up. "I might be a bit late," she continued, "because I promised to go see Mrs. Simpson after chapel—their Mary Jane's not well. So you can get your supper when you want it, and there's the key if you want aught else."
"Very good, my lass, very good," said Perris. "I shall away to mi bed early."
He watched Rhoda and the preacher set out across the fields, and for a time after their departure occupied himself in feeding the pigs and fowls and in looking round the fold. And he was just thinking of settling down to his pipe, and to the study of a tract with which the preacher had presented him, when, happening to look through the window, he caught sight of Pippany Webster's horse-like countenance peeping over the wall which separated the farmyard from the orchard. As Perris looked, Pippany's face disappeared, as though he had suddenly ducked behind the wall; in another moment it appeared again. Pippany was evidently taking a view of the house.
"What's yon repscallion doin' about t' place?" thought Perris. "Happen he thinks we've all gone to t' chappil, and he wants to steyl summat. He's up to no good, anyway."
He caught up his ashplant switch from its cornor and made for the door, but when he opened it Pippany had disappeared again. Perris strode across the fold, and looked over the wall just as Pippany, who had not heard him approaching over the litter, once more lifted his head. The two men stared at each other across the wall.
"What are ye doin' on my premises?" demanded Perris.
Pippany grinned sheepishly, but he looked at his late employer with a species of sly defiance. He was not afraid of Perris, and he knew that Rhoda was safe in the singing-pew at the chapel.
"Didn't I warn yer niver to set foot o' my land agen?" continued Perris. "Ye're up to no goodye're for steylin' t' fowls or t' eggs, or summat."
"I'm for steylin' nowt," retorted Pippany. "Theer's no 'casion for me to steyl, Mestur Perris. I'm better off nor I were when I worked for ye."
Perris flourished his ashplant.
"What are yer theer for, then?—sneakin' behind t' wall," he asked. "I expect ye thowt we were all gone to t' chappil, did yer?"
"I knew ye hedn't gone to t' chappil," answered Pippany, grinning. "I see'd t' missis go wi' t' preycher chap. I—I wanted to hev' a word wi' ye, mestur."
Perris vouchsafed no reply; he continued to glare angrily at his visitor.
"A quiet word, like," said Pippany. "I gotten summat to tell yer, mestur—summat 'at ye owt to know."
Perris looked steadily and searchingly into Pippany's shifty eyes. And Pippany grinned anew.
"I want to hev' nowt to do wi' t' likes o' ye," said Perris slowly. "Tak' yersen off my premises, afore I lay this here ashplant across yer shoulders!"
But Pippany stood his ground, and he grinned again.
"If I don't tell what I hev' to tell I can go an' tell som'dy else," he said. "I come i' a friendly way, mestur. Ye'd better hear what I gotten to say."
Perris meditated awhile. His fingers itched to give Pippany a sound belabouring, but he saw that the man had some deep design, and his curiosity was aroused.
"What ha' yer gotten to say?" he asked dubiously. "I reckon it'll be nowt but a pack o' lies when all's said and done."
"It's no lies, mestur—it's t' Gospil truth," answered Pippany, with great eagerness. "It's summat 'at ye owt to be made aweer on—I'll tak' my 'davy it is!"
"Well?" said Perris.
Pippany, who had edged away a little from the wall which separated them, drew nearer.
"Will yer promise not to meddle on me wi' t' ashplant if I tell yer?" he asked. "It's nowt varry pleasant 'at I hev' to tell, but it's none my fault, mestur."
"Go on," said Perris. "An' no lies!"
"I wish I may be struck down dead this varry minute if I tell ye owt 'at isn't t' truth!" exclaimed Pippany, with pious fervour. He came up close to the wall and thrust his face over it. "Mestur!" he said in a low voice, "do ye know 'at your missis is carryin' on wi' Taffendale?"
Perris's first instinct was to slash Pippany across the face with the ashplant, and Pippany saw the intention in his eyes and started back from the wall with a cry of alarm. But Perris's left hand seized the other end of the ashplant. The switch, supple and yielding though it was, snapped in two as if it had been as brittle as a glass rod, and for a moment he stood staring stupidly at the two halves into which it had broken. Then he looked up and at the man who was shrinking away from him.
"If ye're tellin' me a lie," he said, in a voice that made Pippany shake in his Sunday clothes, "by God, I'll tear t' tongue out o' yer throat!"
"It's not a lie, mestur. I wish t' Lord may strike me blind and dumb and dead an' all this varry instant if it's a lie!" said Pippany excitedly. "It's as true as—as 'at you an' me's here. It's all true, mestur."
Perris stared at Pippany for a full moment without speaking. His face had become of a curious grey colour, but there was a bright spot of red burning on each high cheekbone, and his eyes blazed with a strange light. And suddenly he thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his breeches, and, turning his back to the wall, leaned against it, and fixed his gaze on the open door of the house.
"Say what ye hev' to say," he said over his shoulder.
Pippany realised that he was safe from assault. He stole up to the wall and addressed himself to Perris's averted head. And as if he were making confession of his own misdeeds, he spoke in a low voice, occasionally hushing it to a whisper.
"Well, ye see, mestur, it were i' this way 'at I found it out," he began. "Ye see, one night, at after ye sent me away, I wor t' woods yonder down theer by what they call Badger's Hollow—ye know how quiet it is theer, mestur—an' yeer missis and Taffendale come along—sweetheartin'. Theer was no doubt about it, mestur, 'cause I see'd 'em—I see'd more nor what they'd ha' liked me to see. An' I seed 'em many a time at after that—gen'lin's o' Sunday nights, and t' choyer practice nights, when yeer missis hed come away thro' t' chappil. Used to meet i' them woods, they did, mestur—ye know as weel as I do 'at nobody iver goes there o' nights. Ye mun ha' known 'at shoo wor out late, mestur?"
Perris made no answer. He was still staring at the open door of the house. But he had withdrawn his hands from his pockets, and had folded them tightly across his chest, as if there was something there that he must repress and keep from breaking loose. And Pippany, getting no answer to his suggestion, went on with his story.
"An' I wor minded to come an' tell ye at t' time, mestur," he said, "but then I thowt it ovver and ovver, and I didn't reightly know what to do. Howsomiver, t 'other day, Mistress Graddige, shoo telled me 'at ye'd hed news o' yer Uncle George deëath, and 'at ye'd gone away to bury him and tak' up yer fortune, and so I thowt to misen 'at I'd find out if mi suspicions wor reight about Taffendale and yeer missis; and so that night 'at ye went off—last Wensda' night it wor, as yell rek 'lect—I come up here and watched t' house. I got into t' granary theer, and posted misen wheer I could see t' door yonder. It wor ten o'clock then—I heerd it strike fro' t' owd church clock i' t' village. An' afore varry long I see'd Taffendale come—I see'd him pass t' leeted window."
Still Perris gave no response and made no sign. He heard every word that was being whispered behind him, and something told him that it was all true.
"But
