LITMIR.BIZ

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back being now turned, she glanced round about her with swift comprehension of the details of her host's surroundings. She was quick to notice the comfort and even luxury upon which she had entered out of the night; her woman's eyes realised the significance of the fine old furniture, the thick carpet, the silver and glass on the sideboard, the family portraits on the walls, the books and papers, the little evidences of the possession of money in plenty. And as swiftly as she took all this in, she visualised with equal swiftness her recollection of her own house-place at Cherry-trees—poverty-stricken, cheerless, and Abel Perris, unkempt, toil-stained, sitting, hands crossed on stomach, and heavy with sleep, before a dying fire in a badly-polished grate.

      "Aye, here it is," said Taffendale, turning to the table and setting upon it a plum-cake which stood in a silver basket. "My housekeeper prides herself on her cakes, Mrs. Perris. Now you'll take a glass of port—it'll do you no harm after your walk."

      Rhoda let him help her without further demur on her part; it was a long time since anybody had offered her hospitality, or waited upon her. She crumbled a piece of the cake and sipped at the red wine, and Taffendale, feeling less embarrassed, drank off his whisky and mixed himself another glass. He was still wondering why the woman had come to see him, but no explanation of her presence suggested itself to him.

      "How's that man of yours?" he asked suddenly. "Any the worse?"

      Rhoda shook her head.

      "No, he's no worse, Mr. Taffendale, thank you," she answered. "He's done his work to-day." Taffendale laughed gently.

      "I should think Pippany Webster's day's work isn't worth much," he said. "He was always a shammocking sort." Rhoda nodded.

      "He isn't worth what little he gets," she answered. "But—"

      She paused suddenly and looked up from the plate on her knee to gaze with resolute steadiness at her host, who had taken a chair on the other side of the hearth, and had re-lighted the pipe which he had laid down on her entrance.

      "Mr. Taffendale," she said, "you're wondering what I came for?"

      Taffendale, surprised by the directness of her look and tone, nodded.

      "Just so," he answered, with equal directness, "I am."

      Rhoda put the tip of a finger on a crumb and began to move it round and round the rim of the plate.

      "I always believe in saying things straight out," she said, after a brief pause. "The truth is, Mr. Taffendale, I've come to see if you'll lend me some money."

      Taffendale's brows knitted, but Rhoda was quick to see that the alteration arose not from resentment but from surprise.

      "Oh!" he said. "Why, what is it? What's it all about? Of course, I couldn't think why you'd called."

      "No," she said. "Of course, you couldn't, Mr. Taffendale. Well, you see, it's this, to put it shortly. Perris, he hasn't the money for the rent."

      Taffendale smiled quietly.

      "Did he send you?" he asked.

      "No," she answered quickly. "No, he didn't, Mr. Taffendale. Perris doesn't know that I'm here. I'm not asking you to help him—I'm asking you to help me. I wouldn't ask anybody to help Perris. He's—he's—well, he's not fit to be trusted with money."

      Taffendale frowned, and began to rub his chin with the back of his hand—a habit of his when he was puzzled.

      "Make it clear, Mrs. Perris," he said. "Take your time, but make it clear."

      Rhoda put her plate on the table and faced her host.

      "Well, it's like this, Mr. Taffendale," she said. "I'll make it as clear as I can. You see, when we came there to Cherry-trees, two years ago, Perris and me had just been married, and he said he'd five hundred pounds, and he could do well on that bit of farm, and of course I believed him. But it didn't take so long to see that he wasn't doing well—I knew that plain enough, because I come of farming folk. All the same, I never knew that he was doing as badly as it turns out he was. I thought he'd some—a good deal—of that five hundred pounds left in the bank. Then the other day he went off, saying that he'd business with some of his relations, and last night, after you'd gone away, he came home, and he out with the truth. He'd been to try to borrow money for the rent, and he couldn't borrow it, and he's naught but a pound or two in the bank. That's where it is, Mr. Taffendale."

      "Aye," said Taffendale. "Aye—I see. And the rent-day's early next week."

      "And the rent-day's early next week," repeated Rhoda. "And what's more, Mr. Taffendale, the steward 'll have no mercy on Perris. You saw what there was about the place."

      Taffendale laughed softly and nodded.

      "I saw," he said. "Um! And if I did lend you the money for the rent, Mrs. Perris, you'd be no better off than before. You'd—"

      Rhoda interrupted him with a quick turn of her head.

      "Wait a bit, Mr. Taffendale," she exclaimed. "I said I'd ask you to lend the money to me, not to Perris. I've considered matters. I've been considering all day long. I've talked matters over with Mr. Marriner, the minister. It was Mr. Marriner advised me to come to you. He wrote me this letter to give to you. Perhaps you'll read it, Mr. Taffendale." Taffendale took the note which Rhoda held out to him, and read its contents carelessly.

      "Yes," he said, laying the note on the table, "I know Mr. Marriner, of course. But supposing I lend you this money, Mrs. Perris, what are you going to do afterwards?—after the rent-day, I mean?"

      Rhoda involuntarily straightened her figure, and Taffendale, covertly watching her, gained an impression of strength and purpose.

      "Do?" she exclaimed. "Do? I know what I'd do, Mr. Taffendale. I'd keep a tight hand on Perris. I said—I've been considering matters all day, and I've explained my notions to Mr. Marriner. That Cherry-trees farm can be made to pay, and I can make it pay—if only I'm master! If I'd had the management of the money it would have been paying now, and there'd have been no need to ask help from anybody. Once let me get that rent paid, and perhaps have a bit of money to go on with, and then I shall have Perris under my thumb, and there I'll keep him. Oh, he's a good farmer, and a good worker, is Perris, so long as he's made to work, and I can make him. I made him work like a nigger to-day, I can assure you, Mr. Taffendale."

      Taffendale laughed delightedly. His neighbour's wife was beginning to amuse, as well as interest, him.

      "How?" he asked.

      "I told him if there wasn't so much work done by dinner-time there'd be no dinner," answered Rhoda, with a flash of her grey eyes and her white teeth; "and if there wasn't so much more done by supper-time there'd be no supper. He worked right enough, did Perris, after that, for he knew I meant what I said. But that's Perris all over. He wants a master. Let me get the chance, and I'll master him: I'll keep him at it till he's made that farm pay, or I'll know why. He's weak, is Perris, and he's let things slide, and I was that silly that I didn't see how it was all going. But I see now, and I see how I can right 'em. It's never too late to mend, Mr. Taffendale."

      Taffendale laughed again. He had risen from his chair, and, hands plunged in his breeches pockets, was standing at an angle of the fire-place, looking down at his visitor with the amused eyes of a man to whom something new and entertaining is presented. And suddenly he blurted out the thought that was in his mind.

      "However came a woman like you to marry a man like Perris?" he exclaimed. "How was it?"

      Rhoda looked quickly up and met his inquiring gaze with eyes of childlike candour.

      "Well, you see, Mr. Taffendale, it was like this," she answered. "My poor father, he had the foolishness to have a very big family—there's eleven of us, all alive, and I was the eldest of the lot. And he's naught but a little farmer, and, as you know, Mr. Taffendale, little farmers is sore put to it to make ends meet, and to scratch a living, at the best of times; and, of course, when there's a family as big as that you can guess what it's like—shameful, I call it, for folk to have such families! However, that's neither here nor there—eleven of us there was, and

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