Children of the Mist Part 64

A spectator, aware of certain facts, had viewed the progress of Chris with some slight interest. Three ways were open to her, three main thoroughfares leading out of Chagford to places of parallel or greater importance. Upon the Moor road Will wandered in deep perturbation; on that to Okehampton walked another man, concerned with the same problem from a different aspect; the third highway led to Moreton; and thither Chris might have proceeded unchallenged. But a little public vehicle would be returning just then from the railway station. That the runaway knew, and therefore selected another path.

In her pocket was all the money that she had; in her heart was a sort of alloyed sorrow. Two thoughts shared her mind after she had decided upon a course of action. She wondered how quickly Tim would learn to call her "mother," for that was the only sweet word life still held; yet of the child's father she did not think, for her mind, without special act of volition, turned and turned again to him upon whom the Indian summer of her love had descended.

CHAPTER IX

UNDER COSDON BEACON

Beneath a region where the "newtakes" straggle up Cosdon's eastern flank and mark a struggle between man and the giant beacon, Chris Blanchard rested a while upon the gra.s.s by the highway. Tim, wrapped in a shawl, slept soundly beside his mother, and she sat with her elbows on her knees and one hand under her chin. It was already dusk; dark mist wreaths moved upon the Moor, and oncoming night winds sighed of rain.

Then a moment before her intended departure from this most solitary spot she heard footsteps upon the road. Not interested to learn anything of the pa.s.ser-by, Chris remained with her eyes upon the ground, but the footsteps stopped suddenly before her, whereupon she looked up and saw Martin Grimbal.

After a perambulation of twenty miles he had now set his face homewards, and thus the meeting was accomplished. Utmost constraint at first marked the expression of both man and woman, and it was left for Martin to break the silence, for Chris only started at seeing him, but said nothing. Her mind, however, ranged actively upon the reason of Grimbal's sudden appearance, and she did not at first believe it accidental.

"Why, my dear, what is this? You have wandered far afield!"

He addressed her in unnatural tones, for surprise and emotion sent his voice up into his head, and it came thin and tremulous as a woman's.

Even as he spoke Martin feared. From the knowledge gleaned by him that morning he suspected the meaning of this action, and thought that Chris was running away.

And she, at the same moment, divined that he guessed the truth in so far as the present position was concerned. Still she did not speak, and he grew calmer and took her silence as an admission.

"You're going away from Chagford? Is it wise?"

"Ess, Martin, 'tis best so. You see this poor child be breedin' trouble, an' bringing bad talk against Will. He ban't wanted--little Timothy--an'

I ban't wanted overmuch, so it comed to me I'd--I'd just slip away out of the turmoil an' taake Tim. Then--"

She stopped, for her heart was beating so fast that she could speak no more. She remembered her own arguments in the recent past,--that this flight must tell all who cared to reflect that the child was her own.

Now she looked up at Martin to see if he had guessed it. But he exhibited extreme self-control and she was rea.s.sured.

"Just like your thoughtful self to try and save others from sorrow.

Where are you going to, Chris? Don't tell me more than you please; but I may be useful to you on this, the first stage of the journey."

"To Okehampton to-night. To-morrow--but I'd rather not say any more. I don't care so long as you think I'm right."

"I haven't said that yet. But I'll go as far as Zeal with you. Then we'll get a covered cab or something. We may reach the village before rain."

"No call for your coming. 'Tis awnly a short mile."

"But I must. I'll carry the laddie. Poor little man! Hard to be the cause of such a bother."

He picked Timothy up so gently that the child did not wake.

"Now," he said, "come along. You must be tired already."

"How gude you be!" she said wearily. "I'm glad you doan't scold or fall into a rage wi' me, for I knaw I'm right. The bwoy's better away, and I'm small use to any now. But I can be busy with this little wan. I might do worse than give up my life to un--eh, Martin?"

Then some power put words in his mouth. He trembled when he had spoken them, but he would not have recalled them.

"You couldn't do better. It's a duty staring you in the face."

She started violently, and her dark skin flamed under the night.

"Why d'you say that?" she asked, with loud, harsh voice, and stopping still as she did so. "Why d'you say 'duty'?"

He, too, stood and looked at her.

"My dear," he answered, "love's a quick, subtle thing. It can make even such a man as I am less stupid than Nature built him. It fires dull brains; it adds sight to dim eyes; it shows the bookworm how to find out secrets hidden from keener spirits; it lifts a veil from the loved one and lets the lover see more than anybody else can. Be patient with me. I spoke because I love you still with all my heart and soul, Chris; I spoke, because what I feel for you is lifelong, and cannot change. Had I not still worshipped the earth under your feet I would have died rather than tell you. But love makes me bold. I have watched you so long and prayed for you so often. I have seen little differences in you that n.o.body else saw. And to-day I know. I knew when you picked up Timothy and flew at Will. Since then I've wandered Heaven can tell where, just thinking and thinking and wondering and seeing no way. And all the time G.o.d meant me to come and find you and tell you."

She understood; she gave one bitter cry that started an echo from ruined mine-workings hard at hand; then she turned from him, and, in a moment of sheer hopeless misery, flung herself and her wrecked ambitions upon the ground by the wayside.

For a moment the man stood scared by this desperate answer to his words.

Then he put his burden down, approached Chris, knelt beside her, and tried to raise her. She sat up at last with panting breast and eyes in which some terror sat.

"You!" she said. "You to knaw! Wasn't my cup full enough before but that my wan hope should be cut away, tu? My G.o.d, I 'mauld in sorrow now--very auld. But 't is awver at last. You knaw, an' I had to hear it from your awn lips! Theer 's nought worse in the world for me now."

Her hands were pressed against her bosom, and as he unconsciously moved a little towards her she shrank backwards, then rose to her feet.

Timothy woke and cried, upon which she turned to him and picked him up.

"Go!" she cried suddenly. "If ever you loved me, get out of my sight now, or you'll make me want to kill myself again."

He saw the time was come for strong self-a.s.sertion, and spoke.

"Listen!" he said. "You don't understand, but you must. I'm the only man in the world who knows--the only one, and I've told you because it was stamped into my brain to tell you, and because I love you perhaps better than one creature has any right to love another."

"You knaw. Isn't it enough? Who else did I care for? Who else mattered to me? Mother or brother or other folk? I pray you to go an' leave me.

G.o.d knaws how hard it was to hide it, but I hugged it an' suffered more 'n any but a mother could fathom 'cause things weer as they weer. Then came this trouble, an' still none seed. But 't was meant you should, an'

the rest doan't matter. I'd so soon go back now as not."

"So you shall," he answered calmly; "only hear this first. Last time I spoke about what was in my heart, Chris, you told me you could love me, but that you would not marry me, and I said I would never ask you again.

I shall keep my word, sweetheart. I shall not ask; I shall take without asking. You love me; that is all I care for. The little boy came between last time; now nothing does."

He took the woman in his arms and kissed her, but the next moment he was flying to where water lay in a ditch, for his unexpected att.i.tude had overpowered Chris. She raised her hands to his shoulders, uttered a faint cry, then slipped heavily out of his arms in a faint. The man rushed this way and that, the child sat and howled noisily, the woman remained long unconscious, and heavy rain began to fall out of the darkness; yet, to his dying day that desolate spot of earth brought light to Martin's eyes as often as he pa.s.sed it.

Chris presently recovered her senses, and spoke words that made her lover's heart leap. She uttered them in a sad, low voice, but her hand was in his, pressing it close the while.

"Awften an' awften I've axed the A'mighty to give me wan little glint o'

knawledge as how 'twould all end. If I'd knawed! But I never guessed how big your sawl was, Martin. I never thought you was the manner of man to love a woman arter that."

"G.o.d knows what's in my heart, Chris."

"I'll tell 'e everything some day. Lookin' back it doan't 'pear no ways wicked, though it may seem so in cold daylight to cold hearts."

"Come, come with me, for the rain grows harder. I know where I can hire a covered carriage at an inn. 'Tis only five minutes farther on, and poor Tim's unhappy."

"He'm hungry. You won't be hard 'pon my li'l bwoy if I come to 'e, Martin?"

"You know as well as I can tell you. There's one other thing. About Chagford, Chris? Are you afraid of it? I'll turn my back on it if you like. I'll take you to Okehampton now if you would rather go there."