J. S. Fletcher - The Collected Works of J. S. Fletcher - 17 Novels & 28 Short Stories (Illustrated Edition)

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 before he went to bed, and he told Rhoda that he always knew she was clever. He endeavoured to turn such conversation as there was between them to the subject of Taffendale's loan, but Rhoda repulsed him whenever he did so. She made him go twice to chapel next day, and on the Monday morning she had him up and at work at a bright and early hour. And in the forenoon, without any warning, the steward descended upon Cherry-trees, and looked carefully about him, and at the end of an hour went away obviously surprised and gratified with what he saw. He took off his hat to Rhoda when he left, and Rhoda gave him a cool nod. The steward, who, from information received, had fully expected that Perris would not be able to pay his rent that half-year, smiled as he drove off in his smart dog-cart.

"Perris 'll turn up with his money all right tomorrow," he said to himself. "And I'll lay a pound to a penny-piece that his wife's got it hidden away in some corner at this very minute!"

The half-yearly rent audit was held at the Dancing Bear, and the day was one of the most important in the village calendar. At half-past nine in the morning the steward drove over from the market-town with his clerk, and took up his quarters in a room which for that occasion only was converted into an office. At ten precisely the door of this room was opened, 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."