The Collected Works of J. S. Fletcher: 17 Novels & 28 Short Stories (Illustrated Edition). J. S. Fletcher
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big family—there's eleven of us, all alive, and I was the eldest of the lot. And he's naught but a little farmer, and, as you know, Mr. Taffendale, little farmers is sore put to it to make ends meet, and to scratch a living, at the best of times; and, of course, when there's a family as big as that you can guess what it's like—shameful, I call it, for folk to have such families! However, that's neither here nor there—eleven of us there was, and eight of us girls, which made it all the worse; and, of course, it was about all we could do to scrape along And then when I grew up it came to it that the older ones had to go out to work. And what can such-like as we do, Mr. Taffendale? We never had any education, except such as there was at the village school, so there was naught for it but going to service. Well, I was in service at the Squire's for three or four years, and I didn't like it because I wanted to be my own mistress—I've a good deal of pride about me, Mr. Taffendale. And then when I was nineteen, Perris yonder came along, and he said he'd taken this Cherry-trees farm at Martinsthorpe here, and he'd five hundred pounds in the bank, and he wanted a wife, and—and so, well, I married him, Mr. Taffendale. That's how it was."
Taffendale, who had watched Rhoda closely while she gave him this history of her career, nodded his head.
"Aye, I see, I see," he said. "You've never had any children?"
Rhoda, who had kept her eyes fixed on his while she talked, turned them swiftly away, and he saw a curious flicker play for an instant around the corner of her lips.
"No," she answered quietly. "We've had no children, Mr. Taffendale."
Taffendale took his hands out of his pockets and his pipe out of his mouth, and moved across the room to an old bureau which stood, filled with books and papers, in one corner. He sat down, turning the papers over.
"Let's see, Mrs. Perris," he said. "How many acres is that Cherry-tree farm?"
"It's sixty-seven acres, Mr. Taffendale," answered Rhoda.
"And what's the rent?" he asked. "I used to know, but I've forgotten."
"It's twenty-six shillings an acre, Mr. Taffendale," she replied.
Taffendale made a rapid calculation.
"Eighty-seven pounds, two shillings a year," he said presently. "And there's how much rent owing, Mrs. Perris?"
"Only half a year's, Mr. Taffendale," she answered. "This last half-year. All's clear up to then. And, what's more, I made sure to-day that there's naught else owing."
Taffendale turned his back upon her, and for the next minute or two occupied himself in writing. When he turned round again, he rose and handed her a slip of pink paper.
"There's a hundred," he said carelessly. "Now, mind, Mrs. Perris, I'm lending that to you, not to Perris. You'll observe I've made the cheque out to 'cash'—you cash it yourself to-morrow when you go to market. Give Perris the exact amount that is needed when he goes to pay his rent at the Dancing Bear next week, and take care of the rest yourself. And you run that place as you've told me you would, and you'll make it pay."
Rhoda stood up, trembling. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes shone, and Taffendale suddenly grasped the fact that she was a very handsome woman. Affecting unconcern, he picked up his glass and nodded to her.
"Here's good luck to you!" he said laughingly. "You seem a good hand at business, Mrs. Perris." Rhoda's flushed cheeks deepened in colour.
"I don't know what to say to thank you, Mr. Taffendale," she said in a low voice. "It's hard to find the right words, and—"
"Then don't bother to find them," Taffendale broke in. "I'm glad to help you. There's one thing—if I were you, I should tell your husband who's helped you. And then, perhaps, you could just have that bit of talk with him—eh?—about pulling things round."
Rhoda's eyes flashed back her recognition of his meaning.
"Oh, I'll tell him!" she answered. "I'll tell him, Mr. Taffendale! And—I'll talk to him. You'll see I'll straighten things up down there. And now I'll go—and thank you, again."
"You aren't afraid of going home alone?" he asked, looking at her narrowly.
"I'm afraid of nothing," she said quietly. "I've walked lonelier roads than this, and later at night."
Taffendale walked down to the garden gate with her, and lingered there for some time listening to her retreating footsteps. When at last he went back to the parlour he looked at the chair in which his visitor had sat, and for a moment he seemed to see her still sitting there, and the parlour was warm and alive with the remembrance of her womanhood.
Chapter V
Perris, hearing next morning just as much as Rhoda chose that he should hear, was conscious of only two feelings—the first, of relief at the knowledge that the half-year's rent was going to be paid; the second, of unbounded admiration at his wife's cleverness in raising a loan. He began to laugh foolishly.
"Gow, but that were a rare clever notion on your part, Rhoda, my lass!" he exclaimed, slapping his bony knees. "Ecod, I should never ha' conceived that there notion as long as I lived! I mun express my obligations to Mestur Taffendale when I meet him at t' rent dinner, and, of course, we mun aim to repay him his loan as soon as we can. I expect he'd hand yer t' amount in a cheque—what?—so I can get t cash for it when I go t' market to-day. I'll get myself cleaned up, and be off afore noon."
"You're going to no markets to-day," said Rhoda.
"I'm going; and I can do all that wants doing: I know what's wanted as well as you do. What you'll do, is to stop at home, and go on with getting this place put to rights against the steward coming round. There's enough for you and that there Pippany Webster to do even if you work your hardest all day long. You'll get that fencing put right in the orchard, and there's two big gaps wants seeing to in the garth, and when all that's done you can spend the rest of your time in the front garden. You'll find your dinners on the oven top, and two pints of ale in a bottle; and if you've done all you should have done by the time I get home there'll be something extra for your supper, and maybe a drop of whisky before you go to bed. So you get to work, and don't stand idling there any longer!"
Perris, whose lean face had grown longer and longer during this address, shook his head wonderingly, and began to comprehend that in some fashion his wife had got the whip hand of him.
"Well, I never heard tell of a chap not going to market on a market-day," he said. "It seems summat right out o' t' common, does that there! No, I never heard tell—"
"Well, you've heard tell now, then," exclaimed Rhoda. "And what do you want to go to market for? You've naught to sell, and what bit of horse corn and pig meal there is to buy I can order as well as you, and better. You get to your work, and mind what I say, else there'll be no supper, and no drop of whisky after it."
"Why, my, lass, why!" said Perris. "I expect ye mun have your own way. But what about Mestur Taffendale's cheque?—'cause I expect it is a cheque—ye'll have to—"
"Never you mind about Mr. Taffendale's cheque, nor aught else," answered Rhoda commandingly. "It's enough for you to know that there'll be the rent ready for you to take down to the Dancing Bear on Tuesday morning. Off you go to your work—and mind you look after that good-for-naught Pippany Webster!"
Perris, chiefly appealed to by the thought of the promised supper and the drop of whisky thereafter, shambled to the door.
"Well, it's summat to know that t' rent's provided for," he said, as he went out. "Ye mun have t' exact amount, my lass, in notes and—"
Rhoda shut the door in her husband's face, and went up to her chamber to make herself ready for her walk to the market-town. She had little doubt as to the effect of her warning to Perris, and when she came back late in the afternoon she found that her orders had been faithfully carried out, and that more than she had stipulated for had been done. And Perris had his reward in his supper, and in one stiff glass of grog