The Collected Works of J. S. Fletcher: 17 Novels & 28 Short Stories (Illustrated Edition). J. S. Fletcher
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suited, like. An' t' other thowt were this—how many folks i' t' village knew what that theer rascal, Pippany Webster, knew? So I set to work to pump all t' knowledge 'at I could out on him, and I very soon convinced misen, 'at nobody but him did know, and 'at he hadn't telled a soul, not even theer owd Tibby Graddige. An' so then I thinks to misen, 'I'll soon keep thy tongue quiet, mi lad!' and I 'ticed him up into t' granary, and theer I choked him."
Taffendale, gripping the bars at which he stood, bent his head on his hands and groaned. He understood now, and he saw the uselessness, the utter purposelessness of what this poor, dull intellect before him had meant to be so purposeful, so useful.
"Oh, Perris!" he cried. "Why did you do it for that! I'd rather the whole world had known than it should have brought you to this!"
In the dull light Perris smiled.
"Aye, but ye see, I thowt different, Mestur Taffendale," he said. "I were none goin' t' hey' a chap like that theer carryin' his tales round t' countryside, as he would ha' done. I knew he wouldn't keep his tongue quiet. So, as I tell yer, I quietened him. An' then I made away wi' him down t' owd well—but theer's no need to go into that theer. Rhoda, my lass, theer's no call to cry."
"Let her cry," said Taffendale; "it's the best thing for her. Oh, Perris, you made a great mistake!"
"Aye, but I tell yer 'at I considered different!" said Perris. "Happen I think in a way o' mi' own, Mestur Taffendale. Howsomiver, I want to tell ye both why I went off. Ye see, I studied a deal after I'd made away wi' Webster—I were allus thinkin' about t' matter. An' I thowt to misen—well, I'm nowt and nobody, nowt but a poor uneddicated chap 'at 'll niver mek' owt on't, and if so be as Rhoda and Mestur Taffendale's fallen i' love—ye'll excuse me for mentionin' such things—why, t' sooner I'm out o' t' way the better for all parties; it doesn't matter what comes to me, and they'll be free to please theirsens. Ye see, theer were a chap 'at I used to know—a chap 'at reads books—as told me many a year ago 'at if a man run away fro' his wife she could very soon wed agen, and so I considered to be off. But mind yer, I were not goin' wi'out money, and so I selled what I could, and got t' brass i' hand and away I went. I niver meant a soul to hear tell o' me agen: I were goin' to Canada, but I came bi chance to do a bit o' horse-tradin' i' London. Howsomiver, ye know how things has turned out. It never struck me 'at yon theer owd well 'ud iver be opened agen; I thowt 'at wi' Webster quietened and me gone ye'd hey plain sailin'. But I niver were nowt but a fool."
Taffendale felt that words were useless. He looked in dumb misery at the floor of the open space which lay between him and Perris, and thought that the stones were more likely to speak than he was. And above the sound of Rhoda's quiet weeping Perris spoke again.
"Howsomiver—to-morrow 'll settle all. An' then ye'll be free enough. Ye'll be good to her, Mestur Taffendale. An', Rhoda, my lass—"
But Rhoda's weeping suddenly ceased, and she stopped Perris with a fierce gesture that made Taffendale start.
"Don't!" she said in a tense voice. "I can't bear it! Mark—tell him—he's a dying man—tell him that, however foolish we may have been, there never was aught wrong between you and me—if he dies thinking that there was I shall—"
Perris lifted his hand quietly.
"I niver thowt theer were owt wrong, my lass," he said, with a simple dignity. "That were why I killed t' man 'at were sayin' theer were, before he could go an' say it to others. But I knew ye loved each other, and so—"
And the scene came to an end, for Rhoda fell in a heap at the foot of the bars, and while Taffendale helped to carry her away in one direction, Perris was taken off by his custodians in another.
There were women in the prison who took charge of Rhoda, and when Taffendale had seen her into their care he went, half-fainting himself, to the room where he had left Wroxdale. There were others there officials, and when he entered they were talking VI Wroxdale, and Wroxdale turned hastily from them to him.
"Taffendale—it's come!" he exclaimed. Taffendale stared at him vacantly.
"What's come?" he asked dully.
"What? The reprieve, man! They're just going to tell him. It came—"
But Taffendale, for the first time in his life, had fainted, and the warder who had brought him to the room caught him as he reeled and fell. And only Wroxdale of all the men around knew that the message which saved Perris's life had also saved Taffendale from a long future of ceaseless torture and a hell of remorse.
"It's true?" he said, when he came round and found Wroxdale at his side. "He's—not to die?"
"It's true, Mark. He's not to die. And he's a young man, remember. He'll be a free man yet," replied Wroxdale.
Taffendale rose unsteadily to his feet.
"Let me get into the air," he said. "And—leave me alone a minute or two, Wroxdale."
There was a dismal little garden outside the room, and on a bench which stood against a blank wall Taffendale sat down and stared at the patch of grey sky, which was all that he could see of the outer world. His mind was growing calmer and clearer and he began to see the future. For him and Rhoda, as human minds linked together, there was no future; he knew, had known ever since the hour in which he found her on the edge of the quarry, that whatever might chance, Perris, dead or alive, would always stand between them. And now Perris was alive and was to live, and was to atone for his sin, and hers would be to wait until the years of that atonement were over, and then to give him what cheer she could in the days that would yet be left. And his owni—his, Taffendale's?
"She shall never want for aught until he's free," he said to himself. "And when he's free they shall have a new life. But from to-day she and I shall never meet again."
Then he went within, and found Wroxdale, and gave him instructions as to Rhoda's care, and himself went away. And as the wicket-gate closed upon him with a harsh clang, he lifted his head and drew a deep and long breath. He knew that he had passed out of a worse prison, a harder captivity, than any Abel Perris would ever know.
THE END
The Middle Temple Murder
Chapter I. The Scrap of Grey Paper
Chapter III. The Clue of the Cap
Chapter IV. The Anglo-Orient Hotel
Chapter V. Spargo Wishes to Specialize
Chapter VI. Witness to a Meeting
Chapter VIII. The Man From the Safe Deposit
Chapter IX. The Dealer in Rare Stamps