Children of the Mist Part 5

"'Tis much what he did do. Thank you for calling, Clem Hicks. Now best be away, else they'll drive off to Okehampton without 'e."

Clement departed, Chris wept as the full extent of her loss was impressed upon her, and Mrs. Blanchard went up to her son's room. There she discovered the velveteen suit with a card upon them: "Hand over to Mr. Morgan, Head Water-keeper, Sandypark." She looked through his things, and found that he had taken nothing but his money, one suit of working clothes, and a red tie--her present to him on his birthday during the previous month. All his other possessions remained in their usual places. With none to see, the woman's eye moistened; then she sat down on Will's bed and her heart grew weak for one brief moment as she pictured him fighting the battle. It hurt her a little that he had told Clement Hicks his intention and hid it from his mother. Yet as a son, at least, he had never failed. However, all affairs of life were a matter of waiting, more or less, she told herself; and patience was easier to Damaris Blanchard than to most people. Under her highest uneasiness, maternal pride throbbed at thought of the manly independence indicated by her son's action. She returned to the duties of the day, but found herself restless, while continually admonishing Chris not to be so. Her thoughts drifted to Monks Barton and Will's meeting with his sweetheart's father. Presently, when her daughter went up to the village, Mrs. Blanchard put off her ap.r.o.n, donned the cotton sunbonnet that she always wore from choice, and walked over to see Mr. Lyddon.

They were old friends, and presently Damaris listened sedately to the miller without taking offence at his directness of speech. He told the story of his decision and Will's final reply, while she nodded and even smiled once or twice in the course of the narrative.

"You was both right, I reckon," she said placidly, looking into Mr.

Lyddon's face. "You was wise to mistrust, not knawin' what's at the root of him; and he, being as he is, was in the right to tell 'e the race goes to the young. Wheer two hearts is bent on joining, 'tis join they will--if both keeps of a mind long enough."

"That's it, Damaris Blanchard; who's gwaine to b'lieve that a bwoy an'

gal, like Will an' Phoebe, do knaw theer minds? Mark me, they'll both chaange sweethearts a score of times yet 'fore they come to mate."

"Caan't speak for your darter, Lyddon; but I knaw my son. A masterful bwoy, like his faither before him, wild sometimes an' wayward tu, but not with women-folk. His faither loved in wan plaace awnly. He'll be true to your cheel whatever betides, or I'm a fule."

"What's the use of that if he ban't true to himself? No, no, I caan't see a happy ending to the tale however you look at it. Wish I could. I fear't was a ugly star twinkled awver his birthplace, ma'am."

"'Twas all the stars of heaven, Miller," said the mother, frankly, "for he was born in my husband's caravan in the auld days. We was camped up on the Moor, drawn into one of them roundy-poundies o' grey granite stones set up by Phoenicians at the beginning of the world. Ess fay, a braave shiny night, wi' the li'l windows thrawed open to give me air.

An' 'pon Will's come-of-age birthday, last month, if us didn't all drive up theer an' light a fire an' drink a dish of tea in the identical spot!

'Tis out Newtake' way."

"Like a story-book."

"'Twas Clem Hicks, his thought, being a fanciful man. But I'll bid you gude-marnin' now. Awnly mind this, as between friends and without a spark of malice: Will Blanchard means to marry your maid, sure as you'm born, if awnly she keeps strong for him. It rests with her, Miller, not you."

"Much what your son said in sharper words. Well, you'm out o' reckoning for once, wise though you be most times; for if a maiden's happiness doan't rest with her faither, blamed if I see wheer it should. And to think such a man as me doan't knaw wiser 'n two childern who caan't number forty year between 'em is flat fulishness, surely?"

"I knaw Will," said Mrs. Blanchard, slowly and emphatically; "I knaw un to the core, and that's to say more than you or anybody else can. A mother may read her son like print, but no faither can see to the bottom of a wife-old daughter--not if he was Solomon's self. So us'll wait an'

watch wi'out being worse friends."

She went home again the happier for her conversation; but any thought that Mr. Lyddon might have been disposed to devote to her prophecy was for the time banished by the advent of John Grimbal and his brother.

Like boys home from school, they dwelt in the present delight of their return, and postponed the varied duties awaiting them, to revel again in the old sights, sounds, and scents. To-day they were about an angling excursion, and the fishers' road to Fingle lying through Monks Barton, both brothers stopped a while and waited upon their old friend of the mill, according to John's promise of the previous afternoon. Martin carried the creel and the ample luncheon it contained; John smoked a strong cigar and was only enc.u.mbered with his light fly-rod; the younger designed to accompany his brother through Fingle Valley; then leave him there, about his sport, and proceed alone to various places of natural and antiquarian interest. But John meant fishing and nothing else. To him great woods were no more than cover for fur and feathers; rivers and streams meant a vehicle for the display of a fly to trout, and only attracted him or the reverse, according to the fish they harboured. When the moorland waters spouted and churned, cherry red from their springs in the peat, he deemed them a n.o.ble spectacle; when, as at present, Teign herself had shrunk to a mere silver thread, and the fingerling trout splashed and wriggled half out of water in the shallows, he freely criticised its scanty volume and meagre depths.

Miller Lyddon welcomed the men very heartily. He had been amongst those who dismissed them with hope to their battle against the world, and now he reminded them of his sanguine predictions. Will Blanchard's disappearance amused John Grimbal and he laughed when Billy Blee appeared red-hot with the news. Mr. Lyddon made no secret of his personal opinion of Blanchard, and all debated the probable design of the wanderer.

"Maybe he's 'listed," said John, "an' a good thing too if he has. It makes a man of a young fellow. I'm for conscription myself--always have been."

"I be minded to think he've joined the riders," declared Billy. "Theer comed a circus here last month, with braave doin's in the way of horsemanship and Merry Andrews, and such like devilries. Us all goes to see it from miles round every year; an' Will was theer. Circus folk do see the world in a way denied to most, and theer manner of life takes 'em even as far as Russia and the Indies I've heard."

"Then there's the gypsy blood in him--" declared Mr. Lyddon, "that might send him roaming oversea, if nothing else did."

"Or my great doings are like to have fired him," said John. "How's Phoebe?" he continued, dismissing Will. "I saw her yesterday--a bowerly maiden she's grown--a prize for a better man that this wild youngster, now bolted G.o.d knaws where."

"So I think," agreed the miller, "an' I hope she'll soon forget the searching grey eyes of un and his high-handed way o' speech. Gals like such things. Dear, dear! though he made me so darned angry last night, I could have laughed in his faace more 'n wance."

"Missy's under the weather this marnin'," declared Billy. "Who tawld her I ban't able to say, but she knawed he'd gone just arter feedin' the fowls, and she went down valley alone, so slow, wi' her purty head that bent it looked as if her sunbonnet might be hiding an auld gran'mother's poll."

"She'll come round," said Martin; "she's only a young girl yet."

"And there 's fish as good in the sea as ever came out, and better,"

declared his brother. "She must wait for a man who is a man,--somebody of good sense and good standing, with property to his name."

Miller Lyddon noted with surprise and satisfaction John Grimbal's warmth of manner upon this question; he observed also the stout, hearty body of him, and the handsome face that crowned it. Then the brothers proceeded down-stream, and the master of Monks Barton looked after them and caught himself hoping that they might meet Phoebe.

At a point where the river runs between a giant shoulder of heather-clad hill on one side and the ragged expanses of Whiddon Park upon the other, John clambered down to the streamside and began to fish, while Martin dawdled at hand and watched the sport. A pearly clearness, caught from the clouds, characterised earth as well as air, and proved that every world-picture depends for atmosphere and colour upon the sky-picture extended above it. Again there was movement and some music, for the magic of the wind in a landscape's nearer planes is responsible for both. The wooded valley lay under a grey and breezy forenoon; swaying alders marked each intermittent gust with a silver ripple of upturned foliage, and still reaches of the river similarly answered the wind with hurrying flickers and furrows of dimpled light. Through its transparent flood, where the waters ran in shadow and escaped reflections, the river revealed a bed of ruddy brown and rich amber. This harmonious colouring proceeded from the pebbly bottom, where a medley of warm agate tones spread and shimmered, like some far-reaching mosaic beneath the crystal.

Above Teign's shrunken current extended oak and ash, while her banks bore splendid concourse of the wild water-loving dwellers in that happy valley. Meadowsweet nodded creamy crests; hemlock and fool's parsley and seeding willow-herb crowded together beneath far-scattered filigree of honeysuckles and brambles with berries, some ripe, some red; while the scarlet corals of briar and white bryony gemmed every riotous trailing thicket, dene, and dingle along the river's brink; and in the gra.s.sy s.p.a.ces between rose little chrysoprase steeples of wood sage all set in shining fern. Upon the boulders in midstream subaqueous mosses, now revealed and starved by the drought, died hard, and the seeds of gra.s.ses, figworts, and persicarias thrust up flower and foliage, flourishing in unwonted spots from which the next freshet would rudely tear them. Insect life did not abundantly manifest itself, for the day was sunless; but now and again, with crisp rattle of his gauze wings, a dragon-fly flashed along the river. Through these scenes the Teign rolled drowsily and with feeble pulses. Upon one bank rose the confines of Whiddon; on the other, abrupt and interspersed with gulleys of shattered shale, ascended huge slopes whereon a whole summer of sunshine had scorched the heather to dry death. But fading purple still gleamed here and there in points and splashes, and the lesser furze, mingling therewith, scattered gold upon the tremendous acclivities even to the crown of fir-trees that towered remote and very blue upon the uplifted sky-line. Swallows, with white b.r.e.a.s.t.s flashing, circled over the river, and while their elevation above the water appeared at times tremendous, the abrupt steepness of the gorge was such that the birds almost brushed the hillside with their wings. A sledge, laden with the timber of barked sapling oaks, creaked and jingled over the rough road beside the stream; a man called to his horses and a dog barked beside him; then they disappeared and the s.p.a.cious scene was again empty, save for its manifold wild life and music.

John Grimbal fished, failed, and cursed the poor water and the lush wealth of the riverside that caught his fly at every critical moment. A few small trout he captured and returned; then, flinging down rod and net, he called to his brother for the luncheon-basket. Together they sat in the fern beside the river and ate heartily of the fare that Mrs.

Blanchard had provided; then, as John was about to light a pipe, his brother, with a smile, produced a little wicker globe and handed it to him. This unexpected sight awoke sudden and keen appet.i.te on the elder's face. He smacked his lips, swore a hearty oath of rejoicing, and held out an eager hand for the thing.

"My G.o.d! to think I'll suck the smoke of that again,--the best baccy in the wide world!"

The little receptacle contained a rough sort of sun-dried Kaffir tobacco, such as John and Martin had both smoked for the past fifteen years.

"I thought it would be a treat. I brought home a few pounds," said the younger, smiling again at his brother's hungry delight. John cut into the case, loaded his pipe, and lighted it with a contented sign. Then he handed the rest back to its owner.

"No, no," said Martin. "I'll just have one fill, that's all. I brought this for you. 'T will atone for the poor sport. The creel I shall leave with you now, for I'm away to Fingle Bridge and Pres...o...b..ry. We'll meet at nightfall."

Thereupon he set off down the valley, his mind full of early British encampments, while John sat and smoked and pondered upon his future. He built no castles in the air, but a solid country house of red brick, destined to stand in its own grounds near Chagford, and to have a snug game-cover or two about it, with a few good acres of arable land bordering on forest. Roots meant cover for partridges in John Grimbal's mind; beech and oak in autumn represented desirable food for pheasants; and corn, once garnered and out of the way, left stubble for all manner of game.

Meantime, whilst he reviewed his future with his eyes on a blue cloud of tobacco smoke, Martin pa.s.sed Phoebe Lyddon farther down the valley. Him she recognised as a stranger; but he, with his eyes engaged in no more than unconscious guarding of his footsteps, his mind buried in the fascinating problems of early British castramentation, did not look at her or mark a sorrowful young face still stained with tears.

Into the gorge Phoebe had wandered after reading her sweetheart's letter. There, to the secret ear of the great Mother, instinct had drawn her and her grief; and now the earliest shock was over; a dull, numb pain of mind followed the first sorrow; unwonted exercise had made her weary; and physical hunger, not to be stayed by mental suffering, forced her to turn homewards. Red-eyed and unhappy she pa.s.sed beside the river, a very picture of a woful lover.

The sound of Phoebe's steps fell on John Grimbal's ear as he lay upon his back with crossed knees and his hands behind his head. He partly rose therefore, thrust his face above the fern, saw the wayfarer, and then sprang to his feet. The cause of her tearful expression and listless demeanour was known to him, but he ignored them and greeted her cheerily.

"Can't catch anything big enough to keep, and sha'n't until the rain comes," he said; "so I'll walk along with you, if you're going home."

He offered his hand; then, after Phoebe had shaken it, moved beside her and put up his rod as he went.

"Saw your father this morning, and mighty glad I was to find him so blooming. To my eye he looks younger than my memory picture of him. But that's because I've grown from boy to man, as you have from child to woman."

"So I have, and 't is a pity my faither doan't knaw it," answered Phoebe, smarting under her wrongs, and willing to chronicle them in a friendly ear. "If I ban't full woman, who is? Yet I'm treated like a baaby, as if I'd got no 'pinions an' feelings, and wasn't--wasn't auld enough to knaw what love meant."

Grimbal's eyes glowed at the picture of the girl's indignation, and he longed to put his arms round her and comfort her.

"You must be wise and dutiful, Phoebe," he said. "Will Blauchard's a plucky fellow to go off and face the world. And perhaps he'll be one of the lucky ones, like I was."

"He will be, for certain, and so you'd say if you knawed him same as I do. But the cruel waitin'--years and years and years--'t is enough to break a body's heart."

Her voice fluttered like bells in a wild wind; she trembled on the brink of tears; and he saw by little convulsive movements and the lump in her round throat that she could not yet regard her lot with patience. She brought out her pocket-handkerchief again, and the man noticed it was all wet and rolled into a ball.

"Life's a blank thing at lovers' parting," he said; "but time rubs the rough edges off matters that fret our minds the worst. Days and nights, and plenty of 'em, are the best cure for all ills."

"An' the best cure for life tu! The awnly cure. Think of years an' years without him. Yesterday us met up in Pixies' Parlour yonder, an' I was peart an' proud as need be; to-day he's gone, and I feel auld and wisht and all full of weary wonder how I'm gwaine to fare and if I'llever see him again. 'T is cruel--bitter cruel for me."

That she could thus pity herself so soon argued a mind incapable of harbouring great sorrow for many years; and the man at her side, without appreciating this fact, yet, by a sort of intuition, suspected that Phoebe's grief, perhaps even her steadfastness of purpose, would suffer diminution before very great lapse of time. Without knowing why, he hoped it might be so. Her voice fell melodiously upon an ear long tuned to the whine of native women. It came from the lungs, was full and sweet, with a shy suddenness about it, like the cooing of wood doves.

She half slipped at a stile, and he put out his hand and touched her waist and felt his heart throb. But Phoebe's eyes rarely met her new friend's. The girl looked with troubled brows ahead into the future, while she walked beside him; and he, upon her left hand, saw only the soft cheek, the pouting lips, and the dimples that came and went.

Sometimes she looked up, however, and Grimbal noted how the flutter of past tears shook her round young breast, marked the spring of her step, the freedom of her gait, and the trim turn of her feet and ankles. After the flat-footed Kaffir girls, Phoebe's instep had a right n.o.ble arch in his estimation.