He was in a desperate hurry to transact his pleasant bit of business with Mrs. Edwards, but could not forbear grasping at all the coin he could by the way, never thinking that the overreaching hand is apt to grasp at shadows.
CHAPTER XXI. THE FINGER OF GOD.
The heavy rain had ceased in the night. The sky was clear, the eaves and trees had forgotten to drip, the mist was lifting from the mountain-top and from the surcharged river, when, after a succession of profitable calls, between nine and ten o'clock in the morning, master and man rode up the rugged ascent to Brookside Farm, and, dismounting, the former walked into the house with insolent assumption, and, finding only Mrs. Edwards there, demanded rudely—
'Is the half-year's rent ready?' Of course, that was his first care.
'There do be no rent owing, sir.'
'What do you mean, woman?'
'I mean that you have been paid, and overpaid, and I do not be going to pay you one brass farthing.'
He grew livid, set his teeth, and looked as if he would have struck her to the ground.