, shook hands and muttered something about the weather.

“Here, Eve, we’ll go down the garden together,” said Richard; “Mr Selwood’s come to see my mother.”

“No,” said the vicar, quietly, “I have come to see you.”

“To see me?”

“Yes; on very important business.”

“If you’ve come from those scoundrels,” said Richard, hotly, “I won’t hear a word. Let them come themselves.”

“Richard!” said Mrs Glaire, imploringly. “I don’t care, mother. I’ve given way to a certain extent, and I’ll go no further.”

“But I have not come from the men,” said the vicar.

“Then what is it?” said Richard, who had a horror of being left alone with his visitor. “Speak out.”

“I would rather tell you in private,” said the vicar, glancing uneasily at the two women.

“If it is any fresh trouble, Mr Selwood, pray speak out,” said Mrs Glaire, anxiously. “But Miss Pelly?”

“Richard is to be my husband in a few days, Mr Selwood,” said Eve, smiling sadly, as she rose and stood beside him, with her hands resting on his shoulder. “If it is trouble, I have a right to share it with him.”

“There, let’s have it,” said Richard, rudely. “They will have to hear whatever it is.”

The vicar hesitated a moment or two, and tried to collect himself, for Eve’s last words sent a pang through his breast, as they seemed to tear the last fibre that had held her to him.

At last he spoke.

“I have little to tell. My news is shadowy and undefined, but I fear it is very real.”

“Well, tell me, man, tell me,” said Richard; who, while assuming an air of bravado, began to look white.

“I will, Mr Glaire. One of your workmen came secretly to me within the last half-hour to bid you be on your guard.”

“I haven’t been off,” said Richard, insolently. “Who was it?”

“That I cannot tell you,” said the vicar. “The man said he had been sworn to secrecy, but he did not like the business, and came at all risks to tell me.”

“It was that scoundrel, Tom Podmore,” cried Richard.

“It was not Podmore,” replied the vicar.

“Then it was that old villain, Joe Banks – an old hypocrite. Forced his way down the garden to me the other evening to bully me.”

“Richard, my boy, for heaven’s sake,” cried Mrs Glaire.

“It was not your old foreman, Mr Glaire,” said the vicar, quietly. “I have told you all. It is very little, but it may mean much. If you will take my advice you will counteract the people’s plans by opening your works to-morrow.”

“Yes, Richard, do!” exclaimed Mrs Glaire and Eve in a breath.

“I said I’d open them on a certain day, and I won’t stir a peg from that decision,” cried Richard, obstinately.

“Whom the gods will destroy, they first make mad,” muttered the vicar to himself, in the old Latin.

“It would be giving way to them,” said Richard, “and that I’ll never do.”

“But you give way when you do open,” said the vicar.

“I’m not going to argue that,” said Richard, haughtily; “I’ve made up my mind, and I shall keep to it.”

“Then leave your orders, and go quietly away for a few days, till the works are in full swing again.”

Richard had made up his mind to do that very thing; but, as the vicar proposed it, and Eve eagerly acquiesced, he was dead against it on the instant.

“I shall stay here,” he said firmly, “and have the police to guard the house.”

“It is like inviting attack,” said the vicar, excitedly. “For your mother’s and Miss Pelly’s sake, don’t do that. It is throwing down the gauntlet to a set of men maddened by a belief in their wrongs. Many of them are fierce with hunger.”

“Bah! Stuff!” said Richard; “they’ve got plenty saved up, and – he, he, he! – nicely they’ve humbugged you into relieving them with soup and bread and meat. You don’t know Dumford yet, Mr Selwood.”

“If I am to know it as you know it,” thought the vicar, “I hope I never shall;” but he did not give utterance to his thoughts.

“I shall go – ” began Richard; then, insolently – “You won’t go and betray me, parson, will you?”

The vicar did not reply.

“I shall go and stay over at the works, mother,” said Richard.

“What!” exclaimed Mrs Glaire.

“Stay over at the works till the opening day. Let the brutes think I have left the town; and, with a few blankets and some provisions, I shall do. I’ll go over to-night.”

“But, Richard, this is folly,” cried Eve, beginning to tremble.

“You don’t know anything about it,” he said, sharply. “If the beasts mean mischief again, they’ll try to get me away from here, and most likely they are watching every train to catch me. If I slip over in the middle of the night, I shall be safe; for no one will think I am there. What do you say, parson?”

The vicar sat thinking for a few moments, and then gave in his acquiescence to the plan.

“But you must keep strictly in hiding,” he said.

“Well, it won’t be for long,” replied Richard; “and won’t be more dull than being in here.”

Eve winced a little, but she turned and tried to smile.

“But would it be wise, Mr Selwood?” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, eagerly.

“Yes; I think it would,” said the vicar, “if he can get there unseen. If these misguided men do search for him, that is one of the last places they will go to, I feel sure. But will you keep closely in hiding? Would it not be better to give way at once?” he continued, addressing Richard.

“I have said what I mean to do,” said Richard, sharply; “and what I say I keep to.”

The vicar bowed his head, and lent himself as much as was likely to be acceptable to the scheme; ending by saying, with a smile on his face —

“I hope, Miss Pelly, that this is the last of these unpleasant affairs we shall ever have here; for rest assured I shall lose no time in trying to bring the people to a better way of thinking.”

He rose and left them, it being thoroughly understood that Richard was to go into hiding that very night, while the vicar would communicate with the police, to ensure some protection for the house; though all felt it to be needless, as any attack was certain to be made on Richard personally.

As he reached the door, though, the vicar turned to Richard —

“Shall I come and be your companion every night? I will come. I can sleep on a bare board with any fellow, and,” he added, smiling, “I enjoy a pipe.”

Richard jumped eagerly at the idea, and was about to say yes, but the evil part of his nature prevailed.

“No,” he said rudely; “when I want Mr Selwood’s help I will ask for it.”

“As you will, Mr Glaire,” was the reply; “and I hope you will. Good-bye, Mrs Glaire – Miss Pelly, and I sincerely hope this will prove a false alarm.”

“If that fellow thinks he’s coming to my place after the marriage, he’s grievously mistaken,” said Richard to himself, and the door closed.

Meanwhile the vicar called at the station, and after a few words about the burglary and the forthcoming examination —