LITMIR.BIZ

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"Aye, he went his ways when Mestur Perris had ridden off. 'I hope yer husband 'll hey' some good news, Mrs Perris,' he says, when he went away. 'An' bring home a handsome fortun',' he says, laughin'—that's what he said, did Mestur Taffendale."

      "He'll hev' to stop till t' buryin's over," said Pippany. "They niver part wi' a dead man's brass till t' corpse is i' t' grave—that's t' law, so they tell me. Them 'at's appointed to look after t' corpse's money niver pays it out until all's overed and done wi'—t' way o' buryin'."

      "Eh, an' I wonder what t' reason o' that is?" inquired Tibby Graddige. "Theer mun be a reason, of course."

      "It's so 'at t' dead body can't hear what t' relations says about it when they hev' t' brass 'livered up to 'em," replied Pippany. "Theer's allus some on 'em 'at isn't satisfied wi' what they receive, an' then they say foul things about t' dead corpse, and, of course, it wodn't be reight for it to hear owt said agean it, so they allus mak' away wi' it afore sham' t' brass out—that's t' law, as they call it. So Mestur Perris 'll be away for a day or two, like?"

      "Aye, and she'll be left alone all by hersen i' that lonely house," answered Mrs. Graddige. "I made offer to go and stop wi' her, but she said she were none afraid."

      "Shoo's afraid o' nowt, isn't that theer," observed Pippany. "Shoo's as strong as onny man, shoo is. And I reckon theer's nowt 'at's worth steylin' t' place now, whativer there may be when Mr. Perris brings his Uncle George's fortune back wi' him."

      But whether there was anything that was worth stealing or not at Cherry-trees, Pippany Webster could not refrain from visiting the little farmstead that night. He sat by his own fireside for a long time after Mrs. Graddige had finished her charing work, drunk her second drop of comfort, and gone away with a present of a couple of rabbits, and when he at last turned out his lights, damped his fire, and locked up the front door it was only to let himself out at a back window and to slink away in the darkness. By various quiet and devious ways he made his way up the hillside, and to the outbuildings at Cherry-trees. The clock in the church tower was striking ten when he looked cautiously round the corner of the barn and saw that a light was still burning in the house: he saw, also, that it did not proceed from the house-place, but from the parlour, a room which, according to his experience of them, the Perrises scarcely ever used.

      Knowing every nook and corner of the premises, Pippany had no difficulty in finding a convenient vantage-point in the outbuildings from whence to keep observation on the house. Taking advantage of the darkness he stole up the steps of the granary, and took up his post at a slatted window which commanded the door. The night was warm, and Pippany was well accustomed to long vigils in the woods. He had an instinctive notion that he would be rewarded for his trouble in spying upon Mrs. Perris. and he was prepared to keep watch until the coming of the morning would make it impossible for him to remain longer in his hiding-place. But he had not been very long in the granary when he heard footsteps on the road outside, followed by the opening and shutting of the orchard gate. A moment later the figure of a man covered the lighted window, and Pippany hugged himself with joy.

      "Yon's Taffendale!" he muttered to himself. "Gow, I thowt I should see summat!"

      For a time he was half-minded to hasten down the hill, to wake Tibby Graddige from her slumbers, and to hurry her back with him, and thus to provide a further witness of Mrs. Perris's misdoings. But on second consideration he thought it best to keep his knowledge to himself, for he was as yet uncertain as to what use he should put it. With a patience which had been steadily perfected by his poaching habits, he settled down to watch; if it were necessary, he said to himself, he would watch throughout the night, for he was determined not to leave his post until Taffendale had gone away from Cherry-trees.

      "I wonder what Perris 'ud say if he see'd a leet i' t' best parlour?" he mused. "Him an' her niver sits i' t' best parlour—t' house-place is good enoo for them when they're by their two sens. I reckon shoo thinks 'at it wodn't do for a gentleman like Taffendale to sit hissen down i' t' house-place—that's what shoo's gotten t' best parlour ready for."

      In the silence and darkness of the granary Pippany waited while the slow hours passed. Now and then a rat scampered across the floor behind him; sometimes the horses in the stables stamped their feet; at intervals an owl in the neighbouring woods hooted dolefully across the sleeping land, eleven and twelve and one and two struck from the church clock at the further end of the village. And just as the first grey of the approaching day stole across the line of the eastern world the watcher's long vigil came to its end—Taffendale left the house and went quietly away through the orchard. With equal quietness and precaution Pippany quitted his post and went home.

Chapter XI

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      Perris had gone away on a Wednesday to attend the obsequies of his Uncle George; on the following Saturday afternoon he returned home, looking lost and disconsolate. Rhoda learnt at once from his face that the deceased draper had not remembered his nephew in his will.

      "I might as well ha' stayed at home," said Perris, sinking into his easy-chair. "There were nowt to be gotten by it."

      "Do you mean to say that he didn't leave you anything?" exclaimed Rhoda. "Not—anything?"

      "Nowt!" replied Perris. "An' he didn't leave our John William owt, either. He left nobody nowt. 'What brass he did leave were left to start a almshouse, as they call it, for t' townsfolk o' Fenford. It seems a queer thing to me 'at they can stand by a will like that theer, considerin' 'at he hed rellytives; but t' lawyers says it's all reight—nobody can upset it. T' man hed a reight, they say, to leave his brass as he liked."

      "And how much had he to leave?" asked Rhoda.

      "A matter o' five or six thousand pound," replied

      Perris, shaking his head dolefully. "I wodn't ha' cared if he'd left me a thousand on it—I consider 'at me an' our John William were entitled to as much as that apiece. Howsomiver, theer it is—t' owd feller's left us nowt. It's a varry great disappointment to me, Rhoda, my lass—I'd aimed to repay Mestur Taffendale his money out o' that theer."

      "Mr. Taffendale will wait," said Rhoda. She began to bustle about, and to prepare some supper for Perris, and, greatly to his surprise, she produced a bottle of whisky and mixed a glass for him. "It's no use taking it to heart, Abel," she said, as she handed him the glass. "We've managed without your Uncle George's money so far, and we can manage without it now."

      Perris took the glass of whisky-and-water from her with a humble expression of thanks. He was tired and weary, and life had looked very drab to him during his four miles' walk from the station.

      "Aye, but I could ha' done wi' a bit o' money," he said. "And so could our John William. Howsomiver, I suppose it's as you say, Rhoda, my lass—it's no use takin' t' matter to heart. I mun put mi shoulder to t' wheel a bit more. After all, we've gotten a roof over our heads, and t' farm's lookin' up i' promisin' fashion—thanks to Mestur Taffendale. All t' same, I wor a good deal cast down when t' lawyer read t' will out."

      That night Rhoda was unusually attentive to her husband. She gave him an appetising supper, and mixed him another glass of whisky before he went to bed. Next day, being Sunday, she roasted one of her spring chickens for dinner, and Perris began to forget some of his troubles. He went with her to the chapel in the afternoon, and listened with great pride to her singing. The preacher went home to take tea with them, and Perris listened to him and to Rhoda as they discussed chapel affairs. But when it was time to return for the evening service he announced his intention of staying at home.

      "I think I shan't go down to t' chappil agen tonight, my lass," he said. "I'm feeling a bit tired, like, wi' trailin' about this last two or three days, and I'll bide at home, quiet, 'cause I've a hard day afore me to-morrow."

      "All right," said Rhoda. She went into the parlour, and came back with the key of the cupboard in which she kept certain things rigorously locked up. "I might be a bit late," she continued, "because I promised to go see Mrs. Simpson after chapel—their Mary Jane's not well. So you can get your supper when you want it, and there's the key if

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