and the cottagers filed in to pay their rents of ninepence, a shilling, or fifteen-pence a week. As each discharged his or her due, he or she received a present of two shillings in lieu of a dinner, and each was sent out to the kitchen to take modest refreshment in the shape of bread-and-cheese and ale. By eleven o'clock these humble folk were cleared off; they were good and ready payers all, and it was very rarely that any of them were short of their rent or had to ask for grace. Then came the turn of the blacksmith, the carpenter, the shopkeepers, and the small farmers; when they were disposed of, the big farmers, solid and important men, entered and handed over their cheques. By noon the audit was over, and the steward, his clerk, and the farmers, big and little, and the tradesfolk sat down to meat in the club-room. The steward tarried long enough to eat this ceremonial dinner, to propose the usual loyal toasts and the health of the lord of the manor, and to make a little speech on agriculture in general and the state of the village in particular: these duties performed, he and his clerk departed with their money-bags, and the company either dispersed or gave itself up to conviviality for the remainder of the afternoon.
If Rhoda could have had her own way she would have gone down to the Dancing Bear and paid the rent herself. But she knew that that was neither possible nor proper; such a proceeding would only have aroused comment, and her policy was to pursue her new course quietly. All that she could do was to warn and exhort Perris, and to send him on his errand decently equipped. She had pressed and brushed his best suit, and had bought him a new necktie; she saw to it that he was scrupulously clean and neat when he set out, and to put a finishing-touch to his appearance she took his ashplant switch away from him and gave him her own ivory-handled umbrella to carry, being herself utterly unconscious that it suited him about as incongruously as a pink parasol would suit an elephant. But the attiring and bedecking of him was the least part of Rhoda's troubles. Since their coming to Cherry-trees Perris had attended three rent dinners, and he had come home from each in a state of foolish intoxication. Rhoda had her own reasons for wishing him to keep sober on this particular occasion, and she meant to use such methods of prevention as she could. She knew that Perris had no money on him, and so, when he was all ready for departure, and dangling the ivory-handled umbrella in his big red hand in a fashion which showed how seriously it incommoded him, she counted out the exact amount of the rent on the parlour table, and made no offer to supplement it with a modest sum for himself.
"There you are," she said, again enumerating the notes, gold and silver, "forty-three pounds, eleven shillings. And you take good care you don't touch a penny of it, after you button it up in that pocket, until you hand it over to the steward, and mind you get your proper receipt. And now, then, get off, and come straight home as soon as the dinner's over."
Perris slowly put the money in a much-worn leather purse, which he carefully buttoned up in his breeches pocket. He looked at his wife doubtfully.
"I shall want a bit o' brass for misen, like, my lass," he said, with almost pathetic reproach. "I spent up when I went to see mi Uncle George and our John William. I've nowt left. I mun have summat mi pocket, Rhoda."
"What do you want aught in your pocket for?" demanded Rhoda. "You've naught to spend it on. Isn't there a good dinner provided for you, and as much to drink as ever you like, and cigars and all? There's no call to spend a penny!"
"Aye, but ye, see, mi lass, a chap feels strange, like, if he's nowt in his pocket," said Perris. "I know 'at all's provided, but then there's allus a bit o' waitin' time before t' dinner, and ye can't sit i' company wi'out takin' an odd glass, and happen treatin' a neighbour. I should feel ashamed to go into company wi'out owt mi pocket."
"Well, you'll get naught here," said Rhoda. "You ought to feel thankful that I've borrowed that rent money. You couldn't borrow it!"
Perris gazed at his wife furtively, and his dull eyes narrowed and a faint spot of red came into each lank cheek.
"Ye weern't gi' me nowt to go wi'?" he said. "No!" she answered. "I won't!"
Perris flung down the ivory-handled umbrella.
"Then I'm none goin'!" he said. "T' steward can come and fetch his brass. I weern't go into company wi'out a penny in mi' pockets."
Rhoda glanced at the clock. It was already time that Perris was off. From some recess of her gown she hastily drew forth some loose silver and flung it on the floor.
"There, then!" she said sulkily. "But you mind this—come home as you did last time, and you'll see what you'll get, Abel Perris. You'll find no supper to-night if you don't behave yourself."
Perris grinned as he stooped and picked up the coins.
"If I eat as much as I mean to at yon dinner, I shan't care whether there's owt for t' supper, or whether there isn't, mi lass," he said. "I know how to fill mi belly when it costs nowt to do it."
And, triumphant in his knowledge of possession of money, he once more resumed his grip on the umbrella and went off, heedless of Rhoda's shrill reminder that even if he did not want supper that night, he would be sure to want his dinner next day. For Perris the coming day had no terrors; he had his rent in his pocket, and the prospect of a banquet of gross food and a sufficiency of drink before him, and he laughed fatuously as he descended the hill to the village.
The Dancing Bear was as busy as a hive of bees. The cottager folk were eating and drinking in the kitchens; the small farmers and the tradesmen were in one parlour; the big farmers in another; outside the inn numerous idlers and hangers-on lounged against the walls, or stood about the cross-roads, hoping that something in the way of good cheer might come their way. Perris walked into the sanded hall and met the carpenter emerging from the temporary office. He nodded his head at the door.
"Anybody wi' him?" he asked carelessly.
"Nay—I think you're t' last o' us little 'uns," answered the carpenter. "Ye'll hev' a bit o' good news in theer, Mestur Perris—I hear there's a rebate for such as ye. We don't get it."
Perris pricked his ears. He knocked boldly at the door of the room in which the steward sat, and, having entered, marched up to the receipt of custom as confidently as if he had a large balance lying at his bankers'. A moment later he laid down the borrowed money as proudly as if it had been his own. The clerk began to make out the receipt, and the steward glanced at Perris through his gold-rimmed spectacles.
"You'll be glad to hear that there is a rebate to come to you, Mr. Perris," said the steward. "In consideration of last year's wet harvest, his Lordship has very generously made a reduction of ten per cent. on the rental. So we must give you back—"
"Four pound, seven, three-halfpence," broke in the clerk, who had a mind above niceties in fractions. "There you are, Mr. Perris, and there's your receipt. I think Mr. Perris is the last of that lot, sir," he added, turning to his principal.
Perris picked up the money and the receipt with ill-concealed pleasure. He grinned widely at the steward.
"Why, I'm sure I'm deeply obliged to his Lordship," he said. "Deeply obliged, sir. Yes, sir, it were a very bad time, last harvest, and it didn't improve nowt at t' back end o' t' year, and—"
"Doing all right, Mr. Perris?" asked the steward, cutting him short.
"Why, you were pleased to say we looked very well, yesterday, sir," replied Perris, still grinning. "Of course—"
"I thought you looked very tidy, and I'm glad to see you're attending well to your fences," said the steward, "but I also think you want more stock on your farm."
Perris's face grew solemn, and he looked at the ceiling. Then he looked at the steward with a mysterious air, and
