Perris looked up with a faint gleam in his pale grey eyes.
"What might Mestur Taffendale be wantin' on my premises?" he asked.
"Your premises? Lord, you talk as if the place was a castle or a hall!" exclaimed Rhoda. "What did he want? Why, yon fool of a Pippany Webster pulled that old clover stack over on himself, and Mr. Taffendale happened to be passing, and helped Tibby Graddige to carry him in here—he'd have been suffocated if it hadn't been for Mr. Taffendale."
Perris slowly rose, and going to the door craned his long neck in the direction of the orchard.
"Ah, I see t' clover stack's down," he said, coming back. "Did he bre'k any bones, Pippany?"
"No, he didn't break any bones, nor his neck neither," replied Rhoda. "A good job if he had—idle good-for-naught! He'd been down at the Dancing Bear all the afternoon. It's worse nor a puzzle to me that you keep such a shiftless gawpy about the place. Why don't you go and clean yourself?" she suddenly burst out, turning upon him from the fire, where she was endeavouring to accommodate both kettle and frying-pan. "You look as if you'd never been washed since you went out of that door. And for goodness' sake take that necktie off—you look like one of those country joskins that's used to naught decent."
"Mi Aunt Maria, over yonder, thought it were a very fine tie," said Perris, unconsciously fingering the adornment. "She remarked that it were, as soon as ever she set eyes on it."
"Then your Aunt Maria's a fool!" remarked Rhoda. "Go and wash yourself, do!"
Perris went into a scullery beyond the house-place; when he returned, the dirty, crumpled collar and the blue necktie had disappeared, and his face shone with brown soap, and his neutral-tinted, damp hair was smoothly plastered over his forehead. He hung up his coat on a peg that projected from the end of the tall dresser, and sat down in his shirt-sleeves. Rhoda had cleared a place for him at the deal table, and had set out a cup and saucer, a plate, and bread on the hare board. While the bacon frizzled in the pan she folded the damp clothes which lay piled about, sorting them into heaps against the morrow's ironing.
"And what did you go away for?" she asked suddenly, glaring at Perris, who sat awaiting his supper, with his hands folded under his baggy waistcoat.
"I weern't talk no business till I've had mi supper," he answered. "I've had neither bite nor sup since I left yon place, and I'm none goin' to talk business on an empty belly."
Rhoda gave him another swift glance.
"You mayn't have bitten, but you'll none make me believe you haven't supped," she retorted. "You were stinking of spirits when you came in."
"That's neither here nor there," said Perris. "I might have taken an odd glass or two on t' way—all travellers does that. But I want summat to eat, and I'll none talk till I've had it."
Rhoda gave no further attention to him. When the bacon was cooked she set it before him, made him a pot of tea, and went on with her work. In the silence that ensued she was increasingly conscious of a growing dislike to her husband's presence; it seemed to her that the mere fact of his being there was setting up in her some sort of nausea which she could not explain. And once more she thought of Mark Taffendale, of his good clothes, his fine linen, his suggestion of power and prosperity and money, and a certain uneasiness grew and stirred to increasing activity within her.
Perris ate up every scrap of the food which his wife had set before him, and finished his supper by cleaning the grease off his plate with a piece of bread, which he then swallowed with evident satisfaction. He turned his chair to the fire with a grunt of animal contentment, and proceeded to light his pipe. Rhoda whisked away the earthenware he had used into the scullery, and washed it up; having come back to the house-place she silently went on with her work amongst the clothes. For a time Perris sat and smoked, silent as she was, but at last, after some preliminary scraping of his feet and clearing of his throat, he addressed her.
"There's a matter that I think we'd best have a bit o' talk about, Rhoda, my lass," he said diffidently. "It's gotten to be talked about some time or other, and we may as well table it and have done wi' it."
"Well?" she said.
"Ye're aware, my lass, ye're aware that the rent-day's close at hand," continued Perris. "Early next week it is."
"Well?" she said again.
"Aye, well, the fact is, my lass, that I'm not ready for it," he said. "I've nowt i' hand!"
Rhoda put down the garment which she was just then folding and looked round at her husband.
"You don't mean to say that you can't pay your rent?" she demanded in sharp tones.
"I've nowt i' hand," Perris repeated stolidly. "Nowt! Times has been that there bad that I haven't been able to make no provision. It made a deal o' difference to me losing that young horse last back-end, and ye know as well as I do, my lass, that I made nowt out o' what bit o' stuff I had to sell all winter. No, I've nowt i' hand for no rent-days."
Rhoda was still standing idle, still gazing at him as if she scarcely comprehended what he was telling her.
"What did you go away for?" she asked suddenly. Perris shook his head.
"I went to see if so be as I could raise t' rent money among mi relations," he answered. "I went to see mi brother John William, and mi Uncle George. I considered that they were t' likeliest people to make application to, ye see, my lass. Howsomever, they could do nowt, for times is as bad wi' them as what they are wi' me. Mi Uncle George has had sad losses, and our John William's suffered a deal o' sickness in his family, and now his wife's been thowtless enough to go an' have twin bairns on t' top on it. No! they couldn't do nowt to help, howsoever willin' they might ha' been. An' so, of course, that's where I'm sittiwated, Rhoda."
Rhoda had neglected the contents of the clothes baskets ever since Perris began to talk. She was leaning over the table at which he had eaten his supper, her knuckles resting on the ledge, her body bent slightly forward as if she wanted to meet every word that came from him. Her eyes, hard, cold, questioning, never left his face.
"Where's the five hundred pound you said you had when we got married two year ago?" she demanded suddenly.
Perris looked up quickly, and as quickly looked away again. He shuffled his feet uneasily on the stone floor.
"Why, why, my lass!" he answered deprecatingly. "Five hundred pounds is none so much to start housekeepin' and farmin' on. There were furniture to buy and stock to buy, and there's been rent to pay, and—"
"Then it's all gone?" she said. "There's naught in the bank?"
"Aw, there's naught in t' bank," he admitted. "At least, nowt much—not beyond a pound or two. Ye see, I've made nowt o' this farm. What I've scratted out on it's just about kept us, my lass."
"Fine keeping!" she exclaimed scornfully. She turned to the clothes-basket again, and began to sort out the garments with nervous, spasmodic movements. "And what's to come if you don't pay that rent next week?" she demanded again, pausing in her work. "What's going to happen, I say?"
Perris shook his head.
"Nay!" he replied. "I don't know, my lass. T' steward's none over friendly inclined, as it is. Last time he were round this way he threw out some hints about me not having over and above much amount o' stock. Happen he'll sell us up. There's about enough on t' place to pay t' rent, anyway."
"And we should go out on the road—beggars!" said Rhoda.
Perris rubbed the end of his chin and stared about him.
"It's a poor game, bein' a little farmer," he observed. "I never had enough capital, as they call it. If I had a hundred pound now I could pull things round. But as mi Uncle George and our John William says—"
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