Affairs were not very satisfactory at the farm, and Jessie’s eyes more than once looked as if they had been red with crying.  For the girl was greatly troubled at heart, since John Maine’s behaviour puzzled her.

It was impossible for anything of note to take place in Dumford, without the news of it reaching the farm, so that she soon heard that Daisy, her old friend and school-fellow, had disappeared; that the two rough fellows who had been hanging about were supposed to have had something to do with her disappearance; while, to make matters more complicated, John Maine had been seen talking to these two men, and had afterwards warned her about holding communication with Daisy.

John Maine had always been civil and pleasant to Daisy.  Daisy had more than once laughingly said she liked him.  Now she was gone, John Maine’s behaviour was very strange.  Could he have had anything to do with getting her away, and was he in any way acting with Richard Glaire, whom some people suspected of complicity?

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.

“I must when it’s for your good, Miss Eve,” said Jessie, warmly; “and if the truth was known, I believe Mr Richard has had her carried off to London or somewhere.”

“It is impossible, Jessie,” cried Eve.  “My cousin would never be so base.”

“Well, I don’t, know as to that,” retorted Jessie; “it’s base enough to be pretending to be engaged to one young lady, and carrying on with another.”

“Jessie!”

“Well, it’s the truth.  A gentleman told me that he had often seen them together.  Oh, Miss Eve, dear, I am sorry.  I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

She was down on her knees before her visitor directly after, begging her pardon, and kissing her, for Eve’s face had sunk in her hands, and she was sobbing bitterly.  A minute before and she was ready to fight energetically on behalf of the man who was to have been her husband, but now her defences had been turned, and she gave up.

She soon dried her eyes though, and when Jessie would have turned the conversation to another point she resumed it herself.

“I’ve been thinking about that very, very much,” she said; “night and day ­night and day.”

“Poor child!” said Jessie, stroking her face.  “It must be terribly hard to feel jealous.”

“No, no, no, no,” said Eve, hastily.  “I did not mean that; but about poor Daisy’s disappearance.  You know they found her shawl and basket.”

“Yes,” said Jessie, nodding.

“Well,” said Eve, hesitating ­“don’t you think it possible that anybody who hated her very much might ­might ­”

“Might have killed her?” said Jessie, looking at Eve strangely.

“Yes,” said Eve, with a shudder.

Jessie’s eyes dilated as she looked at the speaker, and thought of her uncle’s words a short time before.

“It is very terrible to think on,” said Jessie, slowly.

“Yes,” said Eve, in an agitated voice; “but it is almost more terrible for any one you love ­you care for, to be thought guilty of having taken the poor creature away.”

“But who could have had any such feeling towards poor Daisy,” exclaimed Jessie, “except one? and I don’t think Tom Podmore ­”

“Hush!” cried Eve, laying her hand upon her friend’s arm, “he’s coming now across the field.”

“So he is,” cried Jessie, starting and turning pale, for a flood of strange thoughts came across her mind.  John Maine and Tom Podmore had been so intimate.  John Maine had been so strange, and in his way had warned her about thinking any more of Daisy.  Was that to throw her off the scent, and to keep her from grieving after and trying to find where Daisy had gone?  The very room seemed to swim round for a few moments, as she recalled some mysterious acts on the part of the man she loved; and she shuddered as the idea suggested itself to her that her uncle and Eve might be right, and poor Daisy had been done to death by her old lover, with his friend for accomplice.

It was then with a feeling of relief that she saw Eve rise to go, saying: 

“Let me go out through the garden, Jessie, and then I can get into the lane without being seen by your visitor.”

“Yes, yes,” said Jessie, hastily; “but, dear darling Miss Eve, pray don’t say what you have said to me to another soul.”

“No,” said Eve, sadly, “I should not do that;” and then her friend saw her out through the garden, and returned to see the young man of whom they had been speaking side by side with John Maine, in earnest conversation across the yard.

Jessie had good cause to start and think over the matters of the past few days, for a great deal of unpleasantry had taken place at the farm, all of which, when analysed, tended to help the dreadful suspicion; and, as she thought it over, she determined in her own mind that no temptation should ever cause her to swerve, since she saw how the weakness of one vain girl had brought such misery to so many homes.

She tried to drive away the suspicion that had been planted and replanted in her heart; but it was of no use, and she turned at last to her own room, to have a cry to herself ­a woman’s fomentation for a mental pain; but in this case it was of no avail.

Old Bultitude was morose and harsh with his labourers, going up in the tall tower-like structure which commanded a view of the old farm, and called by the builder a gazebo, but by the labourers the gozzybaw, and from here old Bultitude watched his men and found fault to a degree that Jessie felt must be caused by something out of the ordinary course, while most of his remarks had, it was plain enough, an indirect application to unfulfilled work appertaining to John Maine.

Then Tom Brough, the keeper, had managed to find his way again and again to the farm, to have long conversations with the old farmer, who made a point of asking his advice about this beast, or that cow; about the hay off the twenty acres; and the advisability of thrashing out the wheat from such and such a one of the neatly-made long-backed stacks in the rick-yard.

John Maine, however, had seemed to bear this shifting of the farmer’s confidence pretty fairly; and Jessie had seen it with pain, as she whispered to herself that the true interpretation of the changes in the young man, which she had seen from day to day, was that he had something on his mind which she was not to share.

“Yes; he has something on his mind,” she had said; “and he does not confide in me.”

John Maine seemed to confide in no one:  he only behaved strangely, night after night letting himself out, to be gone for hours, sometimes to return wet through, little thinking that he had been watched; and that Jessie, with tears and bitterness of heart, knew all of his goings out and comings in; and it was only by accident, and from the fact of her warning him, that he became aware that she had more than once screened his absence.

It was one night about eleven.  Everybody in the early house had gone to rest an hour and a half before, as John Maine stole downstairs softly, and was about to turn the key of a back-door, when a warm hand was laid upon his, and a voice he well knew whispered ­

“If you value your home here, go back to bed.  Some one has told my uncle that you go out o’ nights, and he is on the watch.”

“Jessie!”

He stretched out his hands, but they only came in contact with the whitewashed wall, and he knew that he was alone.

But had any one spoken, or was it only fancy?  No; it was no fancy.  His motions had been watched, and Jessie had come between him and trouble.  As to the spy upon his actions, that was plain enough.  Tom Brough had been busy, and had seen him when watching of a night, and what should he do?  He had his object for these nocturnal rambles, and he was bound to continue them, but this night he was bound to stay.

Yes, he must stay, if only for Jessie’s sake; and casting off his indecision he returned softly to his room, where he threw off his things and went to bed.

An hour slowly passed, during which he lay restless and wakeful.  Then, when worn out with restless impatience, and half determined to go out at all hazards, a step was heard in the passage, a board creaked; there was a light shining beneath the door, and then after a pause the handle was turned gently, and the light flashed in his face.

“Maine!  John Maine!” said the farmer, sharply.

“Yes; what is it?  Anything wrong?” said the young man, starting up.

“One of the horses seems very uneasy,” said the farmer.  “I’m afraid there’s something wrong in the stable.  I came to ask you to go down, but he seems quieter now, and mebbe it isn’t worth while.  Try and keep yoursen wacken for ’bout an hour, and if you hear owt go down and see.”

John Maine said he would, and old Bultitude went off, muttering to himself, while the young man lay thinking and wondering how he was to carry out his plans in the future.  What was he to do?  How was he to do it?  The only way he could see out of the difficulty was that the burden must be thrown on the shoulders of Tom Podmore.

Day had hardly broken before John Maine, who had heard no more of the restless horse, was up, and that day, seeking out Tom Podmore, he had had a long and earnest conversation with him, with the result of getting his mind more set at ease.

And now it had come about in turn that Tom Podmore had had to seek out John Maine, to ask his help, with the result that, old Bultitude being away, his foreman just went in and told Jessie he was going out; and as she did not turn her face to him as he spoke, he went away sighing heavily; while pale, and trembling, Jessie ran to the window, and, in hiding behind the blind, watched the two young men till they were out of sight.