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.
Chapter 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.
But to Perris's intense surprise no storm of anger and reproach burst upon him. The house-place was tidied up more neatly than was usual; the breakfast table was set in the window: two places were laid for his wife and himself, and one for Pippany Webster; there was a fragrant smell of hot coffee; and Rhoda was frying bacon at the fire. She half-turned towards him as he entered, and Perris, dull of comprehension as he was, noticed that she was very pale, that there were dark shadows under her eyes, and that in the quick look which she gave him there was some expression which he had never seen there before. He sat down, staring at her, and as he stared he saw her face suddenly suffused with colour.
"Breakfast 'll be ready in a minute," she said, turning away from him to bend over the frying-pan. "The bacon's nearly done."
"Ye're none looking so well this morning, my lass," remarked Perris, not unkindly. "It's a soft thing to lig yerself down and fall asleep on that there old settle as ye've got into t' habit o' doin'. What's t' matter, like, my lass?"
"It's naught," replied Rhoda. "I've a headache."
"Happen a cup o' coffee 'll improve it," said Perris. "Gow, ye were as white as a mork when I come in, and now ye've turned as red as a rose I I've no doubt," he continued, rubbing his bony knees with his great hands, and still lost in his surprise that Rhoda should be so quiet, "I've no doubt 'at ye were upset yesterday, my lass, 'cause I didn't come home, and again last night because o' that matter o' losing t' rebate money. Now, that there rebate money—"
"What's the use of talking about it?" said Rhoda. "It's done now. All the talking in the world won't alter that. When a thing's done—it's done!"
"I'm none so sure about that there," said Perris, gaining confidence because of his wife's unusual placability. "I'm none goin' to lose my brass wi'out an effort to find it. You see, my lass, it's true 'at I were a bit overcome wi' t' drink—ye know what these here rent dinners is, and I'm none used to drinkin' sherry wines and suchlike—and t' truth is 'at I went to yon owd wheatstack to sleep it off a bit. But I had that there brass i' my pocket when I went there, and it weren't i' my pocket when I comed home. That's t' truth, Rhoda. An'—"
The scraping of feet outside the door announced the arrival of Pippany Webster for breakfast. He came in and took his accustomed place, and Rhoda, putting the fried bacon on the table, nudged her husband's elbow.
"Say no more now," she whispered. "Wait a bit."
Perris made no answer beyond a stare: he pulled the dish of bacon towards him and began serving the rashers while Rhoda poured out the coffee.
"You
