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

Perris flourished his ashplant.

"What are yer theer for, then?—sneakin' behind t' wall," he asked. "I expect ye thowt we were all gone to t' chappil, did yer?"

"I knew ye hedn't gone to t' chappil," answered Pippany, grinning. "I see'd t' missis go wi' t' preycher chap. I—I wanted to hev' a word wi' ye, mestur."

Perris vouchsafed no reply; he continued to glare angrily at his visitor.

"A quiet word, like," said Pippany. "I gotten summat to tell yer, mestur—summat 'at ye owt to know."

Perris looked steadily and searchingly into Pippany's shifty eyes. And Pippany grinned anew.

"I want to hev' nowt to do wi' t' likes o' ye," said Perris slowly. "Tak' yersen off my premises, afore I lay this here ashplant across yer shoulders!"

But Pippany stood his ground, and he grinned again.

"If I don't tell what I hev' to tell I can go an' tell som'dy else," he said. "I come i' a friendly way, mestur. Ye'd better hear what I gotten to say."

Perris meditated awhile. His fingers itched to give Pippany a sound belabouring, but he saw that the man had some deep design, and his curiosity was aroused.

"What ha' yer gotten to say?" he asked dubiously. "I reckon it'll be nowt but a pack o' lies when all's said and done."

"It's no lies, mestur—it's t' Gospil truth," answered Pippany, with great eagerness. "It's summat 'at ye owt to be made aweer on—I'll tak' my 'davy it is!"

"Well?" said Perris.

Pippany, who had edged away a little from the wall which separated them, drew nearer.

"Will yer promise not to meddle on me wi' t' ashplant if I tell yer?" he asked. "It's nowt varry pleasant 'at I hev' to tell, but it's none my fault, mestur."

"Go on," said Perris. "An' no lies!"

"I wish I may be struck down dead this varry minute if I tell ye owt 'at isn't t' truth!" exclaimed Pippany, with pious fervour. He came up close to the wall and thrust his face over it. "Mestur!" he said in a low voice, "do ye know 'at your missis is carryin' on wi' Taffendale?"

Perris's first instinct was to slash Pippany across the face with the ashplant, and Pippany saw the intention in his eyes and started back from the wall with a cry of alarm. But Perris's left hand seized the other end of the ashplant. The switch, supple and yielding though it was, snapped in two as if it had been as brittle as a glass rod, and for a moment he stood staring stupidly at the two halves into which it had broken. Then he looked up and at the man who was shrinking away from him.

"If ye're tellin' me a lie," he said, in a voice that made Pippany shake in his Sunday clothes, "by God, I'll tear t' tongue out o' yer throat!"

"It's not a lie, mestur. I wish t' Lord may strike me blind and dumb and dead an' all this varry instant if it's a lie!" said Pippany excitedly. "It's as true as—as 'at you an' me's here. It's all true, mestur."

Perris stared at Pippany for a full moment without speaking. His face had become of a curious grey colour, but there was a bright spot of red burning on each high cheekbone, and his eyes blazed with a strange light. And suddenly he thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his breeches, and, turning his back to the wall, leaned against it, and fixed his gaze on the open door of the house.

"Say what ye hev' to say," he said over his shoulder.

Pippany realised that he was safe from assault. He stole up to the wall and addressed himself to Perris's averted head. And as if he were making confession of his own misdeeds, he spoke in a low voice, occasionally hushing it to a whisper.

"Well, ye see, mestur, it were i' this way 'at I found it out," he began. "Ye see, one night, at after ye sent me away, I wor t' woods yonder down theer by what they call Badger's Hollow—ye know how quiet it is theer, mestur—an' yeer missis and Taffendale come along—sweetheartin'. Theer was no doubt about it, mestur, 'cause I see'd 'em—I see'd more nor what they'd ha' liked me to see. An' I seed 'em many a time at after that—gen'lin's o' Sunday nights, and t' choyer practice nights, when yeer missis hed come away thro' t' chappil. Used to meet i' them woods, they did, mestur—ye know as weel as I do 'at nobody iver goes there o' nights. Ye mun ha' known 'at shoo wor out late, mestur?"

Perris made no answer. He was still staring at the open door of the house. But he had withdrawn his hands from his pockets, and had folded them tightly across his chest, as if there was something there that he must repress and keep from breaking loose. And Pippany, getting no answer to his suggestion, went on with his story.

"An' I wor minded to come an' tell ye at t' time, mestur," he said, "but then I thowt it ovver and ovver, and I didn't reightly know what to do. Howsomiver, t 'other day, Mistress Graddige, shoo telled me 'at ye'd hed news o' yer Uncle George deëath, and 'at ye'd gone away to bury him and tak' up yer fortune, and so I thowt to misen 'at I'd find out if mi suspicions wor reight about Taffendale and yeer missis; and so that night 'at ye went off—last Wensda' night it wor, as yell rek 'lect—I come up here and watched t' house. I got into t' granary theer, and posted misen wheer I could see t' door yonder. It wor ten o'clock then—I heerd it strike fro' t' owd church clock i' t' village. An' afore varry long I see'd Taffendale come—I see'd him pass t' leeted window."

Still Perris gave no response and made no sign. He heard every word that was being whispered behind him, and something told him that it was all true.

"But t' leet worn't t' house-place theer," continued Pippany. "It wor t' best parlour. I thowt that wor queer, mestur, because ye and t' missis niver used t' best parlour 'at I remember on. An' of course theer wor nowt for it then but waitin'. An' I waited while t' clock struck eleven, and twelve, and one, and two, and it wor gettin' on to three and t' light wor just comin' when Taffendale let hissen out and went away. An'—an' that's all, mestur, and as I say, ye owt to know about it. An' if I've towd ye onny lies, ye're welcome to rive my tongue out o' mi throat wheniver ye like! But I hevn't—I've telled ye t' Gospil truth."

For a time Perris made no movement. His thoughts had shifted themselves to the chapel down in the valley. He knew that Rhoda was going to sing a solo that night as an anthem; she had been practising it all the week, and the preacher had talked about it with eager anticipation while they had tea together. It was about time for the anthem: he imagined her standing up in the shabby little conventicle, and holding spellbound the congregation huddled together on the rudely fashioned benches and the folk who listened at the gates and fences of the adjoining cottages. It was a beautiful anthem; Perris knew nothing of music, but he had found himself rapt and motionless more than once as Rhoda moved about the house singing it without accompaniment. Yes, she would be just about singing it now—little imagination as he possessed, he could see her, and see, too, the last beams of the westering sun shining in through the chapel windows and gleaming on her hair...

"T' Gospil truth," repeated Pippany Webster, at the other side of the wall. "Nowt but t' Gospil truth, Mestur Perris, sir."

Perris started and shivered.

"Ha' you said a word o' this to onnybody else?" he asked in a voice that seemed to himself to be a long way off. "Ha' you, now?"

"Not a word, mestur!" asserted Pippany. "Not a word to nobody. I've kep' it to myself."

"Nowt to yon Tibby Graddige?" asked Perris.

Pippany uttered a snort of derision.

"Her?" he said. "Noe!—not likely, mestur. I wodn't trust no woman wi' a secret like that theer. I tell yer, I've said nowt to nobody."

Perris remained leaning against the wall, his eyes always fixed on the open door of the house. Behind him, Pippany, waiting for him to speak, began to pick off the moss and lichen which had grown on the old masonry.