“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.