Children of the Mist Part 40

o' Christ to blazes an' lettin' on theer wasn't no such Pusson; an' Him, wide awake, a-keepin' me out o' harm's way, even arter the banns was called! Theer's a G.o.d for 'e! Watchin' day an' night to see as I comed by no harm! That's what 't is to have laid by a tidy mort o'

righteousness 'gainst a evil hour!"

"You 'm well out of it, sure enough."

"Ess, 't is so. I misjudged the Lard shocking, an' I'm man enough to up and say it, thank G.o.d. He was right an' I was wrong; an' lookin' back, I sees it. So I'll come back to the fold, like the piece of silver what was lost; an' theer'll be joy in heaven, as well theer may be. Burnish it all! I'll go along to church 'fore all men's eyes next Lard's Day ever is."

"A gude thought, tu. Religion's a sort of benefit society, if you look at it, an' the church be the bank wheer us pays in subscriptions Sundays."

"An' blamed gude interest us gets for the money," declared Mr. Blee.

"Not but what I've drawed a bit heavy on my draft of late, along o'

pretendin' to heathen ways an' thoughts what I never really held with; but 't is all wan now an' I lay I'll soon set the account right, wi' a balance in my favour, tu. Seein' how shameful I was used, ban't likely no gert things will be laid against me."

"And auld Lezzard will go to the Union?"

"A very fittin' plaace for un, come to think on 't. Awver-balanced for sheer greed of gawld he was. My! what a wild-goose chase! An the things he've said to me! Not that I'd allow myself--awuly from common humanity I must see un an' let un knaw I bear no more malice than a bird on a bough."

They drank, Billy deeper than usual. He was marvellously excited and cheerful. He greeted G.o.d like an old friend returned to him from a journey; and that night before retiring he stood stiffly beside his bed and covered his face in his hands and prayed a prayer familiar among his generation.

"Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, Bless the bed that I lie on, Four cornders to my bed, Four angels overspread Two tu foot an' two tu head, An' all to carry me when I'm dead.

An' when I'm dead an' in my graave, An' all my bones be rotten.

The greedy worms my flaish shall ate, An' I shall be forgotten; For Christ's sake. Amen."

Having sucked from repet.i.tion of this ancient twaddle exactly that sort of satisfaction the French or Roman peasant wins from a babble of a dead language over beads, Billy retired with many a grunt and sigh of satisfaction.

"It do hearten the spirit to come direct to the Throne," he reflected; "an' the wonder is how ever I could fare for near two year wi'out my prayers. Yet, though I got my monkey up an' let Jehovah slide, He knawed of my past gudeness, all set down in the Book o' Life. An' now I've owned up as I was wrong; which is all even the saints can do; 'cause Judgment Day, for the very best of us, will awnly be a matter o' owning up."

CHAPTER XIV

A HUNDRED POUNDS

The maddening recollection of things done wrought upon Clement Hicks until it bred in him a distracted frenzy and blinded his judgment. He lost all sense of proportion in his endeavour to come at a right course of action, and a mind long inclined towards one road now readily drifted upon it. To recover the position had been quite possible, and there were not wanting those ready and eager to a.s.sist him; but at this crisis in his fortune the man lost all power of reflection or self-control. The necessity for instant action clamoured to him through daylight and darkness; delay drove him hourly into a hysterical condition approaching frenzy, and every road to escape save one appeared bolted and barred against him. But, try as he might, his miseries could not be hidden, and Will Blanchard, among others, sympathised very heartily with the great disappointment that had now fallen upon Chris and her sweetheart. His sister's att.i.tude had astonished both him and his mother. They fancied that Blanchards were made of sterner stuff; but Chris went down before the blow in a manner very unexpected. She seemed dazed and unable to recover from it. Her old elastic spirit was crushed, and a great sorrow looked from her eyes.

Neither Will nor her mother could rouse her, and so it came about that thinking how best he could play a brother's part, the master of Newtake decided on a notable deed and held that the hour for it must be delayed no longer. He debated the circ.u.mstance from every point of view, examined his accounts, inspected the exact figures represented by the remainder of his uncle's legacy and then broke the matter to Phoebe. To his mother he had already spoken concerning the intention, and she approved it, though without knowing particulars. Phoebe, however, happened to be quite as familiar with Will's affairs as Will himself, and while his determination to give Clement and Chris a hundred pounds was easily come at and most cheering to his heart, the necessity of breaking the news to his wife appeared not so easy or pleasant. Indeed, Will approached the task with some trepidation, for a recent event made it doubly difficult. They sat together one night, after six weeks of married life, and he plunged into the matter.

"'Tis sad them two being kept apart like this," he said abruptly.

"'Tis so. n.o.body feels it more'n me. Matters was hard with us, and now they 'm all smooth and the future seems fairly bright, tu."

"Very bright," he said stoutly. "The hay's best ever come off my ground, thanks to the manure from Monks Barton; and look at the wurzels! Miller hisself said he've never seed a more promising crop, high or low. An'

the things be in prime kelter, tu; an' better than four hunderd pound of uncle's money still left."

"Long may it be left, I'm sure. 'Tis terrible work dipping into it, an'

I looks at both sides of a halfpenny 'fore I spend it. Wish you would.

You'm tu generous, Will. But accounts are that difficult."

This was not the spirit of the hour, however.

"I was gwaine to say that out of all our happiness an' fortune we might let a little bubble awver for Chris--eh? She'm such a gude gal, an' you love her so dearly as what I do a'most."

Phoebe read the project in a flash, but yet invited her husband to explain.

"What d'you mean?" she asked distrustfully and coldly.

"I can see in your face you knaw well enough. That four-hunderd-odd pound. I've sometimes thought I should have given Chris a bit of the windfall when first it comed. But now--well, theer's this cruel coil failed on 'em. You knaw the hardness of waiting. 'Twould be a butivul thing to let 'em marry an' feel't was thanks to us."

"You want to go giving them money?"

"Not 'give' 'zactly. Us'll call it a loan, till the time they see their way clearer."

Phoebe sighed and was silent for a while.

"Poor dears," she said at length. "I feel for 'em in my heart, same as you do; yet somehow it doan't look right."

"Not right, Phoebe?"

"Not wise, then. Remember what you say the winters be up here--such dreary months with no money coming in and all gwaine out to keep life in the things."

"'Tis a black, bitin' business on the high farms--caan't deny that."

"Money flies so."

"Then let some fly to a gude end. You knaw I'm a hard, keen man where other people be concerned, most times."

His wife laughed frankly, and he grew red.

"d.a.m.n it, Phoebe, doan't you take me like that else you'll get the rough edge of my tongue. 'Tis for you to agree with what I'm pleased to say, not contradict it. I _be_ a hard, keen man, and knaws the value of money as well as another. But Chris is my awn sister, an' the long an' the short is, I'm gwaine to give Clem Hicks a hunderd pound."

"Will! It's not reasonable, it's not fair--us working so hard an'--an'--"

"They 'm to have it, anyway."

Her breath caught in a little, helpless gasp. Without a word she picked up the material in her hands, huddled it up, and thrust it across the table towards him. Then the pa.s.sion faded out of his face, his eyes softened and grew dreamy, he smiled, and rubbed his brown cheek with the flannel.

"My awn, li'l clever woman, as have set about the fashioning of a bairn so soon! G.o.d bless 'e, an' bless 'e an' be gude to 'e, an' the wee thing coming!"

He put his arm round her and patted her hair and purred softly to her; whereupon she relented and kissed him.

"You knaw best, Will, dearie; you nearly allus knaw best; but your heart's bigger 'n your pocket--an' a li'l child do call so loud for the spendin' o' money."

"Aye, I knaw, I knaw; 'tis a parent's plaace to stand up for his offspring through fire an' water; an' I reckon I won't be the worst faither as ever was, either. I can mind the time when I was young myself. Stern but kind's the right rule. Us'll bring un up in the proper way, an' teach un to use his onderstandin' an' allus knuckle down 'fore his elders. To tell 'e truth, Phoebe, I've a notion I might train up a cheel better'n some men."

"Yes, Will, I think so, tu. But 'tis food an' clothes an' li'l boots an'

such-like comes first. A hunderd pounds be such a mort o' money."

"'Twill set 'em up in a fair way."