The Collected Works of J. S. Fletcher: 17 Novels & 28 Short Stories (Illustrated Edition). J. S. Fletcher
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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.
"I'm none dependent on ye'er bit o' wark, mestur," he said. "Ye seem to think 'at theer's nobody but yersen Martinsthorpe. Mind 'at ye don't find out 'at theer is som'dy else! If I were ye, I should be ashamed to show misen i' t' place."
Out of sheer bravado and contrariety, Taffendale rode boldly through the village street. At the crossroads there was the usual group of loafers; its members stared blankly at him, and the cripple to whom he sometimes gave a shilling made no offer to touch his ragged cap. The women at the cottage doors glanced at him curiously and made no sign, but twice, as he rode along, he heard stifled bursts of laughter break out behind him. He met one or two of the Martinsthorpe farmers; they passed him with no more than a nod: coldness and aloofness were in their eyes. Taffendale set his lips and sneered.
"Damn 'em, let 'em think and say and do what they like!" he muttered. "What does it matter to me?"
That it mattered to anybody else had not yet entered into Taffendale's comprehension. That it did, never dawned upon him until a few days later, when, amongst his morning's budget of letters, he found a rude scrawl which made him knit his brows. It was hurriedly written across a sheet of the whitey-brown paper in which village shopkeepers wrap small wares, and the penmanship was elementary. Taffendale read it twice over, while he read cursing the hint that it conveyed.
"Dear sir," it ran, "you had best to get yon woman away from Perris's place before too late because there is going to be trouble so no more from A WELL-WISHER."
Taffendale threw the letter into the fire with a further hearty curse. But when he had breakfasted he mounted his horse and rode round to Cherry-trees. He had kept away from the place as much as possible since Perris's disappearance, and when he had called there it had been only to talk to Rhoda over the gate of the orchard, where they were in full view of Tibby Graddige from the house and of anybody who happened to be passing along the road. She came out to him now, careworn and haggard with the uncertainty and anxiety which had so unexpectedly come upon her. And Taffendale, suddenly observant of the dark shadows under her eyes, and the nervous turn of her head, was for the first time minded not to curse other folks, but to utter a malediction on himself.
"You haven't heard anything?" she said, as she came up to the gate. "I thought, perhaps, you had when I saw you coming along the lane."
"No, I've heard nothing," he answered. "I don't think we shall hear anything. Look here, Rhoda, I've been thinking—"
He paused as if at a loss for words, and Rhoda looked up at him as if she had some intuition as to what was coming.
"Don't you think you'd better go away for a while?" he said. "I don't believe Perris'll ever come back, and things can't go on like this. Go away—close the house, and let me get affairs settled up. I'll write to the steward. It's the best thing to do."
Rhoda bowed her head for a moment. When she lifted it again he was surprised to see that her expression was acquiescent. The old, stubborn spirit seemed to have been driven out of her.
"Very well," she said. "I'll go. I shall be glad to go. I know what they're saying down in the village. And—and last night I got a letter from the chapel people saying that I'm not to sing in the choir again, though they say I can attend the chapel if I choose. It's likely I should do that!"
"Damn them for a set of canting hypocrites!" snarled Taffendale. "It's like 'em! Ready to judge and condemn when they've only heard half a tale."
Rhoda looked up again.
"But I don't know where to go," she said. "I won't go to my father and mother—not for anything! Nor to John William's. Where can I go?"
Taffendale thought quickly. And he thought of the wrong thing.
"You shall go to the seaside for a while," he said. "I—I could run over and see you. Listen, because we must settle at once. Tell Tibby Graddige you won't want her after to-night, and pay off that lad this afternoon. Pack your box and have all ready for eight o'clock to-morrow morning. I'll order a cab to be here, for you, and you can drive to Somerleigh. Go to Cornchester, and book from there to—where? Anywhere will do—anywhere that's quiet. Say Filey. Write to me from there when you've found a lodging. And, look here, I've some notes in my pocket that you'd better take. There's thirty pounds. And here's some gold to pay off the woman and the lad. It's the only thing to do, Rhoda. Get away."
"Very well," she answered, taking the money which Taffendale crumpled up in a careless handful and passed across the gate. "I'll do what you wish. I'm getting nervous about being here. I'll go—yes, to-morrow morning."
"To-morrow morning at eight a cab will be here," said Taffendale. He looked at her as if there was more to be said, yet he said nothing. "I'll—I'll be sure to see you within a week," he added. "Write when you get there."
Rhoda inclined her head, but made no answer, and Taffendale turned his horse round and rode back to the Limepits. After all, he said to himself, it was best that Rhoda should go away. There was nothing to be done; Perris had disappeared as completely as if the grave had swallowed him, and nobody believed that he would ever return. Perhaps with Rhoda gone the feeling in the village would die down; certainly there was no need that she should ever return to the Cherry-trees. As to the future, Taffendale did not then concern himself with it. Nor did he again think of the anonymous letter which had warned him of some nebulous eventuality.
Since Perris's flight Rhoda, at Taffendale's instigation, had kept Tibby Graddige constantly with her. Tibby, well paid for her services, had accepted the post of companion with equanimity. There had been little to do, and plenty to eat, and all that she missed was the village gossip. She had tried to wheedle as much news as she could get out of Bill Tatten, but there had always been an uneasy conviction in her mind that Bill Tatten was not telling her all that he knew. Nevertheless, he tried to extract news from Tibby herself before he left the Cherry-trees on the evening of his dismissal. Tibby had left the house to feed the fowls, and Mr. Tatten, fingering in his breeches-pockets the money which Rhoda had paid him in lieu of notice, and further conscious of the fact that she had made him a present of ten shillings out of pure goodwill, waylaid her at the gate of the fold and showed a disposition to converse.
"Is Mistress Perris aimin' to go away i' t' mornin'?" he asked, gazing at Mrs. Graddige with an expression which implied his assurance of her complete knowledge of Rhoda's movements. "Is she?
"What for do ye want to know what Mistress Perris is goin' to do?" said Tibby Graddige. "It's nowt to ye."
"Happen not," replied Mr. Tatten. "An' happen it is. An' I reckon shoo is goin', cause I noticed 'at ye an' her ha' been gettin' her clothes ready, and 'at shoo wor packin' things i' a box."
"Well, I say it's nowt to ye," repeated Tibby Graddige. "An' nowt to nobody. If Mistress Perris thinks well an' good t' go a-visitin' her rellytives, theer's nobody can say owt agen it, can they?"
"Aw, it's reight enough, is that theer," replied Mr. Tatten. "Shoo's a reight to go wheer shoo pleases, hes t' woman. Theer's no law agen it, 'at I know on. So shoo's off i' t' mornin'—what?"
"I say it's nowt to ye when she's off nor when she isn't off," answered Tibby. "Ye've gotten yer brass, and summat ower and above, 'cause I see'd t' young missis gi' it t' yer, and ye've hed yer supper an' all, and yer pint o' ale, so off yer go home, for I'm sure ye've been well done to, Bill Tatten."
"All