“Don’t say ill, John Maine. The poor girl is in trouble about you; and I believe has some idea that you and Podmore have been mixed up with the disappearance of Daisy Banks.”
“Oh no, sir; no,” cried the young man warmly. “You don’t think that, sir?”
“Certainly not, Maine,” replied the vicar. “And—Jessie—did Miss Jessie confide this to you, sir?”
“Yes, John Maine. I don’t think, under the circumstances, it is any breach of confidence to say she did. People have a habit of confiding their troubles to me—as I have none of my own,” he added sadly. “And you, sir?”
“I told her she was mistaken,” remarked the vicar; “but she was not convinced. She could not understand you and Podmore being out together by night. She thought it—girl-like—connected with some dreadful mystery. Master Brough thought it had to do with poaching; and I—”
“Yes, sir,” cried Maine eagerly. “Thought you were out for some good purpose, John Maine; and that if I let the matter rest, the explanation would come all in good time.”
“And so it has, sir,” said John; “but you knew all about me, sir.”
“To be sure I did, John Maine; and seeing the life you now lead, respected you for it. It is a hard matter for a man brought up honestly to run a straight course, while for such as you, John Maine,—there, I need only say that you have wonderfully increased the respect I have for you by coming to me with this frank avowal. My letter to you was to give you the opportunity, for your own sake, so as to remove the suspicion that your movements were exciting. There, I am proud to shake hands with a man possessed of such a love of the reputable as to fight the good fight as you have fought it; and of such command over self, as to make the confession you have made to-day.”
He stretched out his hand as he spoke, and John Maine wrung it in his—two strong palms meeting in a hearty grip for a few moments, while neither spoke.
Then John Maine turned away, and stood looking out of the window for a few moments.