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then she went, too, and Rhoda was left alone. By that time she was furiously angry, and her anger increased because of her powerlessness to deal with the situation. Had she known as a certainty that Perris was at the Dancing Bear, she would have gone down there and raked him out of parlour or kitchen without shame or ceremony. But by that time she did not know where he might be. He might be at Turbey's—Turbey was fond of the bottle himself—or he might be at the wayside inn beyond Lowcroft; he might even have gone into the market-town. There was nothing for it but to wait, and in the gathering dusk she waited, chafing and resentful.

      The dusk changed to darkness, but Rhoda had no thought of lighting the lamp. The wood fire died down until it was no more than a handful of smouldering ash; she let it sink unregarded. Nine o'clock had come and gone when she heard an uncertain step on the cobble-stones of the farmyard. She sprang up then, and lighted a tallow candle which stood on the table; as its feeble light slowly spread over the cheerless scene the door opened, and Perris came in, to meet his wife's accusing and angry eyes.

      Perris was sober by that time—sober enough, at any rate, to be in a state of dire dejection, repentance and fright. He had awakened with a violent start, to find himself on his back behind the wheatstack, with a starlit patch of sky over his head, the hedgerow swaying in the night wind, and his clothes damp with the rapidly gathering dew. He had there and then set off home, having some vague notion in his muddled head that there was a bad time before him, and that he had better get it over, But he was unconscious of the loss of his money; the only catastrophe of which he was aware was that of the ivory-handled umbrella. And when he walked into his house, he grinned at Rhoda with the ingratiating and benevolent smile of one who brings good tidings.

      "Now, my lass!" he said, with a fine attempt to carry matters off in a good style. "I'm a bit late, as it were—I hed a bit o' business that okkeypied me when t' rent dinner were over. Ye'll be glad to hear, mi lass, 'at his Lordship thowt well to make a reduction on t' rents, and so accordin'-ly—accordin'-ly, I say—"

      Rhoda suddenly uttered an exclamation of horror. She had caught sight of the broken umbrella, and she darted forward and snatched it out of Perris's grasp.

      "Aw—aye-I hed an accident wi' t' umbrella," said Perris apologetically. "It's ower weak for a grown man to walk wi'. We mun hey' it mended, mi lass, or we mun buy a new 'un. Howsomiver, as I were observin', mi lass, his Lordship were so disposed—"

      Rhoda suddenly slapped her open palm on the table.

      "Where's the money?" she demanded. "Where's the money?"

      Perris began to fumble in his pockets. His wife's sharp eyes detected the bits of straw and grass on his clothes; he looked as a young colt looks that has been rolling itself in field and fold; she saw, too, that his billycock hat was crushed in, and that he had torn a considerable rent in the tail of his coat. And as she watched him she saw his face, drawn and dirty from his out-of-doors sleep, turn pasty with wonder and fear. His hands shook as they strayed from pocket to pocket.

      "It's—it's none there!" he stammered. "I—I mun ha' been robbed! Robbed!"

      Rhoda's bosom heaved up in a great throb of passionate rebellion. Her face, too, turned white around her blazing eyes and drawn lips as she shook her fist at the amazed man who stood swaying and sweating before her.

      "You damned, blasted liar!" she burst out. "Robbed! You've drunk it, and lost it. You—"

      But there speech failed her. For an instant Perris shrank back, thinking she was going to strike him, but the lifted hand dropped to the table, crashing the tin candlestick and its feeble light to the ground. In the darkness he heard Rhoda rush past him, the door open and close with a bang: he knew himself then to be alone. For a few moments he stood muttering to himself, as he again searched pocket after pocket; at last he groped about his feet for the fallen candle, and, having relighted it, set it on the table and wonderingly stared around the house-place. And, crossing over to the door, he pulled it open with a jerk and looked out on the night. The night was as silent as the house, but somewhere in the road outside his straining ears caught the faint patter of hurrying feet.

Chapter VII

       Table of Contents

      For the second time within that week, Taffendale, smoking his last pipe before going to bed, heard a knock at his door, and again he started in his chair, wondering who could come at such a late hour. But when he opened the door he was not surprised to see Perris's wife; something had told him as he walked down the hall that it was she who stood on his threshold.

      Rhoda had fled away from the Cherry-trees in the linen gown in which she had worked all day. The wind had blown the red-gold hair about her face; her cheeks were flushed; her eyes were unnaturally bright; her lips were parted; one hand was clutching the bosom of her gown. And though he was not surprised at the sight of her, Taffendale started as the light of the lamp fell on her face.

      "Mrs. Perris!" he exclaimed.

      Rhoda 'stepped in without ceremony.

      "Let me come in, Mr. Taffendale," she said. "I—I've come on purpose."

      Taffendale silently motioned her to go forward to the parlour; he closed the front door, and soon followed her there.

      "What is it?—what's wrong?" he asked. "You haven't come across the fields like that?"

      Rhoda was tugging at something which she kept within the bosom of her gown. In her excitement she tore the gown open, revealing more of herself than she was aware of; Taffendale saw that she was unconscious of what she was doing. She pulled out a canvas bag, and laid it on the table between them.

      "I've brought your money back," she panted. "At least, what there is left of it. I—I never ought to have come and borrowed. It's no good, Mr. Taffendale—no good! It'll only be wasted. I wish I'd never troubled you. But I'll work myself to skin and bone to pay you back."

      Taffendale laid his hand on her arm, and gently pushed her into the chair which he had just quitted.

      "Sit down," he said. "Come, now, what's it all about? What's gone wrong? Is it—Perris?"

      Rhoda yielded unconsciously to his touch, and sank into the chair. He saw a look that was not far from intense hatred cross her face, and her eyes flashed as she gave him a swift glance.

      "Perris!" she exclaimed. "Who else should it be but Perris? I wish to God I'd died the day I set eyes on him! It's no use trying to help a thing like him—he isn't a man, that!"

      "Take your time, now," said Taffendale. He went over to the sideboard and brought her a glass of his old port. "Drink it." he said authoritatively.

      "Drink it—it'll do you good. And now—what's it all about?"

      Rhoda poured out her story to him, gaining relief in confession. Help Perris any further she would not. He could go to the dogs for all she would do to stop him. And when she had made an end of her story she leapt to her feet looking very determined.

      "Anyway, I've brought your money back, Mr. Taffendale—what there is left of it, and I'll repay you the rest," she said. "I'll leave that man, and—"

      "Stop a bit, stop a bit!" Taffendale broke in. "I lent that money to you, not to Perris. Now then, take that bag back, Mrs. Perris, and just—try again. A man's apt to forget himself at a rent dinner. Take it back, and I'll come and have a talk to Perris to-morrow. Here, put the money in your pocket again."

      Rhoda stared at him.

      "Do you mean that?" she said suddenly.

      "Of course I mean it," answered Taffendale quietly. "It's you that's going to pull things round, don't you see? Come, now, do as I say—put the money up again."

      Rhoda hid the canvas bag in her bosom, still staring at him.

      "That's right," said Taffendale. "Now, then, I'm going to see you home. And so you came out without anything; here's an old shawl of my housekeeper's—put it on."

      But

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