Children of the Mist Part 58

"So be it. Now us'll taake our supper," answered his master.

The meal was ready and presently Blanchard, whose present bitter humour prompted him to simulate a large indifference, made show of enjoying his food. He brought out the brandy for his mother, who drank a little with her supper, and helped himself liberally twice or thrice until the bottle was half emptied. The glamour of the spirit made him optimistic, and he spoke with the pseudo-philosophy that alcohol begets.

"Might have been worse, come to think of it. If the things weren't choked, I doubt they'd been near starved. 'Most all the hay's done, an'

half what's left--a load or so--I'd promised to a chap out Manaton way.

But theer't is--my hand be forced, that's all. So time's saved, if you look at it from a right point."

"You'm hard an' braave, an' you've got a way with you 'mong men. Faace life, same as faither did, an' us'll look arter Phoebe an' the childer,"

said Chris.

"I couldn't leave un," declared Will's wife. "'T is my duty to keep along wi'un for better or worse."

"Us'll talk 'bout all that later. I be gwaine to act prompt an' sell every stick, an' then away, a free man."

"All our furniture an' property!" moaned Phoebe, looking round her in dismay.

"All--to the leastest bit o' cracked cloam."

"A forced sale brings nought," sighed Damaris.

"Theer's hunderds o' pounds o' gude chattels here, an' they doan't go for a penny less than they 'm worth. Because I'm down, ban't no reason for others to try to rob me. If I doan't get fair money I'll make a fire wi' the stuff an' burn every stick of it."

"The valuer man, Mr. Bambridge, must be seen, an' bills printed out an'

sticked 'pon barn doors an' such-like, same as when Mrs. Lezzard died,"

said Phoebe. "What'll faither think then?"

Will laughed bitterly.

"I'll see a few's dabbed up on his awn d.a.m.ned outer walls, if I've got to put 'em theer myself. An' as to the lists, I'll make 'em this very night. Ban't my way to let the dust fall upon a job marked for doin'.

To-night I'll draw the items."

"Us was gwaine to stay along with 'e, Will," said his mother.

"Very gude--as you please. Make shake-downs in the parlour, an' I'll write in the kitchen when you'm gone to bed. Set the ink an' pen an'

paper out arter you've cleared away. I'm allowed to be peart enough in matters o' business anyway, though no farmer o' course, arter this."

"None will dare to say any such thing," declared Phoebe. "You can't do miracles more than others."

"I mind when Ellis, to Two Streams Farm, lost a mort o' bullocks very same way," said Mrs. Blanchard.

"'Tis that as they'll bring against me an' say, wi' such a tale in my knawledge, I ought to been wiser. But I never heard tell of it before, though G.o.d knows I've heard the story often enough to-day."

It was now dark, and Will, lighting a lantern, rose and went out into the yard. From the kitchen window his women watched him moving here and there; while, as he pa.s.sed, the light revealed great motionless, rufous shapes on every hand. The corpses of the beasts hove up into the illumination and then vanished again as the narrow circle of lantern light bobbed on, jerking to the beat of Will's footsteps. From the window Damaris observed her son make a complete perambulation of his trouble without comment. Then a little emotion trembled on her tongue.

"G.o.d's hand be lifted 'gainst the bwoy, same as 't was 'gainst the patriarch Job seemin'ly. Awnly he bent to the rod and Will--"

"He'm n.o.ble an' grand under his sorrows. Who should knaw but me?" cried Phoebe. "A man in ten thousand, he is, an' never yields to no rod. He'll win his way yet; an' I be gwaine to cleave to un if he travels to the other end o' the airth."

"I doan't judge un, gal. G.o.d knaws he's been the world to me since his faither died. He'm my dear son. But if he'd awnly bend afore the A'mighty breaks him."

"He's got me."

"Ess, an' he'm mouldin' you to his awn vain pride an' wrong ways o'

thinking. If you could lead un right, 't would be a better wife's paart."

"He'm wiser'n me, an' stronger. Ban't my place to think against him.

Us'll go our ways, childern tu, an' turn our backs 'pon this desert. I hate the plaace now, same as Will."

Chris here interrupted Phoebe and called her from the other room.

"Wheer's the paper an' ink to? I be setting out the things against Will comes in. He axed for 'em to be ready, 'cause theer's a deal o'

penmanship afore him to-night. An' wheer's that li'l dictionary what I gived un years ago? I lay he'll want it."

CHAPTER V

TWO MIGHTY SURPRISES

Will returned from survey of his tribulation. Hope was dead for the moment, and death of hope in a man of Blanchard's character proved painful. The writing materials distracted his mind. Beginning without interest, his composition speedily absorbed him; and before the task was half completed, he already pictured it set out in great black or red print upon conspicuous places.

"I reckon it'll make some of 'em stare to see the scholar I am, anyways," he reflected.

Through the hours of night he wrote and re-wrote. His pen scratched along, echoed by an exactly similar sound from the wainscots, where mice nibbled in the silence. Anon, from the debris of his composition, a complete work took shape; and when Phoebe awoke at three o'clock, discovered her husband was still absent, and sought him hurriedly, she found the inventory completed and Will just fastening its pages together with a piece of string. He was wide awake and in a particularly happy humour.

"Ban't you never comin' to bed? 'T is most marnin'," she said.

"Just comin'. What a job! Look here--twelve pages. I be surprised myself to think how blamed well I've got through wi' it. You doan't knaw what you can do till you try. I used to wonder at Clem's cleverness wi' a pen; but I be purty near so handy myself an' never guessed it!"

"I'm sure you've made a braave job of it. I'll read it fust thing to-morrow."

"You shall hear it now."

"Not now, Will; 't is so late an' I'm three paarts asleep. Come to bed, dearie."

"Oh--if you doan't care--if it's nought to you that I've sit up all night slavin' for our gude--"

"Then I'll hear it now. Coourse I knaw 't is fine readin'. Awnly I thought you'd be weary."

"Sit here an' put your toes to the heat."

He set Phoebe in the chimney corner, wrapped his coat round her, and threw more turf on the fire.

"Now you'm vitty; an' if theer's anything left out, tell me."

"I lay, wi' your memory, you've forgot little enough."