Collected works of j s f.., p.157
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 157
“What’s all this about Perris, gentlemen?” he asked. “I just heard that he’s made himself what the Latin scholars term non est; which means that he isn’t where he should be — at home.”
The blacksmith, who by virtue of seniority occupied the best seat by the fire, took his churchwarden pipe out of his mouth and spat into the glowing coals.
“Ne’er mind what t’ Latin scholards says, nor t’ Greek scholards, neyther,” he observed. “I know what t’ English on it is. Happen I heerd summat about it before onnybody Martinsthorpe.”
“Well, what?” asked Justice, leisurely filling his pipe.
“I were i’ t’ kitchen theer hevin’ a glass when yon man o’ Mestur Mawson’s come in for a bit o’ bread-and-cheese,” continued the blacksmith. “An’ sits hissen down at t’ side o’ me. An’ he says, says he, ‘I think theer’s summat queer up yonder at t’ Cherry-trees,’ he says. ‘How so?’ says I. ‘Why,’ he says, ‘Perris, he sell’d our maister his new wheat yesterda’, and it wor settled ‘at I should fetch it to-day,’ he says, ‘and when I got theer just now,’ he says, ‘Perris worn’t theer, and his wife knew nowt about it, and I made out ‘at she’s niver set ees on him sin’ yesterda’,’ he says. ‘An’ she wodn’t let me tak’ t’ wheat till she’d sent for Mestur Taffendale to tak’ his counsel on t’ matter.’ ‘Did yeer maister pay for t’ wheat?’ says I. ‘Aye, he did, an’ i’ my presence, over a hundred pound,’ he says, ‘an’ I hev Perris’s orders for t’ delivery i’ case he worn’t at home, an’ here it is,’ he says, showin’ t’ bit o’ paper. ‘Why, then, ye’re all reight,’ I says, ‘whatever Taffendale counsels or doesn’t counsel.’”
“Aye, it’s reight, is that,” observed the carpenter, with an air of great wisdom. “So long as Mestur Mawson hed paid for t’ stuff, his man hed a reight to fetch it.”
“An’ did Taffendale come to t’ Cherry-trees then?” asked the miller. “An’ what hed he to do wi’ it, when all’s said an’ done? I niver heerd ‘at t’ Perrises wor owt to Taffendale.”
The blacksmith again spat into the fire and wagged his head.
“Now, then, ye wait a bit!” he said. “I hevn’t tell’d all t’ tale yet. That’s nobbut t’ first chapter, like. I heerd what happened when Mestur Mawson’s man went back to t’ Cherry-trees. Taffendale was there, talkin’ to t’ wife ower t’ orchard hedge. An’, of course, theer wor nowt to be said — t’ man wor in his reights to carry t’ wheat away wi’ him, and so Taffendale said. An’ while he wor agate, this here man o Mestur Mawson’s, gettin’ t’ wheat out o’ t’ granary, wi’ yon theer Bill Tatten to help him, up comes a chap to drive off two young beasts, bullocks, ‘at he said Perris hed Belled to his gaffer, Claybourne, t’ butcher, t’ day afore. An’ they hed to go an’ all, ‘cos they’d been duly settled for. So Perris wor none wi’out brass i’ his pocket, wheeriver he’s gone. An’ that’s t’ reight truth about t’ tale, ‘cos I hed it all fro’ Bill Tatten hissen — he come into my place wi’ a brokken ploo-share as he wor goin’ home to-neet, and he telled me all about it. An’ he said ‘at Taffendale an’ Perris’s wife wor talkin’ t’ house for hours ‘at after t’ men had gone away wi’ t’ wheat and t’ bullocks.”
In the silence which followed this deliverance, Justice rang the bell and ordered a glass of whisky.
“I expect Mrs. Perris sent for Mr. Taffendale because he’s their nearest neighbour,” he observed, when the whisky had been brought and the door closed again upon the conclave. “His place isn’t so far off theirs.”
The blacksmith snorted, and gave Justice a look expressive of North Country contempt for South Country inability to see through brick walls.
“Ah!” he said. “Du yer? Well, I expect nowt o’ t’ sort. I can see a bit further nor t’ end o’ mi nose, I can!”
“Well, and what do you see?” asked Justice, taking his snub good-humouredly. “Let’s be knowing.”
The blacksmith leaned forward and looked slyly round the circle of expectant faces.
“I know nowt!” he said. “But I’ll tell yer what I think. I think ‘at Taffendale’s been helpin’ them theer! That’s what I think. Helpin’ ’em, I say.”
“What, wi’ brass?” exclaimed the miller. “Wi’ brass?”
“Wi’ brass! What else should he help em’ wi’?” replied the blacksmith. “Now, ye look here. Theer’s more nor one i’ Martinsthorpe knows how it wor wi’ Perris just afore t’ last rent-day. Them as iver looked ower a hedge-top at t’ Cherry-trees knows ‘at he’d scarce owt left on t’ place. And only two days afore t’ rent-day itself, yon theer Pippany Webster browt a hoss to be shod at my place, and he tell’d me ‘at theer worn’t more nor one feed left for t’ horses and t’ pigs, and nowt much beside, and at’ so far as he could see, Perris wor on his varry last legs for brass. And yit, on t’ rent-day, down comes Perris as large as life, and pays up as if he wor a millionaire Ye see’d him, all on yer.”
“Aye, it’s reight, is that,” murmured the conclave in unanimous chorus. “He ‘livered his brass up, reight enough, did t’ man.”
The blacksmith thumped the table.
“Aye, but wheer did ‘a get t’ brass!” he demanded. “Now, I’ll tell yer summat ‘at’ll happen oppen yer ees! Yon theer dowter o’ mine, Lucilla, wor Mestur Taffendale’s sarvice at that time, and a neet or two afore t’ rent-day, she heerd som’dy knock loud at t’ front-door, when her and t’ housekeeper, and t’ other sarvent lass had gone to bed. And she thowt to hersen ‘at it were a queer time o’ night for onnybody to call. Howsomiver, she heerd Taffendale go and open t’ door and she heerd him let som’dy in, and after some time she heerd him let som’dy out, and she looked out o’ t’ cha’mer window, did our Lucilla, and then she see’d — cause t’ parlour lamp and t’ hall lamp shone full on ’em — who’d yer think she see’d walkin’ down t’ garden path wi’ Taffendale?”
The conclave shook its collective head in wondering silence, and the blacksmith wagged his own in triumph. He again thumped the table, and bent forward to smile more knowingly.
“It wor Perris’s wife!” he said. “Perris’s wife! Ye mind that theer. Perris’s wife!”
The company sighed deeply. Nobody seemed inclined to speak. But Justice presently found his voice.
“It’s a bit dangerous, saying things like that, isn’t it?” he said. “I mean — in a public way?”
The blacksmith turned on his commentator with scorn.
“Dangerous! What’s dangerous?” he demanded. “Theer’s nowt dangerous about speykin’ t’ truth, is there? — we don’t reckon it so i’ Yorkshire, onnyway, whativer ye South Country folk may do! We speyk t’ truth, and shame t’ Devil — that’s what we do, keeper, an’ ye tak’ a bit o’ notice. My dowter’s free to say what she saw wi’ her own ees, isn’t she? I tell yer ‘at she see’d Perris wife i’ Taffendale garden that neet, and she’d been hafe-an-hour alone wi’ him i’ t’ parlour. An’ that my dowter ‘ll stand to, if need be. So theer!”
“Shoo’s a truthful young woman, is Lucilla,” observed the carpenter, with great solemnity. “Shoo wodn’t say nowt ‘at worn’t reight.”
“Noe!” said Lucilla’s father stoutly. “If I found onny dowter o’ mine sayin’ owt ‘at worn’t reight, I’d gi’ her bell-tinker wi’ my strap! Of course, shoo said what wor reight. An’ that worrn’t t’ only time ‘at Perris’s wife wor theer at t’ Limepits late at neet, ‘cause she wor theer agen a piece after, and our Lucilla see’d Taffendale go out wi’ her, and he didn’t come home for two houis that neet, and then it wor after twelve o’clock when he did come home. An’ if ye ax me, I say ‘at Taffendale’s been helpin’ them theer wi’ brass, and I could like to know what’s he’s hed i’ exchange for it — now then!”
Justice’s sly spirit was rejoicing with him. A little more talk of this sort in the village, a little more frank, and brutal, and eminently Yorkshire expression of opinion, and Taffendale would find a hornets’ nest about his ears. Even if he, Justice, gained nothing by it himself in a pecuniary sense, he would have the gratification of knowing that he was revenged for the coldness and insolence with which Mr. Taffendale of the Limepits had always treated him. So he drank his whisky and smoked his pipe, and for once played the part of quiet listener.
“All t’ same,” observed the miller, after a pause, “all t’ same, I don’t see what all that’s gotten to do wi’ this sudden disappearance o’ Perris’s.”
“Don’t yer?” said the blacksmith. “Happen yer don’t. But ye wait a bit, mi lad. Theer’s summat ‘ll come out. A man doesn’t lig his hands on all t’ brass he can sam up, and then tak’ hissen off wi’out a word to onnybody, unless he’s some reason. Ye mind that.”
One of the small farmers, who had steadily consumed cold gin, and preserved an attentive silence while the blacksmith talked, now broke in upon the discussion, prefacing his remarks with a sly smile.
“Why it seems a varry queer thing to me, gentlemen, ‘at Perris an’ yon theer Pippany Webster should ha’ disappeared ‘at about t’ same time,” he observed. “Theer is, of course, what they terms coincidences, but I niver heerd tell o’ one occurrin’ i’ a little out-o’-t’-way place like Martinsthorpe before.”
“Didn’t yer?” grunted the blacksmith contemptuously. “A’but, them things occurs onny wheer. T’ size o’ t’ place hes nowt to do wi’ it. An’ I don’t believe ‘at it is onny coincidence, as t’ term goes, i’ this case. It’s my opinion theer’s a plot o’ some sort — a consperracy.”
The miller started.
“What, summat like t’ Gunpowder Plot!” he exclaimed. “Ye wodn’t go so far as to say it resembled that theer?”
“Niver ye mind,” said the blacksmith. “Ye’ll see ‘at we’re nobbut at t’ beginnin’ o’ this here mystery.”
“That’s t’ reight word,” said the carpenter. “Aye, it’s indeed t’ reight word, is that theer. Mystery! That’s t’ reight word, gentlemen — Mystery!”
To make some endeavour to solve the mystery, there presently appeared at Cherry-trees John William Perris, to whom Rhoda had written asking if he had any news of Abel. He arrived in the mourning garments which he had put on in the expectation of hearing that his Uncle George had left him at least a thousand pounds, and his countenance was doleful and perplexed. And after he had spent an hour with Rhoda, who had taken Tibby Graddige into her house to keep her company, he walked across to the Limepits to call upon Taffendale. Taffendale chanced to meet him outside and took him into the parlour and gave him spiritual refreshment, inwardly wondering if it would be possible to find anywhere in the world two brothers who looked so slackly set up and so obviously unfit as Abel and John William Perris. He offered John William a cigar, and left him to open the conversation.
“I’m sore put to it to understand how it is that my poor brother’s disappeared like this here, Mr. Taffendale, sir,” said John William Perris. “Us Perrises has always been a very straight-livin’ lot, sir, ever since I can remember, and by all I can gather o’ what happened to us i’ previous ages. It’s a very surprisin’ matter, sir, is this here. Of course, I understand, Mr. Taffendale, that you’ve been uncommon good to ’em, and that Abel was beginnin’ to prosper a bit, thanks to you, and it makes it all the more unaccountable, as it were. How would you be for reckonin’ of it up, sir?”
“I’m not for reckoning it up at all,” answered Taffendale. “The facts are plain enough. Your brother realised as much money as he could on what he had to sell, and off he went with the money. That’s the long and the short of it.”
John William Perris rubbed his sandy stubble which grew on his weak chin with the tip of a black-gloved finger.
“Yes, I expect that’s the long and the short of it, sir,” he said. “You couldn’t put it no straighter, Mr. Taffendale. But — what’s to become of Abel’s wife, sir?”
Taffendale made no answer.
“Because, you see, Mr. Taffendale, things can’t bide as they are,” continued John William. “They’ll develop, as it were, in some way.”
Taffendale was as well aware of that fact as his visitor, and when he had gone he repeated the phrase to himself, and cursed the evil of unfortunate circumstances, which was growing tighter and stronger. He felt that there was trouble in the air. But he knew nothing definite, until an old farmer from Martinsthorpe drew him aside one day in the market-town.
“Mark,” he said, “I’m afraid there’s going to be unpleasantness for you. Do you know what they’re saying?”
Taffendale turned on him in a fury of irritation.
“Saying? Who’s saying?” he exclaimed. “What’re they saying?”
“They’re saying that you and Perris’s wife were carrying on before he went off, and that that’s why he went off,” said the old man, eyeing him steadily. “It’s all over the village.”
Taffendale turned white with anger.
“Damn them! — let them talk!” he said. “Do you think I care what Martinsthorpe folk say? Let them talk!”
But as he went down the market-place he caught sight of Justice, as he walked across and confronted him.
“Now, then, you!” he said, with concentrated fury in his tone. “You’ve been talking. I warned you I’d break you if you talked. You’ve been talking, I say, damn you!”
Justice drew himself up and looked the lime-burner squarely in the face.
“I’ve never opened my lips on the matter, Mr. Taffendale,” he said. “There was no need, sir. I found out that others knew more than I did.”
And he passed on, leaving Taffendale more furious than ever.
XVI
WHEN THE GAMEKEEPER had remarked to Taffendale at their meeting on the lip of the quarry that there was such a thing as public opinion, Taffendale had laughed acornfully. Public opinion, as represented by the ideas and feelings of Martinsthorpe, was naught to him. He was not of the Martinsthorpe community: he never mixed with even the better sort of its members, except on the half-yearly rent-day. Leaving out two or three of the principal farmers he could buy up the whole of Martinsthorpe with ease. He had no Martinsthorpe folk in his employ; his lime-burners were a separate and peculiar race; his farm-labourers, who all lived in his house, were invariably engaged by him at distant statute-hiring fairs. Between the people of Martinsthorpe and himself there had always been a gulf. He never went to church; never attended any parish meeting or social gathering; never identified himself with the village in any way. And when he heard Justice’s veiled hint he said to himself that he was not going to begin the practice of regarding the public opinion of Martinsthorpe. Let its people think what they liked, and say what they thought: he cared not.
Nevertheless, early on the morning following his meeting with the old farmer in the market-town, Taffendale, white-hot with temper and rage, rode his horse into the cobble-paved yard which lay in front of the blacksmith’s forge, and called loudly to the two apprentices for their master. The blacksmith, just then eating his breakfast in his cottage beyond the forge, heard the loud and insistent voice, and emerged from his porch, calmly wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He leaned over his garden gate, and stared Taffendale hard and full in the face.
“Mornin’, Mestur Taffendale,” he said quietly. Taffendale glared angrily at the blacksmith from between the ears of his panting horse.
“Now, then,” he said, not condescending to any greeting or preface, “what were you saying about me at the Dancing Bear the other night?”
“Nowt but what’s true,” retorted the blacksmith. Taffendale set his teeth, and with a touch of his spur urged the horse a yard or two nearer.
“Damn you!” he said. “Do you know there’s such a thing as law in this country?”
“Aye, I do!” said the blacksmith. “An’ what bi’ that?”
“You’ll find yourself in its clutches if you don’t mind what you’re doing!” replied Taffendale threateningly. “And your daughter, too. Do you hear what I say?”
“Aye, I do hear what ye say, and I don’t care one o’ them damns ‘at ye’re so fond o’ throwin’ about for what ye say,” answered the blacksmith stoutly. “An’ I’ll tell ye to your face, Mestur Taffendale, what I said at t’ Dancin’ Bear. I said ‘at when my dowter Lucilla wor in your service she were made aware ‘at Perris’s wife visited you late at night on two occasions, and were alone wi’ you in your parlour, and ‘at on one occasion ye went out wi’ her and wor away fro’ your house for over two hour. And that’s t’ truth, Mestur Taffendale, and ye knows it’s t’ truth, and it can be proved. An’ ye can ride into t’ town and tak’ t’ law o’ me as much as ye like. I know who’s t’ most to lose. I don’t carry on wi’ other men’s wives, onnyway.”
Taffendale stared at the man who could show such bold defiance. The isolated and lonely life which he lived had given him something of an exaggerated sense of his own importance, and he was puzzled to find that the blacksmith did not offer to eat humble pie at the mere sight of him. He whipped his horse round.
“You’ll get no more trade from me,” he said. “Send in your bill for aught that’s owing.”
The blacksmith laughed, and drawing himself erect, tightened the strings of his leather apron.
