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Children of the Mist by Eden Phillpotts

E >> Eden Phillpotts >> Children of the Mist




Presently the cart destined to bring Phoebe's boxes started for Chagford
under Ted Chown's direction. It was a new cart, and the owner hoped that
sight of it, with "William Blanchard, Newtake," nobly displayed on the
tail-board, would please his father-in-law.

Meantime, at Monks Barton the great day had likewise dawned, but Phoebe,
from cowardice rather than philosophy, did not mention what was to
happen until the appearance of Chown made it necessary to do so.

Mr. Blee was the first to stand bewildered before Ted's blunt
announcement that he had come for Mrs. Blanchard's luggage.

"What luggage? What the douce be talkin' 'bout?" he asked.

"Why, everything, I s'pose. She 'm comin' home to-day--that's knawn,
ban't it?"

"Gormed if 'tis! Not by me, anyways--nor Miller, neither."

Then Phoebe appeared and Billy heard the truth.

"My! An' to keep it that quiet! Theer'll be a tidy upstore when Miller
comes to hear tell--"

But Mr. Lyddon was at the door and Phoebe answered his questioning eyes.

"My birthday, dear faither. You must remember--why, you was the first to
give me joy of it! Twenty-one to-day, an' I must go--I must--'tis my
duty afore everything."

The old man's jaw fell and he looked the picture of sorrowful surprise.

"But--but to spring it like this! Why to-day? Why to-day? It's madness
and it's cruelty to fly from your home the first living moment you've
got the power. I'd counted on a merry evenin,' tu, an' axed more 'n wan
to drink your gude health."

"Many's the merry evenings us'll have, dear faither, please God; but a
husband's a husband. He've been that wonnerful patient, tu, for such as
him. 'T was my fault for not remindin' you. An' yet I did, now an'
again, but you wouldn't see it. Yet you knawed in your heart, an' I
didn't like to pain 'e dwellin' on it overmuch."

"How did I knaw? I didn't knaw nothin' 't all 'bout it. How should I? Me
grawin' aulder an' aulder, an' leanin' more an' more 'pon 'e at every
turn. An' him no friend to me--he 's never sought to win me--he 's--"

"Doan't 'e taake on 'bout Will, dearie; you'll come to knaw un better
bimebye. I ban't gwaine so far arter all; an' it's got to be."

Then the miller worked himself into a passion, dared Chown to take his
daughter's boxes, and made a scene very painful to witness and quite
futile in its effect. Phoebe could be strong at times, and a life's
knowledge of her father helped her now. She told Chown to get the boxes
and bade Billy help him; she then followed Mr. Lyddon, who was rambling
away, according to his custom at moments of great sorrow, to pour his
troubles into any ear that would listen. She put her arm through his,
drew him to the riverside and spoke words that showed she had developed
mentally of late. She was a woman with her father, cooed pleasantly to
him, foretold good things, and implored him to have greater care of his
health and her love than to court illness by this display of passion.
Such treatment had sufficed to calm the miller in many of his moods, for
she possessed great power to soothe him, and Mr. Lyddon now set
increased store upon his daughter's judgment; but to-day, before this
dreadful calamity, every word and affectionate device was fruitless and
only made the matter worse. He stormed on, and Phoebe's superior manner
vanished as he did so, for she could only play such a part if quite
unopposed in it. Now her father silenced her, frightened her, and dared
her to leave him; but his tragic temper changed when they returned to
the farm and he found his daughter's goods were really gone. Then the
old man grew very silent, for the inexorable certainty of the thing
about to happen was brought home to him at last.

Before a closed hackney carriage from the hotel arrived to carry Phoebe
to Newtake, Miller Lyddon passed through a variety of moods, and another
outburst succeeded his sentimental silence. When the vehicle was at the
gate, however, his daughter found tears in his eyes upon entering the
kitchen suddenly to wish him "good-by." But he brushed them away at
sight of her, and spoke roughly and told her to be gone and find the
difference between a good father and a bad husband.

"Go to the misery of your awn choosin'; go to him an' the rubbish-heap
he calls a farm! Thankless an' ontrue,--go,--an' look to me in the
future to keep you out of the poorhouse and no more. An' that for your
mother's sake--not yourn."

"Oh, Faither!" she cried, "doan't let them be the last words I hear 'pon
your lips. 'T is cruel, for sure I've been a gude darter to 'e, or tried
to be--an'--an'--please, dear faither, just say you wish us well--me an'
my husband. Please say that much. I doan't ax more."

But he rose and left her without any answer. It was then Phoebe's turn
to weep, and blinded with tears she slipped and hurt her knee getting
into the coach. Billy thereupon offered his aid, helped her, handed her
little white fox terrier m after her, and saw that the door was properly
closed.

"Be o' good cheer," he said, "though I caan't offer 'e much prospects of
easy life in double harness wi' Will Blanchard. But, as I used to say in
my church-gwaine days, 'God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.' Be it
as 'twill, I dare say theer 's many peaceful years o' calm,
black-wearin' widowhood afore 'e yet, for chaps like him do shorten
theer days a deal by such a tearin', high-coloured, passionate way of
life."

Mr. Blee opened the gate, the maids waved their handkerchiefs and wept,
and not far distant, as he heard the vehicle containing his daughter
depart, Mr. Lyddon would have given half that he had to recall the
spoken word. Phoebe once gone, his anger vanished and his love for her
won on him like sunshine after storm. Angry, indeed, he still was, but
with himself.

For Phoebe, curiosity and love dried her tears as she passed upward
towards the Moor. Then, the wild land reached, she put her head out of
the window and saw Newtake beech trees in the distance. Already the
foliage of them seemed a little tattered and thin, and their meagreness
of vesture and solitary appearance depressed the spectator again before
she arrived at them.

But the gate, thrown widely open, was reached at last, and there stood
Will and Mrs. Blanchard, Chris, Ted Chown, and the great bobtailed
sheep-dog, "Ship," to welcome her. With much emotion poor Phoebe
alighted, tottered and fell into the bear-hug of her husband, while the
women also kissed her and murmured over her in their sweet, broad Devon
tongue. Then something made Will laugh, and his merriment struck the
right note; but Ship fell foul of Phoebe's little terrier and there was
a growl, then a yelp and a scuffling, dusty battle amid frightened
fowls, whose protests added to the tumult. Upon this conflict descended
Will's sapling with sounding thuds administered impartially, and from
the skirmish the smaller beast emerged lame and crying, while the
sheep-dog licked the blood off his nose and went to heel with a red
light glimmering through his pale blue eyes.

Happiness returned indoors and Phoebe, all blushes and praises,
inspected her new home and the preparations made within it for her
pleasure. Perhaps she simulated more joy than the moment brought, for
such a day, dreamed of through years, was sure in its realisation to
prove something of an anti-climax after the cruel nature of all such
events. Despite Chris and her ceaseless efforts to keep joy at the
flood, a listlessness stole over the little party as the day wore on.
Phoebe found her voice not to be relied upon and felt herself drifting
into that state between laughter and tears which craves solitude for its
exhibition. The cows came home to be milked, and there seemed but few of
them after the great procession at Monks Barton. Yet Will demanded her
separate praises for each beast. In the little garden he had made,
budding flowers, untimely transplanted, hung their heads. But she
admired with extravagant adjectives, and picked a blossom and set it in
her dress. Anon the sun set, with no soft lights and shadows amidst the
valley trees she knew, when sunset and twilight played hide-and-seek
beside the river, but slowly, solemnly, in hard, clean, illimitable
glory upon horizons of granite and heather. The peat glowed as though it
were red-hot, and night brooded on the eastern face of every hill. Only
a jangling bell broke the startling stillness then, and, through long
weeks afterwards the girl yearned for the song of the river, as one who
has long slept by another's side sadly yearns for the sound of their
breathing by night, when they are taken away. Phoebe had little
imagination, but she guessed already that the life before her must
differ widely from that spent under her father's roof. Despite the
sunshine of the time and the real joy of being united to her husband at
last, she saw on every side more evidences of practical life than she
had before anticipated. But these braced her rather than not, and she
told herself truly that the sadness at bottom of her heart just then was
wholly begotten of the past and her departure from home. Deep unrest
came upon her as she walked with her husband and listened to his glad
voice. She longed greatly to be alone with him that her heart might be
relieved. She wanted his arms round her; she wanted to cry and let him
kiss the tears away.

Damaris Blanchard very fully understood much that was passing through
her daugher-in-law's mind, and she hastened her departure after an early
cup of tea. She took a last look at all the good things she had provided
for the wedding supper--a meal she declared must not be shared with Will
and Phoebe--and so made ready to depart. It was then her turn, and her
bosom throbbed with just one dumb, fleeting shadow of fear that found
words before her second thought had time to suppress them.

"You won't love me no less, eh, Will?" she whispered, holding his hand
between hers; and he saw her grey eyes almost frightened in the
gloaming.

"My God, no! No, mother; a man must have a dirty li'l heart in un if it
ban't big enough to hold mother an' wife."

She gripped his hand tighter.

"Ess fay, I knaw, I knaw; but doan't 'e put your mother first
now,--ban't nature. God bless an' keep the both of 'e. 'Twill allus be
my prayer."

The cart rattled away, Chris driving, and such silence as Phoebe had
never known held the darkening land. She noted a yellow star against the
sombre ridge of the world, felt Will's arm round her and turned to him,
seeking that comfort and support her nature cried out for.

Infinitely tender and loving was her husband then, and jubilant, too, at
first; but a little later, when Chown had been packed off to his own
apartment, with not a few delicacies he had never bargained for, the
conversation flagged and the banquet also.

The table was laden with two capons, a ham, a great sugared cake, a
whole Dutch cheese, an old-fashioned cut-glass decanter containing brown
sherry, and two green wine-glasses for its reception; yet these luxuries
tempted neither husband nor wife to much enjoyment of them. Indeed
Phoebe's obvious lowness of spirits presently found its echo in Will.
The silences grew longer and longer; then the husband set down his knife
and fork, and leaving the head of the table went round to his wife's
side and took her hand and squeezed it, but did not speak. She turned to
him and he saw her shut her eyes and give a little shiver. Then a tear
flashed upon her lashes and twinkled boldly down, followed by another.

"Phoebe! My awn li'l wummon! This be a wisht home-comin'! What the
plague's the matter wi' us?"

"Doan't 'e mind, dear heart. I'm happy as a bird under these silly
tears. But 'twas the leavin' o' faither, an' him so hard, an' me lovin'
him so dear, an'--an'--"

"Doan't 'e break your heart 'bout him. He'll come round right enough.
'Twas awnly the pang o' your gwaine away, like the drawin' of a tooth."

"Everybody else in the world knaws I ought to be here," sobbed Phoebe,
"but faither, he won't see it. An' I caan't get un out of my mind
to-night, sitting that mournfui an' desolate, wi' his ear deaf to
Billy's noise an' his thoughts up here."

"If he won't onderstand the ways of marriage, blessed if I see how we
can make him. Surely to God, 'twas time I had my awn?"

"Ess, dear Will, but coming to-day, 'pon top of my gert joy, faither's
sorrow seemed so terrible-like."

"He'll get awver it, an' so will you, bless you. Drink up some of this
braave stuff mother left. Sherry 't is, real wine, as will comfort 'e,
my li'l love. 'Tis I be gwaine to make your happiness henceforward,
mind; an' as for Miller, he belongs to an auld-fashioned generation of
mankind, and it's our place to make allowances. Auld folk doan't knaw
an' won't larn. But he'll come to knaw wan solid thing, if no more; an'
that is as his darter'll have so gude a husband as she've got faither,
though I sez it."

"'Tis just what he said I shouldn't, Will."

"Nevermind, forgive un, an' drink up your wine; 'twill hearten 'e."

A dog barked, a gate clinked, and there came the sound of a horse's
hoofs, then of a man dismounting.

Will told the rest of the story afterwards to Mrs. Blanchard.

"''Tis faither,' cries Phoebe, an' turns so pale as a whitewashed wall
in moonlight. 'Never!' I sez. But she knawed the step of un, an'
twinkled up from off her chair, an' 'fore ever the auld man reached the
door, 't was awpen. In he comed, like a lamb o' gentleness, an' said
never a word for a bit, then fetched out a little purse wi' twenty gawld
sovereigns in it. An' us all had some fine talk for more'n an hour, an'
he was proper faither to me, if you'll credit it; an' he drinked a glass
o' your wine, mother, an' said he never tasted none better and not much
so gude. Then us seed un off, an' Phoebe cried again, poor twoad, but
for sheer happiness this time. So now the future's clear as sunlight,
an' we'm all friends--'cept here an' theer."




CHAPTER XII

THROUGH ONE GREAT DAY


Just within the woods of Teign Valley, at a point not far distant from
that where Will Blanchard met John Grimbal for the first time, and
wrestled with him beside the river, there rises a tall bank, covered
with fern, shadowed by oak trees. A mossy bridle-path winds below, while
beyond it, seen through a screen of wych-elms and hazel, extend the
outlying meadows of Monks Barton.

Upon this bank, making "sunshine in a shady place," reclined Chris,
beneath a harmony of many greens, where the single, double, and triple
shadows of the manifold leaves above her created a complex play of light
and shade all splashed and gemmed with little sun discs. Drowsy noon-day
peace marked the hour; Chris had some work in her hand, but was not
engaged upon it; and Clement, who lolled beside her, likewise did
nothing. His eyes were upon a mare and foal in the meadow below. The
matron proceeded slowly, grazing as she went, while her lanky youngster
nibbled at this or that inviting tuft, then raced joyously in wide
circles and, returning, sought his mother's milk with the selfish
roughness of youth.

"Happy as birds, they be," said Chris, referring to the young pair at
Newtake. "It do make me long for us to be man an' wife, Clem, when I see
'em."

"We're that now, save for the hocus-pocus of the parsons you set such
store by."

"No, I'll never believe it makes no difference."

"A cumbrous, stupid, human contrivance like marriage! Was ever man and
woman happier for being bound that way? Can free things feel their
hearts beat closer because they are chained to one another by an effete
dogma?"

"I doan't onderstand all that talk, sweetheart, an' you knaw I don't;
but till some wise body invents a better-fashion way of joining man an'
maid than marriage, us must taake it as 'tis."

"There is a better way--Nature's."

She shook her head.

"If us could dwell in a hole at a tree-root, an' eat roots an' berries;
but we'm thinking creatures in a Christian land."

She stretched herself out comfortably and smiled up at him where he sat
with his chin in his hands. Then, looking down, he saw the delicious
outline of her and his eyes grew hot.

"God's love! How long must it be?" he cried; then, before she could
speak, he clipped her passionately to him and hugged her closely.

"Dearie, you'm squeezin' my breath out o' me!" cried Chris, well used to
these sudden storms and not averse to them. "We must bide patient an'
hold in our hearts," she said, lying in his arms with her face close to
his. "'Twill be all the more butivul when we'm mated. Ess fay! I love 'e
allus, but I love 'e better in this fiery mood than on the ice-cold days
when you won't so much as hold my hand."

"The cold mood's the better notwithstanding, and colder yet would be
better yet, and clay-cold best of all."

But he held her still, and pressed his beard against her brown neck.
Then the sound of a trotting horse reached his ears, he started up,
looked below, and saw John Grimbal passing by. Their eyes met, for the
horseman chanced to glance up as Clement thrust his head above the fern;
but Chris was invisible and remained so.

Grimbal stopped and greeted the bee-keeper.

"Have you forgotten your undertaking to see my hives once a month?"

"No, I meant coming next week."

"Well, as it happens I want to speak with you, and the present time's as
good as another. I suppose you were only lying there dreaming?"

"That's all. I'll come and walk along beside your horse."

He squeezed his sweetheart's hand, whispered a promise to return
immediately, then rose and stumbled down the bank, leaving Chris throned
aloft in the fern. For a considerable time John Grimbal said nothing,
then he began suddenly,--

"I suppose you know the Applebirds are leaving my farm?"

"Yes, Mrs. Applebird told my mother. Going to Sticklepath."

"Not easy to get a tenant to take their place."

"Is it not? Such a farm as yours? I should have thought there need be no
difficulty."

"There are tenants and tenants. How would you like it--you and your
mother? Then you could marry and be comfortable. No doubt Chris
Blanchard would make a splendid farmer's wife."

"It would be like walking into paradise for me; but--"

"The rent needn't bother you. My first care is a good tenant. Besides,
rent may take other shapes than pounds, shillings, and pence."

Hicks started.

"I see," he said; "you can't forget the chance word I spoke in anger so
long ago."

"I can't, because it happened to be just the word I wanted to hear. My
quarrel with Will Blanchard's no business of yours. The man's your enemy
too; and you're a fool to stand in your own light, You know something
that I don't know, concerning those weeks during which he disappeared.
Well, tell me. You can only live your life once. Why let it run to rot
when the Red House Farm wants a tenant? A man you despise, too."

"No. I promised. Besides, you wouldn't be contented with the knowledge;
you'd act on it."

Grimbal showed a lightning-quick perception of this admission; and
Hicks, too late, saw that the other had realised its force. Then he made
an effort to modify his assertion.

"When I say 'you'd act on it,' I mean that you might try to, though I
much doubt really if anything I could tell you would damage Blanchard."

"If you think that, then there can be no conscientious objection to
telling me. Besides, I don't say I should act on the knowledge. I don't
say I shall or I shall not. All you ve got to do is to say whether
you'll take the Red House Farm at a nominal rent from Michaelmas."

"No, man, no. You've met me in a bad moment, too, if you only knew. But
think of it--brother and sister; and I, in order to marry the woman,
betray the man. That's what it comes to. Such things don't happen."

"You re speaking plainly, at any rate. We ought to understand each other
to-day, if ever. I'll make you the same offer for less return. Tell me
where he was during those weeks--that's all. You needn't tell what he
was doing."

"If you knew one, you'd find out the other. Once and for all, I'll tell
you nothing. By an accidental question you discovered that I knew
something. That was not my fault. But more you never will know from
me--farm or no farm."

"You're a fool for your pains. And the end will be the same. The
information must reach me. You're a coward at heart, for it's fear, not
any tomfoolery of morals, that keeps your mouth shut. Don't deceive
yourself. I've often talked with you before to-day, and I know you think
as I do."

"What's that to do with it?"

"Everything. 'Good' and 'evil' are only two words, and what is man's
good and what is man's evil takes something cleverer than man to know.
It's no nonsense of 'right' and 'wrong' that's keeping you from a happy
home and a wife. What is it then?"

Hicks was silent a moment, then made answer.

"I don't know. I don't know any more than you do. Something has come
over me; I can't tell you what. I'm more surprised than you are at my
silence; but there it is. Why the devil I don't speak I don't know. I
only know I'm not going to. Our characters are beyond our own power to
understand."

"If you don't know, I'll tell you. You're frightened that he will find
out. You're afraid of him."

"It's vain trying to anger me into speaking," answered the other,
showing not a little anger the while; "I'm dumb henceforward."

"I hope you'll let your brain influence you towards reason. 'Tis a
fool's trick to turn your back on the chance of a lifetime. Better think
twice. And second thoughts are like to prove best worth following. You
know where to find me at any rate. I'll give you six weeks to decide
about it."

John Grimbal waited, hoping that Hicks might yet change his mind before
he took his leave; but the bee-keeper made no answer. His companion
therefore broke into a sharp trot and left him. Whereupon Clement stood
still a moment, then he turned back and, forgetting all about Chris,
proceeded slowly homewards to Chagford, deep in thought and heartily
astonished at himself. No one could have prompted his enemy to a more
critical moment for this great attack; no demon could have sent the
master of the Red House with a more tempting proposal; and yet Hicks
found himself resisting the lure without any particular effort or
struggle. On the one side this man had offered him all the things his
blood and brain craved; on the other his life still stretched drearily
forward, and nothing in it indicated he was nearer his ambition by a
hair's-breadth than a year before. Yet he refused to pay the price. It
amazed him to find his determination so fixed against betrayal of Will.
He honestly wondered at himself. The decision was bred from a curious
condition of mind quite beyond his power to comprehend. He certainly
recoiled from exposure of Blanchard's secret, yet coldly asked himself
what unsuspected strand of character held him back. It was not fear and
it was not regard for his sweetheart's brother; he did not know what it
was. He scoffed at the ideas of honour or conscience. These abstractions
had possessed weight in earlier years, but not now. And yet, while he
assured himself that no tie of temporal or eternal interest kept him
silent, the temptation to tell seemed much less on this occasion than in
the past when he took a swarm of John Grimbal's bees. Then, indeed, his
mind was aflame with bitter provocation. He affected a cynical attitude
to the position and laughed without mirth at a theory that suddenly
appeared in his mind. Perchance this steadfastness of purpose resulted,
after all, from that artificial thing, "conscience," which men catch at
the impressionable age when they have infantile ailments and pray at a
mother's knee. If so, surely reason must banish such folly before
another dawn and send him hot-foot at daybreak to the Red House. He
would wait and watch himself and see.

His reflections were here cut short, for a shrill voice broke in upon
them, and Clement, now within a hundred yards of his own cottage door,
saw Mr. Lezzard before him.

"At last I've found 'e! Been huntin' this longful time, tu. The Missis
wants 'e--your aunt I should say."

"Wants me?"

"Ess. 'T is wan o' her bad days, wi' her liver an' lights a bitin' at
her like savage creatures. She'm set on seein' you, an' if I go
home-along without 'e, she'll awnly cuss."

"What can she want me for?"

"She 's sick 'n' taken a turn for the wuss, last few days. Doctor
Parsons doan't reckon she can hold out much longer. 'Tis the
drink--she'm soaked in it, like a sponge."

"I'll come," said Hicks, and half an hour later he approached his aunt's
dwelling and entered it.

Mrs. Lezzard was now sunk into a condition of chronic crapulence which
could only end in one way. Her husband had been ordered again and again
to keep all liquor from her, but, truth to tell, he made no very
sustained effort to do so. The old man was sufficiently oppressed by his
own physical troubles, and as the only happiness earth now held for him
must depend on the departure of his wife, he watched her drinking
herself to death without concern and even smiled in secret at the
possibility of some happy, quiet, and affluent years when she was gone.

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