The Greatest Works of J. S. Fletcher (64+ Titles in One Illustrated Edition). J. S. Fletcher

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      "I'm sore put to it to understand how it is that my poor brother's disappeared like this here, Mr. Taffendale, sir," said John William Perris. "Us Perrises has always been a very straight-livin' lot, sir, ever since I can remember, and by all I can gather o' what happened to us i' previous ages. It's a very surprisin' matter, sir, is this here. Of course, I understand, Mr. Taffendale, that you've been uncommon good to 'em, and that Abel was beginnin' to prosper a bit, thanks to you, and it makes it all the more unaccountable, as it were. How would you be for reckonin' of it up, sir?"

      "I'm not for reckoning it up at all," answered Taffendale. "The facts are plain enough. Your brother realised as much money as he could on what he had to sell, and off he went with the money. That's the long and the short of it."

      John William Perris rubbed his sandy stubble which grew on his weak chin with the tip of a black-gloved finger.

      "Yes, I expect that's the long and the short of it, sir," he said. "You couldn't put it no straighter, Mr. Taffendale. But—what's to become of Abel's wife, sir?"

      Taffendale made no answer.

      "Because, you see, Mr. Taffendale, things can't bide as they are," continued John William. "They'll develop, as it were, in some way."

      Taffendale was as well aware of that fact as his visitor, and when he had gone he repeated the phrase to himself, and cursed the evil of unfortunate circumstances, which was growing tighter and stronger. He felt that there was trouble in the air. But he knew nothing definite, until an old farmer from Martinsthorpe drew him aside one day in the market-town.

      "Mark," he said, "I'm afraid there's going to be unpleasantness for you. Do you know what they're saying?"

      Taffendale turned on him in a fury of irritation.

      "Saying? Who's saying?" he exclaimed. "What're they saying?"

      "They're saying that you and Perris's wife were carrying on before he went off, and that that's why he went off," said the old man, eyeing him steadily. "It's all over the village."

      Taffendale turned white with anger.

      "Damn them!—let them talk!" he said. "Do you think I care what Martinsthorpe folk say? Let them talk!"

      But as he went down the market-place he caught sight of Justice, as he walked across and confronted him.

      "Now, then, you!" he said, with concentrated fury in his tone. "You've been talking. I warned you I'd break you if you talked. You've been talking, I say, damn you!"

      Justice drew himself up and looked the lime-burner squarely in the face.

      "I've never opened my lips on the matter, Mr. Taffendale," he said. "There was no need, sir. I found out that others knew more than I did."

      And he passed on, leaving Taffendale more furious than ever.

Chapter XVI

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      When the gamekeeper had remarked to Taffendale at their meeting on the lip of the quarry that there was such a thing as public opinion, Taffendale had laughed acornfully. Public opinion, as represented by the ideas and feelings of Martinsthorpe, was naught to him. He was not of the Martinsthorpe community: he never mixed with even the better sort of its members, except on the half-yearly rent-day. Leaving out two or three of the principal farmers he could buy up the whole of Martinsthorpe with ease. He had no Martinsthorpe folk in his employ; his lime-burners were a separate and peculiar race; his farm-labourers, who all lived in his house, were invariably engaged by him at distant statute-hiring fairs. Between the people of Martinsthorpe and himself there had always been a gulf. He never went to church; never attended any parish meeting or social gathering; never identified himself with the village in any way. And when he heard Justice's veiled hint he said to himself that he was not going to begin the practice of regarding the public opinion of Martinsthorpe. Let its people think what they liked, and say what they thought: he cared not.

      Nevertheless, early on the morning following his meeting with the old farmer in the market-town, Taffendale, white-hot with temper and rage, rode his horse into the cobble-paved yard which lay in front of the blacksmith's forge, and called loudly to the two apprentices for their master. The blacksmith, just then eating his breakfast in his cottage beyond the forge, heard the loud and insistent voice, and emerged from his porch, calmly wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He leaned over his garden gate, and stared Taffendale hard and full in the face.

      "Mornin', Mestur Taffendale," he said quietly. Taffendale glared angrily at the blacksmith from between the ears of his panting horse.

      "Now, then," he said, not condescending to any greeting or preface, "what were you saying about me at the Dancing Bear the other night?"

      "Nowt but what's true," retorted the blacksmith. Taffendale set his teeth, and with a touch of his spur urged the horse a yard or two nearer.

      "Damn you!" he said. "Do you know there's such a thing as law in this country?"

      "Aye, I do!" said the blacksmith. "An' what bi' that?"

      "You'll find yourself in its clutches if you don't mind what you're doing!" replied Taffendale threateningly. "And your daughter, too. Do you hear what I say?"

      "Aye, I do hear what ye say, and I don't care one o' them damns 'at ye're so fond o' throwin' about for what ye say," answered the blacksmith stoutly. "An' I'll tell ye to your face, Mestur Taffendale, what I said at t' Dancin' Bear. I said 'at when my dowter Lucilla wor in your service she were made aware 'at Perris's wife visited you late at night on two occasions, and were alone wi' you in your parlour, and 'at on one occasion ye went out wi' her and wor away fro' your house for over two hour. And that's t' truth, Mestur Taffendale, and ye knows it's t' truth, and it can be proved. An' ye can ride into t' town and tak' t' law o' me as much as ye like. I know who's t' most to lose. I don't carry on wi' other men's wives, onnyway."

      Taffendale stared at the man who could show such bold defiance. The isolated and lonely life which he lived had given him something of an exaggerated sense of his own importance, and he was puzzled to find that the blacksmith did not offer to eat humble pie at the mere sight of him. He whipped his horse round.

      "You'll get no more trade from me," he said. "Send in your bill for aught that's owing."

      The blacksmith laughed, and drawing himself erect, tightened the strings of his leather apron.

      "I'm none dependent on ye'er bit o' wark, mestur," he said. "Ye seem to think 'at theer's nobody but yersen Martinsthorpe. Mind 'at ye don't find out 'at theer is som'dy else! If I were ye, I should be ashamed to show misen i' t' place."

      Out of sheer bravado and contrariety, Taffendale rode boldly through the village street. At the crossroads there was the usual group of loafers; its members stared blankly at him, and the cripple to whom he sometimes gave a shilling made no offer to touch his ragged cap. The women at the cottage doors glanced at him curiously and made no sign, but twice, as he rode along, he heard stifled bursts of laughter break out behind him. He met one or two of the Martinsthorpe farmers; they passed him with no more than a nod: coldness and aloofness were in their eyes. Taffendale set his lips and sneered.

      "Damn 'em, let 'em think and say and do what they like!" he muttered. "What does it matter to me?"

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