Collected works of j s f.., p.150
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 150
“I mud just as weel hev’ it as let him hev’ it,” he said to himself. “He’s niver paid me fair, and this here ‘ll do to mak’ up. Gow, but Mistress Perris, shoo would be mad an’ all if shoo knew I’d takken his brass away thro’ him!”
This reflection so cheered Pippany that he crept back through the gap in the hedge, picked up his hoe, and worked steadily at the turnips until it was time to discontinue his labours for the day. At a quarter to six he shouldered his hoe and made off to the farmstead. His supper was due to be served at a quarter past six, but he was indifferent as to whether it was ready or not; he was already promising himself a supper of his own, later on, when he returned to his cottage in the village.
Rhoda was in a temper when Pippany walked into the house-place. She had expected Perris to return home by four o’clock at the latest, he would even then have had quite two hours for his conviviality and recreation. When five o’clock arrived and there were no signs of him she began to exhibit symptoms of anger, and her temper was not improved by the remarks of Tibby Graddige, who had come to assist at the weekly wash, and was full of suggestions as to what happened when a parcel of men got talking and drinking after the rent dinner. And just before Pippany’s arrival she had sent Tibby down to the Dancing Bear with a message to the effect that Mr. Perris was urgently wanted at home.
“Have you seen aught of your master?” she demanded, as Pippany lurched into the house-place and made for the seat whereat he took his meals. “Has he been with you since dinner-time?”
“I hevn’t seen nowt o’ no maisters,” answered Pippany, seating himself. “I hevn’t set ees on Mestur Perris sin’ braikfast, when he telled me to start on them tonnups. An’ a rare hard day I’ve hed on it, an’ all — t’ sun wor that hot this efternoon ‘at ye could ha’ fried that theer bacon by it!”
Rhoda made no reply. She had no cause of complaint against Pippany, and she set his supper and his pint of ale before him. As he began to eat and drink Tibby Graddige came back, black-browed and mysterious. She gave Rhoda a swift glance as she entered.
“Now then?” said Rhoda.
“They say ‘at Mestur Perris left t’ Dancin’ Bear at just after four o’clock,” said Tibby. “Mistress Pycock, t’ landlady, she says she see’d him walkin’ as straight and sober as a judge up t’ road — he shakked hands wi’ her afore he quitted t’ premises.”
“Then where’s he gone?” said Rhoda. “It doesn’t take more than a quarter of an hour to walk up from the cross roads.”
Pippany Webster looked up, his cheeks bulging with bread and bacon.
“It’s i’ my mind, missis,” he said, “it’s i’ my mind ‘at our maister said summat this mornin’ about goin’ over to Lowcroft yonder some time to-day to see about some young pigs ‘at Mestur Turbey hes to sell. Happen he’s gone theer when he come away thro’ t’ rent dinner? — killed two birds wi’ one stone. I’ that case he’d go across t’ fields at t’ back of the village. I know he wor wantin’ some o’ Mestur Turbey’s young pigs — they’re reight ‘uns, is them young pigs — what they call Berkshires. I lay that’s wheer he’s gone.”
Rhoda considered this suggestion in silence. She and Tibby Graddige sat down to a cup of tea at the little table near the fire. Tibby, who had taken a drop of something comforting at the invitation of Mrs. Pycock, began to tell the news.
“They’ve hed grand doin’s to-day down at t’ Bear,” she said. “Mistress Pycock, she tell’d me what they hed to eat. Theer were a noble sirloin o’ beef — t’ biggest, she said, ‘at they iver put on t’ spit i’ their kitchen — and a boiled leg o’ mutton, wi’ t’ usual trimmin’s, and a boiled ham — a grand ‘un! — and roast fowls and boiled fowls, and plumpuddin’s, and berry-pies and custards. I’ll lay some on ’em weern’t want their bellies fillin’ for another week. And theer wor wine to sup, an’ all — port wine and sherry wine, same as t’ quality sups when they get their dinners. And Mistress Pycock, she says ‘at they all did full justice to it, and t’ steward complimented her varry high afore all t’ company. And of course all t’ farmers hed good reasons to be i’ reight fettle for their meat, an’ to rejoice an’ all, ‘cause theer were a reduction o’ t’ rents.”
“A what?” exclaimed Rhoda.
“A reduction o’ t’ rents, as they call it,” answered Tibby. “A rebate, like — givin’ ’em all back summat out o’ what they paid, ‘cause his Lordship had pity on ’em on account o’ t’ wet harvest last year.”
“How much?” demanded Rhoda.
“Why, Mistress Pycock, she said it wor what they term ten per cent.,” replied Tibby, “an’ I’m sure I don’t know what that means, ‘cause I’m no scholard; but she said, did Mistress Pycock, ‘at it meant ‘at wheer a farmer paid, as it weer, say fifty pound, t’ steward handed five on it back to him. An’ a varry nice surprise an’ all, and I don’t wonder ‘at they hed a good heart for atein’ their dinners. I could ate as much as iver were set afore me if I hed a few golden pounds i’ my pocket ‘at I hedn’t expected to find theer!”
“Aye, an’ so could I!” said Pippany Webster. “Theer’s nowt gives a man such a appetite as knowin’ ‘at he’s gotten a bit o’ brass on him!”
Rhoda had sufficient mathematical knowledge to be able to make a rough mental calculation. If a man who paid fifty pounds in rent had five pounds returned to him, a man who paid over forty must receive at least four. So that, in addition to the small silver change which she had flung on the hearthrug at his feet that morning, Perris before noon must have been put in possession of over four pounds in gold. Where was he? What had he done with it? What was he doing with it? She knew his weakness; if he had gone to look at Turbey’s pigs, it was quite probable that he and Turbey had adjourned to a certain roadside inn at the other end of Martinsthorpe, and that they would sit there drinking until the landlord turned them out. And for the hundredth time that day she wished that she had done what she had wanted to do — made an excuse for Perris’s nonattendance and gone down to pay the rent herself.
Pippany Webster finished his supper and went off, turning his tobacco-box over and over in his breeches pocket; Tibby Graddige remained long enough to wash up the crockery, and then she went, too, and Rhoda was left alone. By that time she was furiously angry, and her anger increased because of her powerlessness to deal with the situation. Had she known as a certainty that Perris was at the Dancing Bear, she would have gone down there and raked him out of parlour or kitchen without shame or ceremony. But by that time she did not know where he might be. He might be at Turbey’s — Turbey was fond of the bottle himself — or he might be at the wayside inn beyond Lowcroft; he might even have gone into the market-town. There was nothing for it but to wait, and in the gathering dusk she waited, chafing and resentful.
The dusk changed to darkness, but Rhoda had no thought of lighting the lamp. The wood fire died down until it was no more than a handful of smouldering ash; she let it sink unregarded. Nine o’clock had come and gone when she heard an uncertain step on the cobble-stones of the farmyard. She sprang up then, and lighted a tallow candle which stood on the table; as its feeble light slowly spread over the cheerless scene the door opened, and Perris came in, to meet his wife’s accusing and angry eyes.
Perris was sober by that time — sober enough, at any rate, to be in a state of dire dejection, repentance and fright. He had awakened with a violent start, to find himself on his back behind the wheatstack, with a starlit patch of sky over his head, the hedgerow swaying in the night wind, and his clothes damp with the rapidly gathering dew. He had there and then set off home, having some vague notion in his muddled head that there was a bad time before him, and that he had better get it over, But he was unconscious of the loss of his money; the only catastrophe of which he was aware was that of the ivory-handled umbrella. And when he walked into his house, he grinned at Rhoda with the ingratiating and benevolent smile of one who brings good tidings.
“Now, my lass!” he said, with a fine attempt to carry matters off in a good style. “I’m a bit late, as it were — I hed a bit o’ business that okkeypied me when t’ rent dinner were over. Ye’ll be glad to hear, mi lass, ‘at his Lordship thowt well to make a reduction on t’ rents, and so accordin’-ly — accordin’-ly, I say—”
Rhoda suddenly uttered an exclamation of horror. She had caught sight of the broken umbrella, and she darted forward and snatched it out of Perris’s grasp.
“Aw — aye-I hed an accident wi’ t’ umbrella,” said Perris apologetically. “It’s ower weak for a grown man to walk wi’. We mun hey’ it mended, mi lass, or we mun buy a new ‘un. Howsomiver, as I were observin’, mi lass, his Lordship were so disposed—”
Rhoda suddenly slapped her open palm on the table.
“Where’s the money?” she demanded. “Where’s the money?”
Perris began to fumble in his pockets. His wife’s sharp eyes detected the bits of straw and grass on his clothes; he looked as a young colt looks that has been rolling itself in field and fold; she saw, too, that his billycock hat was crushed in, and that he had torn a considerable rent in the tail of his coat. And as she watched him she saw his face, drawn and dirty from his out-of-doors sleep, turn pasty with wonder and fear. His hands shook as they strayed from pocket to pocket.
“It’s — it’s none there!” he stammered. “I — I mun ha’ been robbed! Robbed!”
Rhoda’s bosom heaved up in a great throb of passionate rebellion. Her face, too, turned white around her blazing eyes and drawn lips as she shook her fist at the amazed man who stood swaying and sweating before her.
“You damned, blasted liar!” she burst out. “Robbed! You’ve drunk it, and lost it. You—”
But there speech failed her. For an instant Perris shrank back, thinking she was going to strike him, but the lifted hand dropped to the table, crashing the tin candlestick and its feeble light to the ground. In the darkness he heard Rhoda rush past him, the door open and close with a bang: he knew himself then to be alone. For a few moments he stood muttering to himself, as he again searched pocket after pocket; at last he groped about his feet for the fallen candle, and, having relighted it, set it on the table and wonderingly stared around the house-place. And, crossing over to the door, he pulled it open with a jerk and looked out on the night. The night was as silent as the house, but somewhere in the road outside his straining ears caught the faint patter of hurrying feet.
VII
FOR THE SECOND time within that week, Taffendale, smoking his last pipe before going to bed, heard a knock at his door, and again he started in his chair, wondering who could come at such a late hour. But when he opened the door he was not surprised to see Perris’s wife; something had told him as he walked down the hall that it was she who stood on his threshold.
Rhoda had fled away from the Cherry-trees in the linen gown in which she had worked all day. The wind had blown the red-gold hair about her face; her cheeks were flushed; her eyes were unnaturally bright; her lips were parted; one hand was clutching the bosom of her gown. And though he was not surprised at the sight of her, Taffendale started as the light of the lamp fell on her face.
“Mrs. Perris!” he exclaimed.
Rhoda ‘stepped in without ceremony.
“Let me come in, Mr. Taffendale,” she said. “I — I’ve come on purpose.”
Taffendale silently motioned her to go forward to the parlour; he closed the front door, and soon followed her there.
“What is it? — what’s wrong?” he asked. “You haven’t come across the fields like that?”
Rhoda was tugging at something which she kept within the bosom of her gown. In her excitement she tore the gown open, revealing more of herself than she was aware of; Taffendale saw that she was unconscious of what she was doing. She pulled out a canvas bag, and laid it on the table between them.
“I’ve brought your money back,” she panted. “At least, what there is left of it. I — I never ought to have come and borrowed. It’s no good, Mr. Taffendale — no good! It’ll only be wasted. I wish I’d never troubled you. But I’ll work myself to skin and bone to pay you back.”
Taffendale laid his hand on her arm, and gently pushed her into the chair which he had just quitted.
“Sit down,” he said. “Come, now, what’s it all about? What’s gone wrong? Is it — Perris?”
Rhoda yielded unconsciously to his touch, and sank into the chair. He saw a look that was not far from intense hatred cross her face, and her eyes flashed as she gave him a swift glance.
“Perris!” she exclaimed. “Who else should it be but Perris? I wish to God I’d died the day I set eyes on him! It’s no use trying to help a thing like him — he isn’t a man, that!”
“Take your time, now,” said Taffendale. He went over to the sideboard and brought her a glass of his old port. “Drink it.” he said authoritatively.
“Drink it — it’ll do you good. And now — what’s it all about?”
Rhoda poured out her story to him, gaining relief in confession. Help Perris any further she would not. He could go to the dogs for all she would do to stop him. And when she had made an end of her story she leapt to her feet looking very determined.
“Anyway, I’ve brought your money back, Mr. Taffendale — what there is left of it, and I’ll repay you the rest,” she said. “I’ll leave that man, and—”
“Stop a bit, stop a bit!” Taffendale broke in. “I lent that money to you, not to Perris. Now then, take that bag back, Mrs. Perris, and just — try again. A man’s apt to forget himself at a rent dinner. Take it back, and I’ll come and have a talk to Perris to-morrow. Here, put the money in your pocket again.”
Rhoda stared at him.
“Do you mean that?” she said suddenly.
“Of course I mean it,” answered Taffendale quietly. “It’s you that’s going to pull things round, don’t you see? Come, now, do as I say — put the money up again.”
Rhoda hid the canvas bag in her bosom, still staring at him.
“That’s right,” said Taffendale. “Now, then, I’m going to see you home. And so you came out without anything; here’s an old shawl of my housekeeper’s — put it on.”
But instead of waiting for Rhoda to take the shawl, he wrapped it round her himself. Then he picked up his cap and his stick, and together they went out of the house and into the silence of the night.
VIII
PERRIS, WHO HAD slunk off to bed when he found himself left alone, awoke next morning with anticipations of further trouble: he knew his wife well enough by that time to feel assured that she would give him the benefit of her tongue all that day, and the next day, and for many days. He went downstairs quietly in his stockinged feet, and peeping into the house-place, saw Rhoda fast asleep on the old settle. Perris stole over to the hearth, secured the boots which he had left there the previous night, and let himself out into the yard. Sitting on the edge of the well-trough he put the boots on, and then made swiftly in the direction of the field wherein he had slept off his drink. His brain was still clouded and heavy from the previous day’s debauch, but he was sensible enough to know that there was a strong probability of his having lost his money at the wheatstack.
“I mun ha’ rolled ower i’ my sleep, and then it slipped out o’ mi pockets,” he muttered, as he went over the dew-laden grass. “There’s nowhere else where I could ha’ lost it, and I mun find it, or else there’ll be t’ Owd Lad to play wi’ Rhoda. It mun be theer!”
But when Perris came to the wheatstack, fully expecting to find his gold and silver on the spot where he had lain, he found nothing, though he got down on hands and knees and examined every foot of the space between the stack and the hedgerow. Then he retraced the path which he had followed from the high-road, and he went down the high-road itself until he was in sight of the Dancing Bear. He went back by the same way, and again examined his resting-place of the day before; in the end, as breakfast-time was drawing near, he returned to the farmstead, empty-handed as he had set out. If it had been possible he would have fled to the ends of the earth he knew well what was in store for him.
Pippany Webster, very red about the eyes and tremulous about the lips, was feeding the pigs when Perris crossed the fold on his way to the house. Perris stopped and looked at him.
“Ye were hoeing turnips i’ yon five-acre yesterday afternoon?” he said, without preface.
“I wor hoein’ turnips theer all t’ day,” answered Pippany. “Niver did nowt else.”
“Did ye see onnybody about i’ t’ afternoon?” asked Perris. “Any strange folk, like, goin’ over yon footpath across t’ fields?”
“Noe!” replied Pippany. “I niver seed nobody — leastways, I did see t’ parson governess, and t’ parson two childer, walkin’ across theer wi’ their dog. About three o’clock that there wor.”
“Did yer see me?” asked Perris.
Pippany looked at his master with the surprise of innocence.
“Ye?” he exclaimed. “No, I niver seed owt o’ ye, maister. I thowt ye wor at t’ rent dinner.”
Perris rubbed his chin and walked into the house. It was in his mind that he would let Rhoda storm while he himself held his peace. He expected to hear her tongue as soon as he crossed the threshold, and he hung his head and rounded his shoulders as he stepped in. After all, he was saying to himself, she was bound to give him his breakfast, and after that he could escape to the fields.
