Chapter 39

MARTIN'S RAID

Mrs. Blanchard now dwelt alone, and all her remaining interests in life were clustered about Will. She perceived that his enterprise by no means promised to fulfil the hopes of those who loved him, and realised too late that the qualities which enabled her father to wrest a living from the moorland farm were lacking in her son. He, of course, explained it otherwise, and pointed to the changes of the times and an universal fall in the price of agricultural produce. His mother cast about in secret how to help him, but no means appeared until, upon an evening some ten days after Blanchard's quarrel with Grimbal over the gate-post, she suddenly determined to visit Monks Barton and discuss the position with Miller Lyddon.

"I want to have a bit of a tell with 'e," she said, "'pon a matter so near to your heart as mine. Awnly you've got power an' I haven't."

"I knaw what you'm come about before you speak," answered the other." Sit you down an' us'll have a gude airing of ideas. But I'm sorry we won't get the value o' Billy Blee's thoughts 'pon the point, for he's away to-night."

Damaris rather rejoiced than sorrowed in this circumstance, but she was too wise to say so.

"A far-thinkin' man, no doubt," she admitted.

"He is; an' 't is straange your comin' just this night, for Blee's away on a matter touching Will more or less, an' doan't reckon to be home 'fore light."

"What coorious-fashion job be that then?"

"Caan't tell 'e the facts. I'm under a promise not to open my mouth, but theer's no gert harm. Martin Grimbal's foremost in the thing so you may judge it ban't no wrong act, and he axed Billy to help him at my advice. You see it's necessary to force your son's hand sometimes. He'm that stubborn when his mind's fixed."

"A firm man, an' loves his mother out the common well. A gude son, a gude husband, a gude faither, a hard worker. How many men's all that to wance, Miller?"

"He is so--all--an' yet--the man have got his faults, speaking generally."

"That's awnly to say he be a man; an' if you caan't find words for the faults, 't is clear they ban't worth namin'."

"I can find words easy enough, I assure 'e; but a man's a fule to waste breath criticising the ways of a son to his mother--if so be he's a gude son."

"What fault theer is belongs to me. I was set on his gwaine to Newtake as master, like his gran'faither afore him. I urged the step hot, and I liked the thought of it."

"So did he--else he wouldn't have gone."

"You caan't say that. He might have done different but for love of me. 'T is I as have stood in his way in this thing."

"Doan't fret yourself with such a thought, Mrs. Blanchard; Will's the sort as steers his awn ship. Theer's no blame 'pon you. An' for that matter, if your faither saved gude money at Newtake, why caan't Will?"

"Times be changed. You've got to make two blades o' grass graw wheer wan did use, if you wants to live nowadays."

"Hard work won't hurt him."

"But it will if he reckons't is all wasted work. What's more bitter than toiling to no account, an' _knawin_ all the while you be?"

"Not all wasted work, surely?"

"They wouldn't allow it for the world. He's that gay afore me, an' Phoebe keeps a stiff upper lip, tu; but I go up unexpected now an' again an' pop in unawares an' sees the truth. You with your letter or message aforehand, doan't find out nothing, an' won't."

"He'm out o' luck, I allow. What's the exact reason?"

"You'll find it in the Book, same as I done. I knaw you set gert store 'pon the Word. Well, then, 'them the Lard loveth He chasteneth.' That's why Will's languishin' like. 'T won't last for ever."

"Ah! But theer's other texts to other purpose. Not that I want 'e to dream my Phoebe's less to me than your son to you. I've got my eye on 'em, an' that's the truth; an' on my li'l grandson, tu."

"Theer's gert things buddin' in that bwoy."

"I hope so. I set much store on him. Doan't you worrit, mother, for the party to Newtake be bound up very close wi' my happiness, an' if they was wisht, ban't me as would long be merry. I be gwaine to give Master Will rope enough to hang himself, having a grudge or two against him yet; then, when the job's done, an' he's learnt the hard lesson to the dregs, I'll cut un down in gude time an' preach a sarmon to him while he's in a mood to larn wisdom. He's picking up plenty of information, you be sure--things that will be useful bimebye: the value of money, the shortness o' the distance it travels, the hardness o' Moor ground, an' men's hearts, an' such-like branches of larning. Let him bide, an' trust me."

The mother was rendered at once uneasy and elated by this speech. That, if only for his wife and son's sake, Will would never be allowed to fail entirely seemed good to know; but she feared, and, before the patronising manner of the old man, felt alarm for the future. She well knew how Will would receive any offer of assistance tendered in this spirit.

"Like your gude self so to promise; but remember he 'm of a lofty mind and fiery."

"Stiff-necked he be, for certain; but he may graw quiet 'fore you think it. Nothing tames a man so quick as to see his woman and childer folk hungry--eh? An' specially if 't is thanks to his awn mistakes."

Mrs. Blanchard flushed and felt a wave of anger surging through her breast. But she choked it down.

"You 'm hard in the grain, Lyddon--so them often be who've lived over long as widow men. Theer 's a power o' gude in my Will, an' your eyes will be opened to see it some day. He 'm young an' hopeful by nature; an' such as him, as allus looks up to gert things, feels a come down worse than others who be content to crawl. He 'm changing, an' I knaw it, an' I've shed more 'n wan tear awver it, bein' on the edge of age myself now, an' not so strong-minded as I was 'fore Chris went. He 'm changing, an' the gert Moor have made his blood beat slower, I reckon, an' froze his young hope a bit."

"He 's grawiug aulder, that's all. 'T is right as he should chatter less an' think more."

"I suppose so; yet a mother feels a cold cloud come awver her heart to watch a cheel fighting the battle an' not winning it. Specially when she can awnly look on an' do nothin'."

"Doan't you fear. You 'm low in spirit, else you'd never have spoke so open; but I thank you for tellin' me that things be tighter to Newtake than I guessed. You leave the rest to me. I knaw how far to let 'em go; an' if we doan't agree 'pon that question, you must credit me with the best judgment, an' not think no worse of me for helpin' in my awn way an' awn time."

With which promise Mrs. Blanchard was contented. Surveying the position in the solitude of her home, she felt there was much to be thankful for. Yet she puzzled her heart and head to find schemes by which the miller's charity might be escaped. She considered her own means, and pictured her few possessions sold at auction; she had already offered to go and dwell at Newtake and dispose of her cottage. But Will exploded so violently when the suggestion reached his ears that she never repeated it.

While the widow thus bent her thoughts upon her son, and gradually sank to sleep with the problems of the moment unsolved, a remarkable series of incidents made the night strange at Newtake Farm.

Roused suddenly a little after twelve o'clock by an unusual sound, Phoebe woke with a start and cried to her husband:

"Will--Will, do hark to Ship! He 'm barkin' that savage!"

Will turned and growled sleepily that it was nothing, but the bark continued, so he left his bed and looked out of the window. A waning moon had just thrust one glimmering point above the sombre flank of the hill. It ascended as he watched, dispensed a sinister illumination, and like some remote bale-fire hung above the bosom of the nocturnal Moor. His dog still barked, and in the silence Will could hear a clink and thud as it leapt to the limit of its chain. Then out of the night a lantern danced at Newtake gate, and Blanchard, his eyes now trained to the gloom, discovered several figures moving about it.

"Baggered if it bau't that damned Grimbal come arter my gate-post," he gasped, launched instantly to high wakefulness by the suspicion. Then, dragging on his trousers, and thrusting the tail of his nightshirt inside them, he tumbled down-stairs, with passion truly formidable, and hastened naked footed through the farmyard.

Four men blankly awaited him. Ignoring their leader--none other than Martin himself--he turned upon Mr. Blee, who chanced to be nearest, and struck from his hand a pick.

"What be these blasted hookem-snivey dealings, then?" Will thundered out, "an' who be you, you auld twisted thorn, to come here stealin' my stone in the dead o' night?"

Billy's little eyes danced in the lantern fire, and he answered hastily before Martin had time to speak.

"Well, to be plain, the moon and the dog's played us false, an' you'd best to knaw the truth fust as last. Mr. Grimbal's writ you two straight, fair letters 'bout this job, so he've explained to me, an' you never so much as answered neither; so, seem' this here's a right Christian cross, ban't decent it should bide head down'ards for all time. An' Mr. Grimbal have brought up a flam-new granite post, hasp an' all complete--'t is in the cart theer--an' he called on me as a discreet, aged man to help un, an' so I did; an' Peter Bassett an' Sam Bonus here corned likewise, by my engagement, to do the heavy work an' aid in a gude deed."

"Dig an inch, wan of 'e, and I'll shaw what's a gude deed! I doan't want no talk with you or them hulking gert fules. 'T is you I'd ax, Martin Grimbal, by what right you'm here."

"You wouldn't answer my letters, and I couldn't find it in my heart to leave an important matter like this. I know I wasn't wise, but you don't understand what a priceless thing this is. I thought you'd find the new one in the morning and laugh at it. For God's sake be reasonable and sensible, Blanchard, and let me take it away. There's a new post I'll have set up. It's here waiting. I can't do more."

"But you'll do a darned sight less. Right's right, an' stealin's stealin'. You wasn't wise, as you say--far from it. You'm in the wrong now, an' you knaw it, whatever you was before. A nice bobbery! Why doan't he take my plough or wan of the bullocks? Damned thieves, the lot of'e!"

"Doan't cock your nose so high, Farmer," said Bonus, who had never spoken to Will since he left Newtake; "'t is very onhandsome of 'e to be tellin' like this to gentle-folks."

"Gentlefolks! Gentlefolks would ax your help, wouldn't they? You, as be no better than a common poacher since I turned 'e off! You shut your mouth and go home-long, an' mind your awn business, an' keep out o' the game preserves. Law's law, as you'm like to find sooner'n most folks."

This pointed allusion to certain rumours concerning the labourer's present way of life angered Bonus not a little, but it also silenced him.

"Law's law, as you truly say, Will Blanchard," answered Mr. Blee, "an' theer it do lie in a nutshell. A man's gate-post is his awn as a common, natural gate-post; but bein' a sainted cross o' the Lard sticked in the airth upsy-down by some ancient devilry, 't is no gate-post, nor yet every-day moor-stone, but just the common property of all Christian souls."

"You'm out o' bias to harden your heart, Mr. Blanchard, when this gentleman sez 't is what 't is," ventured the man Peter Bassett, slowly.

"An' so you be, Blanchard, an' 't is a awful deed every ways, an' you'll larn it some day. You did ought to be merry an' glad to hear such a thing 's been found 'pon Newtake. Think o' the fortune a cross o' Christ brings to 'e!"

"An' how much has it brought, you auld fule?"

"Gude or bad, you'll be a sight wuss off it you leave it wheer 't is, now you knaw. Theer'll be hell to pay if it's let bide now, sure as eggs is eggs an' winter, winter. You'll rue it; you'll gnash awver it; 't will turn against 'e an' rot the root an' blight the ear an' starve the things an' break your heart. Mark me, you'm doin' a cutthroat deed an' killin' all your awn luck by leavin' it here an hour longer."

But Will showed no alarm at Mr. Blee's predictions.

"Be it as 't will, you doan't touch my stone--cross or no cross. Damn the cross! An' you tu, every wan of 'e, dirty night birds!"

Then Martin, who had waited, half hoping that Billy's argument might carry weight, spoke and ended the scene.

"We'll talk no more and we'll do no more," he said. "You're wrong in a hundred ways to leave this precious stone to shut a gate and keep in cows, Blanchard. But if you wouldn't heed my letters, I suppose you won't heed my voice."

"Why the devil should I heed your letters? I told 'e wance for all, didn't I? Be I a man as changes my mind like a cheel?"

"Crooked words won't help 'e, Farmer," said the stolid Bassett. "You 'm wrong, an' you knaw right well you 'm wrong, an' theer'll come a day of reckoning for 'e, sure 's we 'm in a Christian land."

"Let it come, an' leave me to meet it. An' now, clear out o' this, every wan, or I'll loose the dog 'pon 'e!"

He turned hurriedly as he spoke and fetched the bobtailed sheep-dog on its chain. This he fastened to the stone, then watched the defeated raiders depart. Grimbal had already walked away alone, after directing that a post which he had brought to supersede the cross, should be left at the side of the road. Now, having obeyed his command, Mr. Blee, Bonus, and Bassett climbed into the cart and slowly passed away homewards. The moon had risen clear of earth and threw light sufficient to show Bassett's white smock still gleaming through the night as Will beheld his enemies depart.

Ten minutes later, while he washed his feet, the farmer told Phoebe of the whole matter, including his earlier meeting with Martin, and the antiquary's offer of money. Upon this subject his wife found herself in complete disagreement with Blanchard, and did not hesitate to say so.

"Martin Grimbal 's so gude a friend as any man could have, an' you did n't ought to have bullyragged him that way," she declared.

"You say that! Ban't a man to speak his mind to thieves an' robbers?"

"No such thing. 'T is a sacred stone an' not your property at all. To refuse ten pound for it!"

"Hold your noise, then, an' let me mind my business my awn way," he answered roughly, getting back to bed; but Phoebe was roused and had no intention of speaking less than her mind.

"You 'm a knaw-nought gert fule," she said, "an' so full of silly pride as a turkey-cock. What 's the stone to you if Grimbal wants it? An' him taking such a mint of trouble to come by it. What right have you to fling away ten pounds like that, an' what 's the harm to earn gude money honest? Wonder you ban't shamed to sell anything. 'T is enough these times for a body to say wan thing for you to say t'other."

This rebuke from a tongue that scarcely ever uttered a harsh word startled Will not a little. He was silent for half a minute, then made reply.

"You can speak like that--you, my awn wife--you, as ought to be heart an' soul with me in everything I do? An' the husband I am to 'e. Then I should reckon I be fairly alone in the world, an' no mistake--'cept for mother."

Phoebe did not answer him. Her spark of anger was gone and she was passing quickly from temper to tears.

"'T is queer to me how short of friends I 'pear to be gettin'," confessed Will gloomily. "I must be differ'nt to what I fancied for I allus felt I could do with a waggon-load of friends. Yet they 'm droppin' off. Coourse I knaw why well enough, tu. They've had wind o' tight times to Newtake, though how they should I caan't say, for the farm 's got a prosperous look to my eye, an' them as drops in dinnertime most often finds meat on the table. Straange a man what takes such level views as me should fall out wi' his elders so much."

"'T is theer fault as often as yours; an' you've got me as well as your mother, Will; an' you've got your son. Childern knaw the gude from the bad, same as dogs, in a way hid from grawn folks. Look how the li'l thing do run to 'e 'fore anybody in the world."

"So he do; an' if you 'm wise enough to see that, you ought to be wise enough to see I'm right 'bout the gate-post. Who 's Martin Grimbal to offer me money? A self-made man, same as me. Yet he might have had it, an' welcome if he'd axed proper."

"Of course, if you put it so, Will."

"Theer 's no ways else to put it as I can see."

"But for your awn peace of mind it might be wisest to dig the cross up. I listened by the window an' heard Billy Blee tellin' of awful cusses, an' he 's wise wi'out knawin' it sometimes."

"That's all witchcraft an' stuff an' nonsense, an' you ought to knaw better, Phoebe. 'T is as bad as setting store on the flight o' magpies, or gettin' a dead tooth from the churchyard to cure toothache, an' such-like folly."

"Ban't folly allus, Will; theer 's auld tried wisdom in some ancient sayings."

"Well, you guide your road by my light if you want to be happy. 'T is for you I uses all my thinking brain day an' night--for your gude an' the li'l man's."

"I knaw--I knaw right well 't is so, dear Will, an' I'm sorry I spoke so quick."

"I'll forgive 'e before you axes me, sweetheart. Awnly you must larn to trust me, an' theer 's no call for you to fear. Us must speak out sometimes, an' I did just now, an' 't is odds but some of them chaps, Grimbal included, may have got a penn'orth o' wisdom from me."

"So 't is, then," she said, cuddling to him; "an' you'll do well to sleep now; an'--an' never tell again, Will, you've got nobody but your mother while I'm above ground, 'cause it's against justice an' truth an' very terrible for me to hear."

"'T was a thoughtless speech," admitted Will, "an' I'm sorry I spake it. 'T was a hasty word an' not to be took serious."

They slept, while the moon wove wan harmonies of ebony and silver into Newtake. A wind woke, proclaiming morning, as yet invisible; and when it rustled dead leaves or turned a chimney-cowl, the dog at the gate stirred and growled and grated his chain against the granite cross.