“I meant that I don’t think you ought to be so intimate with her now.”
“And why not?”
“The Dumford people couple her name very unpleasantly with Mr Richard’s, and for your sake I thought I’d speak.”
“For shame!” cried the girl, rising, and looking angrily at him. “That young Podmore has been talking to you.”
“No, indeed, indeed, poor Tom never mentions her name.”
“I won’t believe, John Maine, that you could be so petty and ungenerous yourself. Mr Glaire loves Daisy, and she confided all to me. Such words as yours are quite an insult to her, and—and I cannot—will not stay to hear them.”
The girl’s face was burning, and she ran out of the place to hide her tears, while John Maine, whose intention had been to say something very different, sighed bitterly, and went back to his room. There, however, everything looked blacker than ever, and he could see nothing in the gloom—devise no plan. He knew that the best proceeding would be to set the scoundrels he had seen that morning at defiance—that everybody whose opinion was worth a rush would applaud his frank declaration that he had turned from his evil courses to those which were reputable; but then the people he knew—Mr Bultitude—Jessie—the vicar—his friends in Dumford—what would they say? There seemed to be but one chance for him—to pack up a few things in a bundle and go and seek his fortune again elsewhere—perhaps to live in peace for a few years before he should be again hunted down by some of the wolves amongst whom his early lot had been cast.
“John—John!”
He started. It was Jessie calling, and hastily going downstairs, it was to see her with the flush gone out of her cheeks, and looking pale and anxious, as she held out a strip of paper.
“Two rough-looking men gave this to the boy for you,” she said, looking at him in a troubled way.