Chapter 16

A STORY-BOOK

Despite the miller's explicit declaration, there was yet a doubt as to what he might do in the matter of Will Blanchard. Six weeks is a period of time that has often served to cool dispositions more fiery, purposes more inflexible than those of Mr. Lyddon, and his natural placidity of temperament, despite outbreaks, had begun to reassert itself. Billy Blee, misunderstanding his master in this, suspected that the first fires of rage were now sunk into a conflagration, not so visible, but deeper and therefore more dangerous to the sufferer, if not to other people. He failed to observe that each day of waiting lessened the miller's desire towards action, and he continued to urge some step against Will Blanchard, as the only road by which his master's peace of mind might be regained. He went further, and declared delay to be very dangerous for Mr. Lyddon's spleen and other physical organs. But though humanity still prevented any definite step, Billy's master so far adopted his advice as to see a solicitor and learn what the law's power might be in the matter. Now he knew, as was recorded in the previous chapter; and still Mr. Lyddon halted between two opinions. He usually spoke on the subject as he had spoken to Martin Grimbal and Clement Hicks; but in reality he felt less desire in the direction of revenge than he pretended. Undoubtedly his daughter contributed not a little to this irresolution of mind. During the period of Will's convalescence, his wife conducted herself with great tact and self-restraint. Deep love for her father not only inspired her, but also smoothed difficulties from a road not easy. Phoebe kept much out of sight until the miller's first dismay and sorrow had subsided; then she crept back into her old position and by a thousand deft deeds and proper speeches won him again unconsciously. She anticipated his unspoken desire, brightened his every-day life by unobtrusive actions, preserved a bright demeanour, never mentioned Will, and never contradicted her father when he did so.

Thus the matter stood, and Mr. Lyddon held his hand until young Blanchard was abroad again and seeking work. Then he acted, as shall appear. Before that event, however, incidents befell Will's household, the first being an unexpected visit from Martin Grimbal; for the love-sick antiquary nerved himself to this great task a week after his excursion to Cosdon. He desired to see Will, and was admitted without comment by Mrs. Blanchard. The sufferer, who sat at the kitchen fire with his arm still in a sling, received Martin somewhat coldly, being ignorant of the visitor's friendly intentions. Chris was absent, and Will's mother, after hoping that Mr. Grimbal would not object to discuss his business in the kitchen, departed and left the men together.

"Sit down," said Will. "Be you come for your brother or yourself?"

"For myself. I want to make my position clear. You must not associate me with John in this affair. In most things our interests were the same, and he has been a brother in a thousand to me; but concerning Miss--Mrs. Blanchard--he erred in my opinion--greatly erred--and I told him so. Our relations are unhappily strained, to my sorrow. I tell you this because I desire your friendship. It would be good to me to be friends with you and your family. I do not want to lose your esteem by a misunderstanding."

"That's fair speech, an' I'm glad to hear 'e say it, for it ban't my fault when a man quarrels wi' me, as anybody will tell 'e. An' mother an' Chris will be glad. God knaws I never felt no anger 'gainst your brother, till he tried to take my girl away from me. Flesh an' blood weern't gwaine to suffer that."

"Under the circumstances, and with all the difficulties of your position, I never could blame you."

"Nor Phoebe," said the other warmly. "I won't have wan word said against her. Absolute right she done. I'm sick an' savage, even now, to think of all she suffered for me. I grits my teeth by night when it comes to my mind the mort o' grief an' tears an' pain heaped up for her--just because she loved wan chap an' not another."

"Let the past go and look forward. The future will be happy presently."

"In the long run 't will for sure. Your brother's got all he wants, I reckon, an' I doan't begrudge him a twinge; but I hope theer ban't no more wheer that comed from, for his awn sake, 'cause if us met unfriendly again, t' other might go awver the bridge, an' break worse 'n his arm."

"No, no, Blanchard, don't talk and think like that. Let the past go. My brother will return a wiser man, I pray, with his great disappointment dulled."

"A gert disappointment! To be catched out stealin', an' shawed up for a thief!"

"Well, forgive and forget. It's a valuable art--to learn to forget."

"You wait till you 'm faaced wi' such trouble, an' try to forget! But we 'm friends, by your awn shawm', and I be glad 't is so. Ax mother to step in from front the house, will 'e? I'd wish her to know how we 'm standin'."

Mrs. Blanchard appeared with her daughter, and subsequent conversation banished a haunting sense of disloyalty to his brother from Martin's mind. Chris never looked more splendid or more sweet than in that noon, new come from a walk with Clement Hicks. Martin listened to her voice, stayed as long as he dared, and then departed with many emotions breaking like a storm upon his lonely life. He began to long for her with overwhelming desire. He had scarcely looked at a woman till now, and this brown-eyed girl of twenty, so full of life, so beautiful, set his very soul helplessly adrift on the sea of love. Her sudden laugh, like Will's, but softer and more musical, echoed in the man's ear as he returned to his house and, in a ferment, tramped the empty rooms.

His own requirements had been amply met by three apartments, furnished with sobriety and great poverty of invention; but now he pictured Chris singing here, tripping about with her bright eyes and active fingers. Like his brother before him, he fell back upon his money, and in imagination spent many pounds for one woman's delight. Then from this dream he tumbled back into reality and the recollection that his goddess must be wooed and won. No man ever yet failed to make love from ignorance how to begin, but the extent and difficulties of his undertaking weighed very heavily on Martin Grimbal at this juncture. To win even a measure of her friendship appeared a task almost hopeless. Nevertheless, through sleepless nights, he nerved himself to the tremendous attempt. There was not so much of self-consciousness in him, but a great store of self-distrust. Martin rated himself and his powers of pleasing very low; and unlike the tumultuous and volcanic methods of John, his genius disposed him to a courtship of most tardy development, most gradual ripening. To propose while a doubt existed of the answer struck him as a proceeding almost beyond the bounds of man's audacity. He told himself that time would surely show what chance or hope there might be, and that opportunity must be left to sneak from the battle at any moment when ultimate failure became too certainly indicated. In more sanguine moods, however, by moonlight, or alone on the high moors, greater bravery and determination awoke in him. At such times he would decide to purchase new clothes and take thought for externals generally. He also planned some studies in such concerns as pleased women if he could learn what they might be. His first deliberate if half-hearted attack relied for its effect upon a novel. Books, indeed, are priceless weapons in the armory of your timid lover; and let but the lady discover a little reciprocity, develop an unsuspected delight in literature, as often happens, and the most modest volume shall achieve a practical result as far beyond its intrinsic merit as above the writer's dream.

Martin, then, primed with a work of fiction, prayed that Chris might prove a reader of such things, and called at Mrs. Blanchard's cottage exactly one fortnight after his former visit. Chance favoured him to an extent beyond his feeble powers to profit by. Will was out for a walk, and Mrs. Blanchard being also from home, Martin enjoyed conversation with Chris alone. He began well enough, while she listened and smiled. Then he lost his courage and lied, and dragging the novel from his pocket, asserted that he had bought the tale for her brother.

"A story-book! I doubt Will never read no such matter in his life, Mr. Grimbal."

"But get him to try. It's quite a new thing. There's a poaching adventure and so forth--all very finely done according to the critical journals."

"He'll never sit down to that gert buke."

"You read it then, and tell him if it is good."

"Me! Well, I do read now and again, an' stories tu; but Will wouldn't take my word. Now if Phoebe was to say 't was braave readin', he'd go for it fast enough."

"I may leave it, at any rate?"

"Leave it, an' thank you kindly."

"How is Will getting on?"

"Quite well again. Awnly riled 'cause Mr. Lyddon lies so low. Clem told us what the miller can do, but us doan't knaw yet what he will do."

"Perhaps he doesn't know himself," suggested Martin. The name of "Clem," uttered thus carelessly by her, made him envious. Then, inspired by the circumstance, a request which fairly astounded the speaker by its valour dropped on his listener's ear.

"By the way, don't call me 'Mr. Grimbal.' I hope you'll let me be 'Martin' in a friendly way to you all, if you will be so very kind and not mind my asking."

The end of the sentence had its tail between its legs, but he got the words cleanly out, and his reward was great.

"Why, of course, if you'd rather us did; an' you can call me 'Chris' if you mind to," she said, laughing. "'T is strange you took sides against your brother somehow to me."

"I haven't--I didn't--except in the matter of Phoebe. He was wrong there, and I told him so,--"

He meant to end the sentence with the other's name, only the word stuck in his throat; but "Miss Blanchard" he would not say, after her permission, so left a gap.

"He'll not forgive 'e that in a hurry."

"Not readily, but some day, I hope. Now I must really go--wasting your precious time like this; and I do hope you may read the book."

"That Will may?"

"No--yes--both of you, in fact. And I'll come to know whether you liked it. Might I?"

"Whether Will liked it?"

She nodded and laughed, then the door hid her; while Martin Grimbal went his way treading upon air. Those labourers whom he met received from him such a "Good evening!" that the small parties, dropping back on Chagford from their outlying toil, grinned inquiringly, they hardly knew at what.

Meantime, Chris Blanchard reflected, and the laughter faded out of her eyes, leaving them grave and a little troubled. She was sufficiently familiar with lovers' ways. The bold, the uncouth, the humble, and timorous were alike within her experience. She watched this kind-faced man grow hot and cold as he spoke to her, noted the admixture of temerity and fear that divided his mind and appeared in his words. She had seen his lips tremble and refuse to pronounce her name; and she rightly judged that he would possibly repeat it aloud to himself more than once before he slept that night. Chris was no flirt, and now heartily regretted her light and friendly banter upon the man's departure. "I be a silly fule, an' wouldn't whisper a word of this to any but Clem," she thought, "for it may be nothing but the nervous way of un, an' such a chap 's a right to seek a sight further 'n me for a wife; an' yet they all 'pear the same, an' act the same soft sort o' style when they 'm like it." Then she considered that, seeing what friendship already obtained between Clement and Martin Grimbal, it was strange the latter still went in ignorance. "Anyways, if I'm not wrong, the sooner he 'm told the better, for he's a proper fashioned man," she thought.

While Chris was still revolving this matter in her mind, Mrs. Blanchard returned with some news.

"Postmistress stepped out of the office wi' this as I corned down the village," she said. "'T is from Mrs. Watson, I fancy."

Her daughter brought a light, and the letter was perused. "Uncle 's took bad," Mrs. Blanchard presently announced; "an' sends to say as he wants me to go along an' help Sarah Watson nurse un."

"Him ill! I never thought he was made of stuff to be ill."

"I must go, whether or no. I'll take the coach to Moreton to-morrow."

Mrs. Blanchard mentally traversed her wardrobe as she drank tea, and had already packed in anticipation before the meal was ended. Will, on returning, was much perturbed at this bad news, for since his own marriage Uncle Ford had become a hero among men to him.

"What's amiss she doan't say--Mrs. Watson--but it's more 'n a fleabite else he wouldn't take his bed. But I hopes I'll have un to rights again in a week or so. 'Mind me to take a bottle of last summer's Marshmally brew, Chris. Doctors laugh at such physic, but I knaw what I knaw."

"Wonder if't would better him to see me?" mused Will.

"No, no; no call for that. You'll be fit to stand to work by Monday, so mind your business an' traapse round an' look for it. Theer 's plenty doin' 'pon the land now, an' I want to hear you' ve got a job 'fore I come home. Husbands must work for two; an' Phoebe'll be on your hands come less than a couple o' years."

"One year and five months and seven days 't is."

"Very well. You've got to mind a brace of things meantime; to make a vitty home for her by the sweat of your body, an' to keep your hands off her till she 'm free to come to 'e."

"Big things both, though I ban't afeared of myself afore 'em. I've thought a lot in my time, an' be allowed to have sense an' spirit for that matter."

"Spirit, ess fay, same as your faither afore you; but not so much sense as us can see wi'out lightin' cannel."

"Wonder if Uncle Joel be so warm a man as he'd have us think sometimes of an evenin' arter his hot whiskey an' water?" said Chris.

"Don't 'e count on no come-by-chance from him. He's got money, that I knaw, but ban't gwaine to pass our way, for he tawld me so in as many words. Sarah Watson will reap what he's sawed; an' who shall grumble? He 'm a just man, though not of the accepted way o' thinkin'."

"Why for didn't he marry her?" asked Will.

"Caan't tell'e, more'n the dead. Just a whim. I asked her same question, when I was last to Newton, an' she said 't was to save the price of a licence she reckoned, though in his way of life he might have got matrimony cheap as any man. But theer 't is. Her 's bin gude as a wife to un--an' better 'n many--this fifteen year."

"A very kind woman to me while I was biding along with uncle," said Will. "All the same you should have some of the money."

"I'm well as I be. An' this dead-man-shoe talk's vain an' giddy. I lay he'm long ways from death, an' the further the better. Now I be gwaine to pack my box 'fore supper."

Mrs. Blanchard withdrew, and Chris, suddenly recollecting it, mentioned Martin Grimbal's visit. Will laughed and read a page or two of the story-book, then went out of doors to see Clement Hicks; and his sister, with a spare hour before her while a rabbit roasted, sat near the spit and occupied her mind with thought.

Will's business related to himself. He was weary of waiting for Mr. Lyddon, and though he had taken care to let Phoebe know by Chris that his arm was well and strong enough for the worst that might be found for it to do, no notice was taken of his message, no sign escaped the miller.

All interested persons had their own theories upon this silence. Mrs. Blanchard suspected that Mr. Lyddon would do nothing at all, and Will readily accepted this belief; but he found it impossible to wait with patience for its verification. This indeed was the harder to him because Clement Hicks predicted a different issue and foretold an action of most malignant sort on the miller's part. What ground existed for attributing any such deed to Mr. Lyddon was not manifest, but the bee-keeper stuck to it that Will's father-in-law would only wait until he was in good employment and then proceed to his confusion.

This conviction he now repeated.

"He's going to make you smart before he's done with you, if human nature's a factor to rely upon. It's clear to me."

"I doan't think so ill of un. An' yet I ban't wishful to leave it to chance. You, an' you awnly, knaw what lies hid in the past behind me. The question is, should I take that into account now, or go ahead as if it never had failed out?"

"Let it alone, as it has let you alone. Never rake it up again, and forget it if you can. That's my advice to you. Forget you ever--"

"Hush!" said Will. "I'd rather not hear the word, even 'pon your lips."

They then discussed the main matter from the opposite vantage-grounds of minds remote in every particular; but no promising procedure suggested itself to either man, and it was not until upon his homeward way that Will, unaided, arrived at an obvious and very simple conclusion. With some glee he welcomed this idea.

"I'll just wait till Monday night," he said to himself, "an' then I'll step right down to Miller, an' ax un what's in the wind, an' if I can help his hand. Then he must speak if he's a man."