Children of the Mist Part 71

mother's trouble didn't blaw the whole business out of my brain!"

He stood amazed at his own complete forgetfulness.

"Queer, to be sure! But coourse theer weern't room in my mind for anything but mother arter I seed her stricken down."

During the evening, after final reports from Mrs. Blanchard's sick-room spoke of soothing sleep, Miller Lyddon sent Billy upon an errand, and discussed Will's position.

"Jan Grimbal 's waited so long," he said, "that maybe he'll wait longer still an' end by doin' nothin' at all."

"Not him! You judge the man by yourself," declared Will. "But he 's made of very different metal. I lay he's bidin' till the edge of this be sharp and sure to cut deepest. So like 's not, when he hears tell mother 's took bad he'll choose that instant moment to have me marched away."

There was a moment's silence, then Blanchard burst out into a fury bred of sudden thought, and struck the table heavily with his fist.

"G.o.d blast it! I be allus waitin' now for some wan's vengeance! I caan't stand this life no more. I caan't an' I won't--'t is enough to soften any man's wits."

"Quiet! quiet, caan't 'e?" said the miller, as though he told a dog to lie down. "Theer now! You've been an' gived me palpitations with your noise. Banging tables won't mend it, nor bad words neither. This thing hasn't come by chance. You 'm ripening in mind an' larnin' every day.

You mark my word; theer 's a mort o' matters to pick out of this new trouble. An' fust, patience."

"Patience! If a patient, long-suffering man walks this airth, I be him, I should reckon. I caan't wait the gude pleasure of that dog, not even for you, Miller."

"'T is discipline, an' sent for the strengthening of your fibre.

Providence barred the road to-day, else you'd be in prison now. Ban't meant you should give yourself up--that's how I read it."

"'T is cowardly, waitin' an' playin' into his hands; an' if you awnly knawed how this has fouled my mind wi' evil, an' soured the very taste of what I eat, an' dulled the faace of life, an' blunted the right feeling in me even for them I love best, you'd never bid me bide on under it. 'T is rotting me--body an' sawl--that's what 't is doin'. An'

now I be come to such a pa.s.s that if I met un to-morrow an' he swore on his dying oath he'd never tell, I shouldn't be contented even wi'

that."

"No such gude fortune," sighed Phoebe.

"'T wouldn't be gude fortune," answered her husband. "I'm like a dirty chamber coated wi' cobwebs an' them ghostly auld spiders as hangs dead in unsecured corners. Plaaces so left gets worse. My mind 's all in a ferment, an' 't wouldn't be none the better now if Jan Grimbal broke his d.a.m.ned neck to-morrow an' took my secret with him. I caan't breathe for it; it 's suffocating me."

Phoebe used subtlety in her answer, and invited him to view the position from her standpoint rather than his own.

"Think o' me, then, an' t' others. 'T is plain selfishness, this talk, if you looks to the bottom of it."

"As to that, I doan't say so," began Mr. Lyddon, slowly stuffing his pipe. "No. When a man goes so deep into his heart as what Will have before me this minute, doan't become no man to judge un, or tell 'bout selfishness. Us have got to save our awn sawls, an' us must even leave wife, an' mother, and childer if theer 's no other way to do it. Ban't no right living--ban't no fair travelling in double harness wi'

conscience, onless you've got a clean mind. An' yet waitin' 'pears the only way o' wisdom just here. You've never got room in that head o'

yourn for more 'n wan thought to a time; an' I doan't blame 'e theer neither, for a chap wi' wan idea, if he sticks to it, goes further 'n him as drives a team of thoughts half broken in. I mean you 'm forgettin' your mother for the moment. I should say, wait for her mendin' 'fore you do anything."

Back came Blanchard's mind to his mother with a whole-hearted swing.

"Ess," he said, "you 'm right theer. My plaace is handy to her till she 'm movin'; an' if he tries to take me before she 'm down-house again, by G.o.d! I'll--"

"Let it bide that way then. Put t' other matter out o' your mind so far as you can. Fill your pipe an' suck deep at it. I haven't seen 'e smoke this longful time; an' in my view theer 's no better servant than tobacco to a mind puzzled at wan o' life's cross-roads."

CHAPTER XIII

MR. LYDDON'S TACTICS

In the morning Mrs. Blanchard was worse, and some few days later lay in danger of her life. Her son spent half his time in the sick-room, walked about bootless to make no sound, and fretted with impatience at thought of the length of days which must elapse before Chris could return to Chagford. Telegrams had been sent to Martin Grimbal, who was spending his honeymoon out of England; but on the most sanguine computation he and his wife would scarcely be home again in less than ten days or a fortnight.

Hope and gloom succeeded each other swiftly within Will Blanchard's mind, and at first he discounted the consistent pessimism of Doctor Parsons somewhat more liberally than the issue justified. When, therefore, he was informed of the truth and stood face to face with his mother's danger, hope sank, and his unstable spirit was swept from an alt.i.tude of secret confidence to the opposite depth of despair.

Through long silences, while she slept or seemed to do so, the young man traced back his life and hers; and he began to see what a good mother means. Then he accused himself of many faults and made impetuous confession to his wife and her father. On these occasions Phoebe softened his self-blame, but Mr. Lyddon let Will talk, and told him for his consolation that every mother's son must be accused of like offences.

"Best of childer falls far short," he a.s.sured Will; "best brings tu many tears, if 't is awnly for wantonness; an' him as thinks he've been all he should be to his mother lies to himself; an' him as says he has, lies to other people."

Will's wild-hawk nature was subdued before this grave crisis in his parent's life; he sat through long nights and tended the fire with quiet fingers; he learnt from the nurse how to move a pillow tenderly, how to shut a door without any sound. He wearied Doctor Parsons with futile propositions, but the physician's simulated cynicism often broke down in secret before this spectacle of the son's dog-like pertinacity.

Blanchard much desired to have a vein opened for his mother, nor was all the pract.i.tioner's eloquence equal to convincing him such a course could not be pursued.

"She 'm gone that gashly white along o' want o' blood," declared Will; "an' I be busting wi' gude red blood, an' why for shouldn't you put in a pipe an' draw off a quart or so for her betterment? I'll swear 't would strengthen the heart of her."

Time pa.s.sed, and it happened on one occasion, while walking abroad between his vigils, that Blanchard met John Grimbal. Will had reflected curiously of late days into what ghostly proportions his affair with the master of the Red House now dwindled before this greater calamity of his mother's sickness; but sudden sight of the enemy roused pa.s.sion and threw back the man's mind to that occasion of their last conversation in the woods.

Yet the first words that now pa.s.sed were to John Grimbal's credit. He made an astonishing and unexpected utterance. Indeed, the spoken word surprised him as much as his listener, and he swore at himself for a fool when Will's retort reached his ear.

They were pa.s.sing at close quarters,--Blanchard on foot, John upon horseback,--when the latter said,--

"How 's Mrs. Blanchard to-day?"

"Mind your awn business an' keep our name off your lips!" answered the pedestrian, who misunderstood the question, as he did most questions where possible, and now supposed that Grimbal meant Phoebe.

His harsh words woke instant wrath.

"What a snarling, cross-bred cur you are! I should judge your own family will be the first to thank me for putting you under lock and key. h.e.l.l to live with, you must be."

"G.o.d rot your dirty heart! Do it--do it; doan't jaw--do it! But if you lay a finger 'pon me while my mother 's bad or have me took before she 'm stirring again, I'll kill you when I come out. G.o.d 's my judge if I doan't!"

Then, forgetting what had taken him out of doors, and upon what matter he was engaged, Will turned back in a tempest, and hastened to his mother's cottage.

At Monks Barton Mr. Lyddon and his daughter had many and long conversations upon the subject of Blanchard's difficulties. Both trembled to think what might be the issue if his mother died; both began to realise that there could be no more happiness for Will until a definite extrication from his present position was forthcoming. At his daughter's entreaty the miller finally determined on a strong step. He made up his mind to visit Grimbal at the Red House, and win from him, if possible, some undertaking which would enable him to relieve his son-in-law of the present uncertainty.

Phoebe pleaded for silence, and prayed her father to get a promise at any cost in that direction.

"Let him awnly promise 'e never to tell of his free will, an' the door against danger 's shut," she said. "When Will knaws Grimbal 's gwaine to be dumb, he'll rage a while, then calm down an' be hisself again. 'T is the doubt that drove him frantic."

"I'll see the man, then; but not a word to Will's ear. All the fat would be in the fire if he so much as dreamed I was about any such business.

As to a promise, if I can get it I will. An' 'twixt me an' you, Phoebe, I'm hopeful of it. He 's kept quiet so long that theer caan't be any fiery hunger 'gainst Will in un just now. I'll soothe un down an' get his word of honour if it 's to be got. Then your husband can do as he pleases."

"Leave the rest to me, Faither."

A fortnight later the cautious miller, after great and exhaustive reflection, set out to carry into practice his intention. An appointment was made on the day that Will drove to Moreton to meet his sister and Martin Grimbal. This removed him out of the way, while Billy had been despatched to Okehampton for some harness, and Mr. Lyddon's daughter, alone in the secret, was spending the afternoon with her mother-in-law.

So Miller walked over to the Red House and soon found himself waiting for John Grimbal in a cheerless but handsome dining-room. The apartment suggested little occupation. A desk stood in the window, and upon it were half a dozen doc.u.ments under a paper-weight made from a horse's hoof. A fire burned in the broad grate; a row of chairs, upholstered in dark red leather, stood stiffly round; a dozen indifferent oil-paintings of dogs and horses filled large gold frames upon the walls; and upon a ma.s.sive sideboard of black oak a few silver cups, won by Grimbal's dogs at various shows and coursing meetings, were displayed.