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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?"

That it mattered to anybody else had not yet entered into Taffendale's comprehension. That it did, never dawned upon him until a few days later, when, amongst his morning's budget of letters, he found a rude scrawl which made him knit his brows. It was hurriedly written across a sheet of the whitey-brown paper in which village shopkeepers wrap small wares, and the penmanship was elementary. Taffendale read it twice over, while he read cursing the hint that it conveyed.

"Dear sir," it ran, "you had best to get yon woman away from Perris's place before too late because there is going to be trouble so no more from A WELL-WISHER."

Taffendale threw the letter into the fire with a further hearty curse. But when he had breakfasted he mounted his horse and rode round to Cherry-trees. He had kept away from the place as much as possible since Perris's disappearance, and when he had called there it had been only to talk to Rhoda over the gate of the orchard, where they were in full view of Tibby Graddige from the house and of anybody who happened to be passing along the road. She came out to him now, careworn and haggard with the uncertainty and anxiety which had so unexpectedly come upon her. And Taffendale, suddenly observant of the dark shadows under her eyes, and the nervous turn of her head, was for the first time minded not to curse other folks, but to utter a malediction on himself.

"You haven't heard anything?" she said, as she came up to the gate. "I thought, perhaps, you had when I saw you coming along the lane."

"No, I've heard nothing," he answered. "I don't think we shall hear anything. Look here, Rhoda, I've been thinking—"

He paused as if at a loss for words, and Rhoda looked up at him as if she had some intuition as to what was coming.

"Don't you think you'd better go away for a while?" he said. "I don't believe Perris'll ever come back, and things can't go on like this. Go away—close the house, and let me get affairs settled up. I'll write to the steward. It's the best thing to do."

Rhoda bowed her head for a moment. When she lifted it again he was surprised to see that her expression was acquiescent. The old, stubborn spirit seemed to have been driven out of her.

"Very well," she said. "I'll go. I shall be glad to go. I know what they're saying down in the village. And—and last night I got a letter from the chapel people saying that I'm not to sing in the choir again, though they say I can attend the chapel if I choose. It's likely I should do that!"

"Damn them for a set of canting hypocrites!" snarled Taffendale. "It's like 'em! Ready to judge and condemn when they've only heard half a tale."

Rhoda looked up again.

"But I don't know where to go," she said. "I won't go to my father and mother—not for anything! Nor to John William's. Where can I go?"

Taffendale thought quickly. And he thought of the wrong thing.

"You shall go to the seaside for a while," he said. "I—I could run over and see you. Listen, because we must settle at once. Tell Tibby Graddige you won't want her after to-night, and pay off that lad this afternoon. Pack your box and have all ready for eight o'clock to-morrow morning. I'll order a cab to be here, for you, and you can drive to Somerleigh. Go to Cornchester, and book from there to—where? Anywhere will do—anywhere that's quiet. Say Filey. Write to me from there when you've found a lodging. And, look here, I've some notes in my pocket that you'd better take. There's thirty pounds. And here's some gold to pay off the woman and the lad. It's the only thing to do, Rhoda. Get away."

"Very well," she answered, taking the money which Taffendale crumpled up in a careless handful and passed across the gate. "I'll do what you wish. I'm getting nervous about being here. I'll go—yes, to-morrow morning."

"To-morrow morning at eight a cab will be here," said Taffendale. He looked at her as if there was more to be said, yet he said nothing. "I'll—I'll be sure to see you within a week," he added. "Write when you get there."

Rhoda inclined her head, but made no answer, and Taffendale turned his horse round and rode back to the Limepits. After all, he said to himself, it was best that Rhoda should go away. There was nothing to be done; Perris had disappeared as completely as if the grave had swallowed him, and nobody believed that he would ever return. Perhaps with Rhoda gone the feeling in the village would die down; certainly there was no need that she should ever return to the Cherry-trees. As to the future, Taffendale did not then concern himself with it. Nor did he again think of the anonymous letter which had warned him of some nebulous eventuality.

Since Perris's flight Rhoda, at Taffendale's instigation, had kept Tibby Graddige constantly with her. Tibby, well paid for her services, had accepted the post of companion with equanimity. There had been little to do, and plenty to eat, and all that she missed was the village gossip. She had tried to wheedle as much news as she could get out of Bill Tatten, but there had always been an uneasy conviction in her mind that Bill Tatten was not telling her all that he knew. Nevertheless, he tried to extract news from Tibby herself before he left the Cherry-trees on the evening of his dismissal. Tibby had left the house to feed the fowls, and Mr. Tatten, fingering in his breeches-pockets the money which Rhoda had paid him in lieu of notice, and further conscious of the fact that she had made him a present of ten shillings out of pure goodwill, waylaid her at the gate of the fold and showed a disposition to converse.

"Is Mistress Perris aimin' to go away i' t' mornin'?" he asked, gazing at Mrs. Graddige with an expression which implied his assurance of her complete knowledge of Rhoda's movements. "Is she?

"What for do ye want to know what Mistress Perris is goin' to do?" said Tibby Graddige. "It's nowt to ye."

"Happen not," replied Mr. Tatten. "An' happen it is. An' I reckon shoo is goin', cause I noticed 'at ye an' her ha' been gettin' her clothes ready, and 'at shoo wor packin' things i' a box."

"Well, I say it's nowt to ye," repeated Tibby Graddige. "An' nowt to nobody. If Mistress Perris thinks well an' good t' go a-visitin' her rellytives, theer's nobody can say owt agen it, can they?"

"Aw, it's reight enough, is that theer," replied Mr. Tatten. "Shoo's a reight to go wheer shoo pleases, hes t' woman. Theer's no law agen it, 'at I know on. So shoo's off i' t' mornin'—what?"

"I say it's nowt to ye when she's off nor when she isn't off," answered Tibby. "Ye've gotten yer brass, and summat ower and above, 'cause I see'd t' young missis gi' it t' yer, and ye've hed yer supper an' all, and yer pint o' ale, so off yer go home, for I'm sure ye've been well done to, Bill Tatten."

"All reight," said Mr. Tatten. "I'm goin'. All t' same, I reckon 'at Mistress Perris is aimin' to be away to-morrow mornin'."

And instead of going straight to his own home in the lower part of the village, he went across the fields to a certain nook and corner behind the church, where, in a cottage tenanted by one Sal Bennett, the door of which was open to callers when that of the Dancing Bear was closed, and wherein many gallons of ale were consumed at hours when they could not be obtained on licensed premises, all the mischief of the village was concocted and all the best gossip and scandal discussed amongst a certain section of the baser sort.

Sal Bennett's only occupation in life, beyond that of wife to her husband, a meek and inoffensive old shepherd, who always retired to bed before the nightly orgies which were carried on in his cottage began, was the making of toffee, which she rolled up in long sticks of the thickness of the stem of a churchwarden pipe, and sold, carefully wrapped in fancy paper with a twirl at the end, to the children at the price of a halfpenny a stick or three sticks for a penny. She was engaged in the manufacture of this confection when Mr. Tatten entered the cottage, and she turned a crimsoned face upon him from the glowing fire whereon lay a frying-pan in which the ingredients of the toffee were fizzling and spitting. She was a gaunt and formidable female, and she ruled her satellites with an influence which none of them understood, though all felt it.

"Now then, what do ye want?" demanded Sal Bennett, regarding the visitor speculatively. "Hes owt happened, or what?"

"I cam' here afore I went home," Mr. Tatten said, in explanation of his presence. "If so be as ye're goin' to carry out what it were decided to do, like, up yonder at t' Cherry-trees and t' Limepits, ye'll hey' to do it to-neet. 'Cause I've fun' out 'at shoo's off first thing t'-morrow mornin', is t' woman."

Sal Bennett took her iron spoon out of the frying-pan, and, planting her great hands on her hips, looked Mr. Tatten searchingly in the face.

"Is that reight?" she asked. "Ha' yer made sure?"

"I'm as sure as I am 'at I see ye," answered Mr. Tatten. "Her and Tibby Graddige hes been gettin' her clothes ready all t'-day, and I see'd her packin' her box misen, and I gathered 'at shoo's goin' away to stop wi' rellytives, and shoo's paid me off, and g'ien me ten shillin' for misen, so theer. If it's goin' t' be done, it'll hev' to be done to-neet.

"Why, now, then!" said Sal Bennett. "It shall be done, reight enough. We'm all ready. T' images is already made, and they're in our shed at t' back theer, and theer's nowt to do now but to tell t' lads and them 'at's goin' t' tak' part. Ye mun go round, Bill, and give 'em t'word to be here as soon as t' darkness sets in. And tell 'em to bring as many owd cans and pans and tea-trays, and owt o' that sort as iver they can lay fingers to—it's no use wi'out theer's plenty o' noise."

"All reight," said Mr. Tatten. "I'll round 'em up. It's a rare good job 'at I fun' out shoo wor goin' t' mornin'."

"Well, as I say, all's ready," said Mrs. Bennett. "An' we'll gi' mi lady an' her fancy man summat to mak' 'em bethink theirsens."

When the darkness came on that night Rhoda and Tibby Graddige had just finished the labours of the day and were sitting down to supper. They had been ironing most of the afternoon, and the house-place was so hot from the bright fire which they had found it necessary to keep up that Rhoda had opened both door and window. Outside the house the night was very still, but a gentle wind was springing up from the south-west. And as it stole in, soft and warm, through window and door, it suddenly brought with it a strange and discordant sound which increased in volume with every passing second. It was a sound that seemed to be made up of various incongruous elements—the shouting of human beings, maddened or frenzied, the blowing of horns, the thumping of a drum, the beating of metal surfaces. And underneath and around it was the tramp of human feet.

Tibby Graddige, knowing old country woman that she was, was quick to hear and understand the first murmur of the approaching storm, and rose to her feet, white and trembling.

"Oh, missis, missis!" she gasped. "Oh, missis!

"What is it?" exclaimed Rhoda, rising just as hastily and upsetting the tea-pot which she was about to handle. "Tibby! What is it?"

Tibby Graddige listened for one brief second. The blare and the babel sounded more clearly with the next puff of wind. She gazed at Rhoda with horror-filled eyes.

"It's the stang!" she whispered hoarsely, "they're ridin' the stang for you and Taffendale. Eh, good Lord, what mun we do?—two helpless women! I heerd—I heerd a rumour 'at they would, but I never thought they'd do it: it's a good twenty year sin' it were ridden i' Martinsthorpe. Lord, ha' mercy on us!"

Rhoda scarcely comprehended the woman's meaning. But before she had time to speak Tibby Graddige clutched her by the wrist and dragged her up the stairs to a window which looked out upon the high-road. She pointed a finger to the vengeance which was coming, hydra-headed and brutal, through the night.

Rhoda looked fearfully out. The mob, led by Sal Bennett, had reached the top of the hill, and was sweeping forward on Cherry-trees in irregular formation. Some of its members carried torches; their yellow light glared upon two rudely-fashioned effigies, one of a man, the other of a woman, which were tied together, back to back and carried upon a short ladder supported on the shoulders of bearers. Around these things, mere bundles of straw stuffed into old garments and provided with masks, and swaying foolishly to and fro, a crowd of men, women, and young folk, lads and lasses, danced, leaped, skipped and ran, some beating old pans, kettles, tea-trays, some blowing horns and whistles, one at least thumping a drum; all screeching, howling, yelling, singing at the highest pitch of their voices. And now and then the sputtering torches threw into clear vision faces such as those folk saw in plenty who made a short journey from prison to guillotine in the times of the Terror.

"Lord, ha' mercy on us!" exclaimed Tibby Graddige for the second time. And she dragged Rhoda down the stair and out of the house and through the orchard. Hand-in-hand, sobbing from fright, the two women hurried into the fields in the direction of the Limepits.