Chapter 36

BABY

Succeeding upon the tumultuous incidents of Clement's death and Chris Blanchard's disappearance, there followed a period of calm in the lives of those from whom this narrative is gleaned. Such transient peace proved the greater in so far as Damaris and her son were concerned, by reason of an incident which befell Will on the evening of his sister's departure. Dead she certainly was not, nor did she mean to die; for, upon returning to Newtake after hours of fruitless searching, Blanchard found a communication awaiting him there, though no shadow of evidence was forthcoming to show how it had reached the farm. Upon the ledge of the window he discovered it when he returned, and read the message at a glance:

"Don't you nor mother fear nothing for me, nor seek me out, for it would be vain. I'm well, and I'm so happy as ever I shall be, and perhaps I'll come home-along some day.--CHRIS."

On this challenge Will acted, ignored his sister's entreaty to attempt no such thing, and set out upon a resolute search of nearly two months' duration. He toiled amain into the late autumn, but no hint or shadow of her rewarded the quest, and sustained failure in an enterprise where his heart was set, for his mother's sake and his own, acted upon the man's character, and indeed wrought marked changes in him. Despite the letter of Chris, hope died in Will, and he openly held his sister dead; but Mrs. Blanchard, while sufficiently distressed before her daughter's flight, never feared for her life, and doubted not that she would return in such time as it pleased her to do so.

"Her nature be same as yours an' your faither's afore you. When he'd got the black monkey on his shoulder he'd oftentimes leave the vans for a week and tramp the very heart o' the Moor alone. Fatigue of body often salves a sore mind. He loved thunder o' dark nights--my husband did--and was better for it seemin'ly. Chris be safe, I do think, though it's a heart-deep stroke this for me, 'cause I judge she caan't 'zactly love me as I thought, or else she'd never have left me. Still, the cold world, what she knaws so little 'bout, will drive her back to them as love her, come presently."

So, with greater philosophy than her son could muster, Damaris practised patience; while Will, after a perambulation of the country from north to south, from west to east, after weeks on the lonely heaths and hiding-places of the ultimate Moor, after visits to remote hamlets and inquiries at a hundred separate farmhouses, returned to Newtake, worn, disappointed, and gloomy to a degree beyond the experience of those who knew him. Neither did the cloud speedily evaporate, as was most usual with his transient phases of depression. Circumstances combined to deepen it, and as the winter crowded down more quickly than usual, its leaden months of scanty daylight and cold rains left their mark on Will as time had never done before.

During those few and sombre days which represented the epact of the dying year, Martin Grimbal returned to Chagford. He had extended his investigations beyond the time originally allotted to them, and now came back to his home with plenty of fresh material, and even one or two new theories for his book. He had received no communications during his absence, and the news of the bee-keeper's death and his sweetheart's disappearance, suddenly delivered by his housekeeper, went far to overwhelm him. It danced joy up again through the grey granite. For a brief hour splendid vistas of happiness reopened, and his laborious life swept suddenly into a bright region that he had gazed into longingly aforetime and lost for ever. He fought with himself to keep down this rosy-fledged hope; but it leapt in him, a young giant born at a word. The significance of the freedom of Chris staggered him. To find her was the cry of his heart, and, as Will had done before him, he straightway set out upon a systematic attempt to discover the missing girl. Of such uncertain temper was Blanchard's mind at this season, however, that he picked a quarrel out of Martin's design, and questioned the antiquary's right to busy himself upon an undertaking which the brother of Chris had already failed to accomplish.

"She belonged to me, not to you," he said, "an' I done all a man could do to find her. See her again we sha'n't, that's my feelin', despite what she wrote to me and left so mysterious on the window. Madness comed awver her, I reckon, an' she've taken her life, an' theer ban't no call for you or any other man to rip up the matter again. Let it bide as 't is. Such black doin's be best set to rest."

But, while Martin did not seek or desire Will's advice in the matter, he was surprised at the young farmer's attitude, and it extracted something in the nature of a confession from him, for there was little, he told himself, that need longer be hidden from the woman's brother.

"I can speak now, at least to you, Will," he said. "I can tell you, at any rate. Chris was all the world to me--all the world, and accident kept me from knowing she belonged to another man until too late. Now that he has gone, poor fellow, she almost seems within reach again. You know what it is to love. I can't and won't believe she has taken her life. Something tells me she lives, and I am not going to take any man's word about it. I must satisfy myself."

Thereupon Blanchard became more reasonable, withdrew his objections and expressed a very heartfelt hope that Martin might succeed where he had failed. The lover entered methodically upon his quest and conducted the inquiry with a rigorous closeness and scrupulous patience quite beyond Will's power despite his equally earnest intentions. For six months Martin pursued his hope, and few saw or heard anything of him during that period.

Once, during the early summer, Will chanced upon John Grimbal at the first meeting of the otter hounds in Teign Vale; but though the younger purposely edged near his enemy where he stood, and hoped that some word might fall to indicate their ancient enmity dead, John said nothing, and his blue eyes were hard and as devoid of all emotion as turquoise beads when they met the farmer's face for one fraction of time.

Before this incident, however, there had arisen upon Will's life the splendour of paternity. A time came when, through one endless night and silver April morning, he had tramped his kitchen floor as a tiger its cage, and left a scratched pathway on the stones. Then his mother hasted from aloft and reported the arrival of a rare baby boy.

"Phoebe 's doin' braave, an' she prays of 'e to go downlong fust thing an' tell Miller all 's well. Doctor Parsons hisself says 't is a 'mazing fine cheel, so it ban't any mere word of mine as wouldn't weigh, me bein' the gran'mother."

They talked a little while of the newcomer, then, thankful for an opportunity to be active after his long suspense, the father hurried away, mounted a horse, and soon rattled down the valleys into Chagford, at a pace which found his beast dead lame on the following day. Mighty was the exhilaration of that wild gallop as he sped past cot and farm under morning sunshine with his great news. Labouring men and chance wayfarers were overtaken from time to time. Some Will knew, some he had never seen, but to the ear of each and all without discrimination he shouted his intelligence. Not a few waved their hats and nodded and remembered the great day in their own lives; one laughed and cried "Bravo!" sundry, who knew him not, marvelled and took him for a lunatic.

Arrived at Chagford, familiar forms greeted Will in the market-place, and again he bawled his information without dismounting.

"A son 'tis, Chapple--comed an hour ago--a brave li'l bwoy, so they tell!"

"Gude luck to it, then! An' now you'm a parent, you must--"

But Will was out of earshot, and Mr. Chapple wasted no more breath.

Into Monks Barton the farmer presently clattered, threw himself off his horse, tramped indoors, and shouted for his father-in-law in tones that made the oak beams ring. Then the miller, with Mr. Blee behind him, hastened to hear what Will had come to tell.

"All right, all right with Phoebe?" were Mr. Lyddon's first words, and he was white and shaking as he put the question.

"Right as ninepence, faither--gran'faither, I should say. A butivul li'l man she've got--out o' the common fine, Parsons says, as ought to knaw--fat as a slug wi' 'mazin' dark curls on his wee head, though my mother says 'tis awnly a sort o' catch-crop, an' not the lasting hair as'll come arter."

"A bwoy! Glory be!" said Mr. Blee. "If theer's awnly a bit o' the gracious gudeness of his gran'faither in un, 'twill prove a prosperous infant."

"Thank God for a happy end to all my prayers," said Mr. Lyddon. "Billy, get Will something to eat an' drink. I guess he's hungry an' starved."

"Caan't eat, Miller; but I'll have a drop of the best, if it's all the same to you. Us must drink their healths, both of 'em. As for me 'tis a gert thing to be the faither of a cheel as'll graw into a man some day, an' may even be a historical character, awnly give un time."

"So 'tis a gert thing. Sit down; doan't tramp about. I lay you've been on your feet enough these late hours."

Will obeyed, but proceeded with his theme, and though his feet were still his hands were not.

"Us be faced wi' the upbringing an' edication of un. I mean him to be brought up to a power o' knowledge, for theer's nothin' like it. Doan't you think I be gwaine to shirk doin' the right thing by un', Miller, 'cause it aint so. If 'twas my last fi'-pun' note was called up for larnin' him, he'd have it."

"Theer's no gert hurry yet," declared Billy. "Awnly you'm right to look in the future and weigh the debt every man owes to the cheel he gets. He'll never cost you less thought or halfpence than he do to-day, an', wi'out croakin' at such a gay time, I will say he'll graw into a greater care an' trouble, every breath he draws."

"Not him! Not the way I'm gwaine to bring un up. Stern an' strict an' no nonsense, I promise 'e"

"That's right. Tame un from the breast. I'd like for my paart to think as the very sapling be grawin' now as'll give his li'l behind its fust lesson in the ways o' duty," declared Mr. Blee. "Theer 's certain things you must be flint-hard about, an' fust comes lying. Doan't let un lie; flog it out of un; an' mind, 'tis better for your arm to ache than for his soul to burn."

"You leave me to do right by un. You caan't teach me, Billy, not bein' a parent; though I allow what you say is true enough."

"An' set un to work early; get un into ways o' work so soon as he's able to wear corduroys. An' doan't never let un be cruel to beastes; an' doan't let un--"

"Theer, theer!" cried Mr. Lyddon. "Have done with 'e! You speak as fules both, settin' out rules o' life for an hour-old babe. You talk to his mother about taming of un an' grawing saplings for his better bringing-up. She'll tell 'e a thing or two. Just mind the slowness o' growth in the human young. 'T will be years before theer's enough of un to beat."

"They do come very gradual to fulness o' body an' reason," admitted Billy; "and 't is gude it should be so; 't is well all men an' women 's got to be childer fust, for they brings brightness an' joy 'pon the earth as babies, though 't is mostly changed when they 'm grawed up. If us could awnly foretell the turnin' out o' childern, an' knaw which 't was best to drown an' which to save in tender youth, what a differ'nt world this would be!"

"They 'm poor li'l twoads at fust, no doubt," said Will to his father-in-law.

"Ess, indeed they be. 'T is a coorious circumstance, but generally allowed, that humans are the awnly creatures o' God wi' understandin', an' yet they comes into the world more helpless an' brainless, an' bides longer helpless an' brainless than any other beast knawn."

"Shouldn't call 'em 'beastes' 'zactly, seem' they've got the Holy Ghost from the church font ever after," objected Billy. "'T is the differ'nce between a babe an' a pup or a kitten. The wan gets God into un at christenin', t' other wouldn't have no Holy Ghost in un if you baptised un over a hunderd times. For why? They 'm not built in the Image."

"When all's said, you caan't look tu far ahead or be tu forehanded wi' bwoys," resumed Will. "Gallopin' down-long I said to myself, 'Theer's things he may do an' things he may not do. He shall choose his awn road in reason, but he must be guided by me in the choice.' I won't let un go for a sailor--never. I'll cut un off wi' a shillin' if he thinks of it."

"Time enough when he can walk an' talk, I reckon," said Billy, who, seeing how his master viewed the matter, now caught Mr. Lyddon's manner.

"Ess, that's very well," continued Will, "but time flies that fast wi' childer. Then I thought, 'He'll come to marry some day, sure's Fate.' Myself, I believe in tolerable early marryin's."

"By God! I knaw it!" retorted Mr. Lyddon, with an expression wherein appeared mingled feelings not a few; "Ess, fay! You'm right theer. I should take Time by the forelock if I was you, an' see if you can find a maiden as'll suit un while you go back-along through the village."

"Awnly, as 'tis better for the man to number more years than the wummon," added Billy, "it might be wise to bide a week or two, so's he shall have a bit start of his lady."

"Now, you'm fulin me! An' I caan't stay no more whether or no, 'cause I was promised to see Phoebe an' my son in the arternoon. Us be gwaine to call un Vincent William Blanchard, arter you an' me, Miller; an' if it had been a gal, us meant to call un arter mother; an' I do thank God 'bout the wee bwoy in all solemn soberness, 'cause 'tis the fust real gude thing as have falled to us since the gwaine of poor Chris. 'Twill be a joy to my mother an' a gude gran'son to you, I hope."

"Go home, go home," said Mr. Lyddon. "Get along with 'e this minute, an' tell your wife I'm greatly pleased, an' shall come to see her mighty soon. Let us knaw every day how she fares--an'--an'--I'm glad as you called the laddie arter me. 'Twas a seemly thought."

Will departed, and his mind roamed over various splendid futures for his baby. Already he saw it a tall, straight, splendid man, not a hair shorter than his own six feet two inches. He hoped that it would possess his natural wisdom, augmented by Phoebe's marvellous management of figures and accounts. He also desired for it a measure of his mother's calm and stately self-possession before the problems of life, and he had no objection that his son should reflect Miller Lyddon's many and amiable virtues.

He returned home, and his mother presently bid him come to see Phoebe. Then a sudden nervousness overtook Will, tough though he was. The door shut, and husband and wife were alone together, for Damaris disappeared. But where were all those great and splendid pictures of the future? Vanished, vanished in a mist. Will's breast heaved; he saw Phoebe's star-bright eyes peeping at him, and he touched the treasure beside her--oh, so small it was!

He bent his head low over them, kissed his wife shyly, and peeped with proper timidity under the flannel.

"Look, look, Will, dearie! Did 'e ever see aught like un? An' come evenin', he 'm gwaine to have his fust li'l drink!"