No: she would not believe anything against him, come what might; but there was some secret connected with his earlier life that he kept back, and—she could not say why—she thought he ought to be more trusting and communicative with her. Not that there was anything between them, though she told herself she thought she did like John Maine—a little.
Old Bultitude was very cross and snappish too, and he had taken it somewhat to heart that Daisy should have been the companion and friend of his Jessie.
“See here, lass,” he said, “thou must howd no more communication with that bairn o’ Banks’s. She’s a bad un.”
“Oh, uncle!” exclaimed Jessie, “she may have been robbed and murdered.”
“Not she,” said old Bultitude, filling his pipe and ramming the tobacco in viciously. “If she had been, they’d ha’ fun her body. Folks don’t rob and murder, unless it’s to get money. Daisy Banks had no money wi’ her; and, as to being jealous, I hardly think Tom Podmore, as she pitched over, would murder her—but there’s no knowing.”
A few minutes later Eve Pelly arrived at the farm, looking pale and thin; and the two girls were soon telling each other their troubles, Eve with a quiet reticent manner; Jessie all eagerness to make the girl she looked upon as her superior the repository of her inmost thoughts.
Eve took care not to let Jessie know that this was to be almost a formal leave-taking, for she had come down after asking Mrs Glaire’s leave, and with the full intention of yielding to her wishes.
The conversation naturally turned upon Daisy and her disappearance, when Jessie broke out impetuously with—
“Well, it’s no use to keep it back, Miss Eve. I’ve known a deal more than I’ve cared to tell you, but your cousin and Daisy have for months past been thick as thick.”
“Don’t speak like that, Jessie,” cried Eve, flushing up.