Children of the Mist Part 69

He broke off and laughed at himself.

"Here be I bl.u.s.terin' like a gert bully now! Doan't be feared, Phoebe.

Forgive my noise. You mean so well, but you caan't hide your secrets, fortunately. Bless your purty eyes--tu gude for me, an' allus was, braave li'l woman!

"But no more of that--no seekin' him, an' no speech with him, if that's the way your poor, silly thought was. My bones smart to think of you bearin' any of it. But doan't you put no oar into this troubled water, else the bwoat'll capsize, sure as death. I've promised 'e not to say a word till arter New Year; now you must promise me never, so help you, to speak to that man, or look at un, or listen to a word from un. Fly him like you would the devil; an' a gude second to the devil he is--if 't is awnly in the matter o' patience. Promise now."

"You 'm so hasty, Will. You doan't onderstand a woman's cleverness in such matters. 'T is just the fashion thing as shaws what we 'm made of."

"Promise!" he thundered angrily. "Now, this instant moment, in wan word."

She gave him a single defiant glance. Then the boldness of her eyes faded and her lips drooped at the corners.

"I promise, then."

"I should think you did."

A few minutes later Will was gone, and Phoebe dabbed her moist eyes and blamed herself for so clumsily revealing her great intention,--to see John Grimbal and plead with him. This secret ambition was now swept away, and she knew not where to turn or how to act for her husband.

CHAPTER XII

NEW YEAR'S EVE AND NEW YEAR'S DAY

From this point in his career Will Blanchard, who lacked all power of hiding his inner heart, soon made it superficially apparent that new troubles had overtaken him. No word concerning his intolerable anxieties escaped him, but a great cloud of tribulation encompa.s.sed every hour, and was revealed to others by increased petulance and shortness of temper. This mental friction quickly appeared on the young man's face, and his habitual expression of sulkiness which formerly belied him, now increased and more nearly reflected the reigning temperament of Blanchard's mind. His nerves were on the rack and he grew sullen and fretful. A dreary expression gained upon his features, an expression sad as a winter twilight brushed with rain. To Phoebe he seldom spoke of the matter, and she soon abandoned further attempts to intrude upon his heart though her own was breaking for him. Billy Blee and the farm hands were Will's safety-valve. One moment he showered hard and bitter words; the next, at sight of some ploughboy's tears or older man's reasonable anger, Will instantly relented and expressed his sorrow. The dullest among them grew in time to discern matters were amiss with him, for his tormented mind began to affect his actions and disorder the progress of his life. At times he worked laboriously and did much with his own hands that might have been left to others; but his energy was displayed in a manner fitful and spasmodic; occasionally he would vanish altogether for four-and-twenty hours or more; and none knew when he might appear or disappear.

It happened on New Year's Eve that a varied company a.s.sembled at the "Green Man" according to ancient custom. Here were Inspector Chown, Mr.

Chapple, Mr. Blee, Charles Coomstock, with many others; and the a.s.sembly was further enriched by the presence of the bell-ringers. Their services would be demanded presently to toll out the old year, to welcome with joyful peal the new; and they a.s.sembled here until closing time that they might enjoy a pint of the extra strong liquor a prosperous publican provided for his customers at this season.

The talk was of Blanchard, and Mr. Blee, provided with a theme which always challenged his most forcible diction, discussed Will freely and without prejudice.

"I 'most goes in fear of my life, I tell 'e; but thank G.o.d 't is the beginning of the end. He'll spread his wings afore spring and be off again, or I doan't knaw un. Ess fay, he'll depart wi' his fiery nature an' horrible ideas 'pon manuring of land; an' a gude riddance for Monks Barton, I say."

"'Mazing 't is," declared Mr. Coomstock, "that he should look so black all times, seeing the gude fortune as turns up for un when most he wants it."

"So 't is," admitted Billy. "The faace of un weer allus sulky, like to the faace of a auld ram cat, as may have a gude heart in un for all his glowerin' eyes. But him! Theer ban't no pleasin' un. What do he want?

Surely never no man 's failed on his feet awftener."

"'T is that what 's spoilin' un, I reckon," said Mr. Chappie. "A li'l ill-fortune he wants now, same as a salad o' green stuff wants some bite to it. He'd grumble in heaven, by the looks of un. An' yet it do shaw the patience of G.o.d wi' human sawls."

"Ess, it do," answered Mr. Blee; "but patience ban't a virtue, pushed tu far. Justice is justice, as I've said more 'n wance to Miller an'

Blanchard, tu, an' a man of my years can see wheer justice lies so clear as G.o.d can. For why? Because theer ban't room for two opinions. I've give my Maker best scores an' scores o' times, as we all must; but truth caan't alter, an' having put thinking paarts into our heads, 't is more 'n G.o.d A'mighty's Self can do to keep us from usin' of'em."

"A tremenjous thought," said Mr. Chapple.

"So 't is. An' what I want to knaw is, why should Blanchard have his fling, an' treat me like dirt, an' ride rough-shod awver his betters, an' scowl at the sky all times, an' nothin' said?"

"Providence doan't answer a question just 'cause we 'm pleased to ax wan," said Abraham Chown. "What happens happens, because 't is foreordained, an' you caan't judge the right an' wrong of a man's life from wan year or two or ten, more 'n you can judge a gla.s.s o' ale by a tea-spoon of it. Many has a long rope awnly to hang themselves in the end, by the wonnerful foresight of G.o.d."

"All the same, theer'd be h.e.l.l an' Tommy to pay mighty quick, if you an'

me did the things that bwoy does, an' carried on that onreligious,"

replied Mr. Blee, with gloomy conviction. "Ban't fair to other people, an' if 't was Doomsday I'd up an' say so. What gude deeds have he done to have life smoothed out, an' the hills levelled an' the valleys filled up? An' nought but sour looks for it."

"But be you sure he 'm happy?" inquired Mr. Chapple. "He 'm not the man to walk 'bout wi' a fiddle-faace if 't was fair weather wi' un. He've got his troubles same as us, depend upon it."

Blanchard himself entered at this moment. It wanted but half an hour to closing time when he did so, and he glanced round the bar, snorted at the thick atmosphere of alcohol and smoke, then pulled out his pipe and took a vacant chair.

"Gude evenin', Will," said Mr. Chapple.

"A happy New Year, Blanchard," added the landlord.

"Evening, sawls all," answered Will, nodding round him. "Auld year's like to die o' frost by the looks of it--a stinger, I tell 'e. Anybody seen Farmer Endicott? I've been looking for un since noon wi' a message from my faither-in-law."

"I gived thicky message this marnin'," cried Billy.

"Ess, I knaw you did; that's my trouble. You gived it wrong. I'll just have a pint of the treble X then. 'T is the night for 't."

Will's demeanour belied the recent conversation respecting him. He appeared to be in great spirits, joked with the men, exchanged shafts with Billy, and was the first to roar with laughter when Mr. Blee got the better of him in a brisk battle of repartee. Truth to tell, the young man's heart felt somewhat lighter, and with reason. To-morrow his promise to Phoebe held him no longer, and his carking, maddening trial of patience was to end. The load would drop from his shoulders at daylight. His letter to Mr. Lyddon had been written; in the morning the miller must read it before breakfast, and learn that his son-in-law had started for Plymouth to give himself up for the crime of the past. John Grimbal had made no sign, and the act of surrender would now be voluntary--a thought which lightened Blanchard's heart and induced a turn of temper almost jovial. He joined a chorus, laughed with the loudest, and contrived before closing time to drink a pint and a half of the famous special brew. Then the bell-ringers departed to their duties, and Mr. Chapple with Mr. Blee, Will, and one or two other favoured spirits spent a further half-hour in their host's private parlour, and there consumed a little sloe gin, to steady the humming ale.

"You an' me must see wan another home," said Will when he and Mr. Blee departed into the frosty night.

"Fust time as ever you give me an arm," murmured Billy.

"Won't be the last, I'm sure," declared Will.

"I've allus had a gude word for 'e ever since I knawed 'e," answered Billy.

"An' why for shouldn't 'e?" asked Will.

"Beginning of New Year 's a solemn sarc.u.mstance," proceeded Billy, as a solitary bell began to toll. "Theer 's the death-rattle of eighteen hunderd an' eighty-six! Well, well, we must all die--men an' mice."

"An' the devil take the hindmost."

Mr. Blee chuckled.

"Let 's go round this way," he said.

"Why? Ban't your auld bones ready for bed yet? Theer 's nought theer but starlight an' frost."

"Be gormed to the frost! I laugh at it. Ban't that. 'T is the Union workhouse, wheer auld Lezzard lies. I likes to pa.s.s, an' nod to un as he sits on the lew side o' the wall in his white coat, chumping his thoughts between his gums."

"He 'm happier 'n me or you, I lay."

"Not him! You should see un glower 'pon me when I gives un 'gude day.'

I tawld un wance as the Poor Rates was up somethin' cruel since he'd gone in the House, an' he looked as though he'd 'a' liked to do me violence. No, he ban't happy, I warn 'e."

"Well, you won't see un sitting under the stars in his white coat, poor auld blid. He 'm asleep under the blankets, I lay."