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.