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Children of the Mist by Eden Phillpotts

E >> Eden Phillpotts >> Children of the Mist




Will entered the cottage kitchen and began instantly to unfold his
experiences.

"You knaw me--a man with a level head, as leaps after looking, not
afore. I put nothing but plain reason to him and he flouted me like you
might a cheel. An' I be gwaine to make him eat his words--such hard
words as they was tu! Think of it! Me an' Phoebe never to meet no more!
The folly of sayin' such a thing! Wouldn't 'e reckon that grey hairs
knawed better than to fancy words can keep lovers apart?"

"Grey hairs cover old brains; and old brains forget what it feels like
to have a body full o' young blood. The best memory can't keep the
feeling of youth fresh in a man."

"Well, I ban't the hot-headed twoad Miller Lyddon thinks, or pretends he
thinks, anyway. I'll shaw un! I can wait, an' Phoebe can wait, an' now
she'll have to. I'm gwaine away."

"Going away. Why?"

"To shaw what 's in me. I ban't sorry for this for some things. Now no
man shall say that I'm a home-stayin' gaby, tramping up an' down Teign
Vale for a living. I'll step out into the wide world, same as them
Grimbals done. They 'm back again made of money, the pair of 'em."

"It took them fifteen years and more, and they were marvellously lucky."

"What then? I'm as like to fare well as they. I've worked out a
far-reaching plan, but the first step I've thought on 's terrible
coorious, an' I reckon nobody but you'd see how it led to better things.
But you 'm book-larned and wise in your way, though I wish your wisdom
had done more for yourself than it has. Anyway, you 'm tokened to Chris
and will be one of the family some day perhaps when Mother Coomstock
dies, so I'll leave my secret with you. But not a soul else--not mother
even. So you must swear you'll never tell to man or woman or cheel what
I've done and wheer I be gone."

"I'll swear if you like."

"By the livin' God."

"By any God you believe is alive."

"Say it, then."

"By the living God, I, Clement Hicks, bee-master of Chagford, Devon,
swear to keep the secret of my friend and neighbour, William Blanchard,
whatever it is."

"And may He tear the life out of you if you so much as think to tell."

Hicks laughed and shook his hair from his forehead.

"You're suspicious of the best friend you've got in the world."

"Not a spark. But I want you to see what an awful solemn thing I reckon
it."

"Then may God rot me, and plague me, and let me roast in hell-fire with
the rogues for ever and a day, if I so much as whisper your news to man
or mouse! There, will that do?"

"No call to drag in hell fire, 'cause I knaw you doan't set no count on
it. More doan't I. Hell's cold ashes now if all what you ve said is
true. But you've sworn all right and now I'll tell 'e."

He bent forward and whispered in the other's ear, whereon Hicks started
in evident amazement and showed himself much concerned.

"Good Heavens! Man alive, are you mad?"

"You doan't 'zactly look on ahead enough, Clem," said Will loftily.
"Ban't the thing itself's gwaine to make a fortune, but what comes of
it. 'Tis a tidy stepping-stone lead-in' to gert matters very often, as
your books tell, I dare say."

"It can't lead to anything whatever in your case but wasted years."

"I'm best judge of that. I've planned the road, and if I ban't home
again inside ten year as good a man as Grimbal or any other I'll say I
was wrong."

"You're a bigger fool than even I thought, Blanchard."

Will's eye flashed.

"You 'm a tidy judge of a fule, I grant," he said angrily, "or should
be. But you 'm awnly wan more against me. You'll see you 'm wrong like
the rest. Anyway, you've got to mind what you've sweared. An' when
mother an' Chris ax 'e wheer I be, I'll thank you to say I'm out in the
world doin' braave, an' no more."

"As you like. It 's idle, I know, trying to make you change your mind."

A thin voice from an upper chamber of the cottage here interrupted their
colloquy, and the mother of the bee-keeper reminded him that he was due
early on the following day at Okehampton with honey, and that he ought
long since to be asleep.

"If that's Will Blanchard," she concluded, "tell un to be off home to
bed. What 's the wisdom o' turning night hours into day like this here?"

"All right, mother," shouted Will. "Gude-night to 'e. I be off this
moment."

Then bidding his friend farewell, he departed.

"Doan't think twice o' what I said a minute since. I was hot 'cause you
couldn't see no wisdom in my plan. But that's the way of folks. They
belittle a chap's best thoughts and acts till the time comes for luck to
turn an' bring the fruit; then them as scoffed be the first to turn
round smilin' an' handshaking and sayin', 'What did us say? Didn't us
tell 'e so from the very beginning?'"

Away went the youthful water-keeper, inspired with the prospect of his
contemplated flight. He strode home at a rapid pace, to find all lights
out and the household in bed. Then he drank half a pint of cider, ate
some bread and cheese, and set about a letter to Phoebe.

A little desk on a side-table, the common property of himself, his
mother, and sister, was soon opened, and materials found. Then, in his
own uncial characters, that always tended hopefully upward, and thus
left a triangle of untouched paper at the bottom of every sheet, Will
wrote a letter of two folios, or eight complete pages. In this he
repeated the points of his conversation with Phoebe's father, told her
to be patient, and announced that, satisfied of her unfailing love and
steadfastness through all, he was about to pass into the wider world,
and carve his way to prosperity and fortune. He hid particulars from
her, but mentioned that Clement Hicks would forward any communications.
Finally he bid her keep a stout heart and live contented in the
certainty of ultimate happiness. He also advised Phoebe to forgive her
father. "I have already done it, honor bright," he wrote; "'t is a wise
man's part to bear no malice, especially against an old grey body whose
judgment 'pears to be gone bad for some reason." He also assured Phoebe
that he was hers until death should separate them; in a postscript he
desired her to break his departure softly to his mother if opportunity
to do so occurred; and, finally, he was not ashamed to fill the empty
triangles on each page with kisses, represented by triangles closely
packed. Bearing this important communication, Will walked out again into
the night, and soon his letter awaited Phoebe in the usual receptacle.
He felt therein himself, half suspecting a note might await him, but
there was nothing. He hesitated for a moment, then climbed the gate into
Monks Barton farmyard, went softly and stood in the dark shadow of the
mill-house. The moon shone full upon the face of the dwelling, and its
three fruit-trees looked as though painted in profound black against the
pale whitewash; while Phoebe's dormer-window framed the splendour of the
reflected sky, and shone very brightly. The blind was down, and the
maiden behind it had been asleep an hour or two; but Will pictured her
as sobbing her heart out still. Perhaps he would never see her again.
The path he had chosen to follow might take him over seas and through
vast perils; indeed, it must do so if the success he desired was to be
won. He felt something almost like a catch in his throat as he turned
away and crossed the sleeping river. He glanced down through dreaming
glades and saw one motionless silver spot on the dark waters beneath the
alders. Sentiment was at its flood just then, and he spoke a few words
under his breath. "'Tis thicky auld Muscovy duck, roostin' on his li'l
island; poor lone devil wi' never a mate to fight for nor friend to swim
along with. Worse case than mine, come to think on it!" Then an emotion,
rare enough with him, vanished, and he sniffed the night air and felt
his heart beat high at thoughts of what lay ahead.

Will returned home, made fast the outer door, took off his boots, and
went softly up a creaking stair. Loud and steady music came from the
room where John Grimbal lay, and Blanchard smiled when he heard it.
"'Tis the snore of a happy man with money in his purse," he thought.
Then he stood by his mother's door, which she always kept ajar at night,
and peeped in upon her. Damaris Blanchard slumbered with one arm on the
coverlet, the other behind her head. She was a handsome woman still, and
looked younger than her eight-and-forty years in the soft ambient light.
"Muneshine do make dear mother so purty as a queen," said Will to
himself. And he would never wish her "good-by," perhaps never see her
again. He hastened with light, impulsive step into the room, thinking
just to kiss the hand on the bed, but his mother stirred instantly and
cried, "Who's theer?" with sleepy voice. Then she sat up and listened--a
fair, grey-eyed woman in an old-fashioned night-cap. Her son had
vanished before her eyes were opened, and now she turned and yawned and
slept again.

Will entered his own chamber near at hand, doffed for ever the velveteen
uniform of water-keeper, and brought from a drawer an old suit of
corduroy. Next he counted his slight store of money, set his 'alarum'
for four o'clock, and, fifteen minutes later, was in bed and asleep, the
time then being a little after midnight.




CHAPTER IV

BY THE RIVER


Clement Hicks paid an early visit to Will's home upon the following
morning. He had already set out to Okehampton with ten pounds of honey
in the comb, and at Mrs. Blanchard's cottage he stopped the little
public vehicle which ran on market-days to the distant town. That the
son of the house was up and away at dawn told his family nothing, for
his movements were at all times erratic, and part of his duty consisted
in appearing on the river at uncertain times and in unexpected
localities. Clement Hicks often called for a moment upon his way to
market, and Chris, who now greeted her lover, felt puzzled at the
unusual gravity of his face. She turned pale when she heard his
tremendous news; but the mother was of more Spartan temperament and
received intelligence of Will's achievement without changing colour or
ceasing from her occupation.

Between Damaris Blanchard and her boy had always existed a perfect
harmony of understanding, rare even in their beautiful relationship. The
thoughts of son and mother chimed; not seldom they anticipated each
other's words. The woman saw much of her dead husband reflected in Will
and felt a moral conviction that through the storms of youth, high
temper, and inexperience, he would surely pass to good things, by reason
of the strenuous honesty and singleness of purpose that actuated him;
he, on his side, admired the great calmness and self-possession of his
mother. She was so steadfast, so strong, and wiser than any woman he had
ever seen. With a fierce, volcanic affection Will Blanchard loved her.
She and Phoebe alike shared his whole heart.

"It is a manly way of life he has chosen, and that is all I may say. He
is ambitious and strong, and I should be the last to think he has not
done well to go into the world for a while," said Clement.

"When is he coming back again?" asked Chris.

"He spoke of ten years or so."

"Then 'twill be more or less," declared Mrs. Blanchard, calmly. "Maybe a
month, maybe five years, or fifteen, not ten, if he said ten. He'll shaw
the gude gold he's made of, whether or no. I'm happy in this and not
surprised. 'Twas very like to come arter last night, if things went
crooked."

"'Tis much as faither might have done," said Chris.

"'Tis much what he did do. Thank you for calling, Clem Hicks. Now best
be away, else they'll drive off to Okehampton without 'e."

Clement departed, Chris wept as the full extent of her loss was
impressed upon her, and Mrs. Blanchard went up to her son's room. There
she discovered the velveteen suit with a card upon them: "Hand over to
Mr. Morgan, Head Water-keeper, Sandypark." She looked through his
things, and found that he had taken nothing but his money, one suit of
working clothes, and a red tie--her present to him on his birthday
during the previous month. All his other possessions remained in their
usual places. With none to see, the woman's eye moistened; then she sat
down on Will's bed and her heart grew weak for one brief moment as she
pictured him fighting the battle. It hurt her a little that he had told
Clement Hicks his intention and hid it from his mother. Yet as a son, at
least, he had never failed. However, all affairs of life were a matter
of waiting, more or less, she told herself; and patience was easier to
Damaris Blanchard than to most people. Under her highest uneasiness,
maternal pride throbbed at thought of the manly independence indicated
by her son's action. She returned to the duties of the day, but found
herself restless, while continually admonishing Chris not to be so. Her
thoughts drifted to Monks Barton and Will's meeting with his
sweetheart's father. Presently, when her daughter went up to the
village, Mrs. Blanchard put off her apron, donned the cotton sunbonnet
that she always wore from choice, and walked over to see Mr. Lyddon.
They were old friends, and presently Damaris listened sedately to the
miller without taking offence at his directness of speech. He told the
story of his decision and Will's final reply, while she nodded and even
smiled once or twice in the course of the narrative.

"You was both right, I reckon," she said placidly, looking into Mr.
Lyddon's face. "You was wise to mistrust, not knawin' what's at the root
of him; and he, being as he is, was in the right to tell 'e the race
goes to the young. Wheer two hearts is bent on joining, 'tis join they
will--if both keeps of a mind long enough."

"That's it, Damaris Blanchard; who's gwaine to b'lieve that a bwoy an'
gal, like Will an' Phoebe, do knaw theer minds? Mark me, they'll both
chaange sweethearts a score of times yet 'fore they come to mate."

"Caan't speak for your darter, Lyddon; but I knaw my son. A masterful
bwoy, like his faither before him, wild sometimes an' wayward tu, but
not with women-folk. His faither loved in wan plaace awnly. He'll be
true to your cheel whatever betides, or I'm a fule."

"What's the use of that if he ban't true to himself? No, no, I caan't
see a happy ending to the tale however you look at it. Wish I could. I
fear't was a ugly star twinkled awver his birthplace, ma'am."

"'Twas all the stars of heaven, Miller," said the mother, frankly, "for
he was born in my husband's caravan in the auld days. We was camped up
on the Moor, drawn into one of them roundy-poundies o' grey granite
stones set up by Phoenicians at the beginning of the world. Ess fay, a
braave shiny night, wi' the li'l windows thrawed open to give me air.
An' 'pon Will's come-of-age birthday, last month, if us didn't all drive
up theer an' light a fire an' drink a dish of tea in the identical spot!
'Tis out Newtake' way."

"Like a story-book."

"'Twas Clem Hicks, his thought, being a fanciful man. But I'll bid you
gude-marnin' now. Awnly mind this, as between friends and without a
spark of malice: Will Blanchard means to marry your maid, sure as you'm
born, if awnly she keeps strong for him. It rests with her, Miller, not
you."

"Much what your son said in sharper words. Well, you'm out o' reckoning
for once, wise though you be most times; for if a maiden's happiness
doan't rest with her faither, blamed if I see wheer it should. And to
think such a man as me doan't knaw wiser 'n two childern who caan't
number forty year between 'em is flat fulishness, surely?"

"I knaw Will," said Mrs. Blanchard, slowly and emphatically; "I knaw un
to the core, and that's to say more than you or anybody else can. A
mother may read her son like print, but no faither can see to the bottom
of a wife-old daughter--not if he was Solomon's self. So us'll wait an'
watch wi'out being worse friends."

She went home again the happier for her conversation; but any thought
that Mr. Lyddon might have been disposed to devote to her prophecy was
for the time banished by the advent of John Grimbal and his brother.

Like boys home from school, they dwelt in the present delight of their
return, and postponed the varied duties awaiting them, to revel again in
the old sights, sounds, and scents. To-day they were about an angling
excursion, and the fishers' road to Fingle lying through Monks Barton,
both brothers stopped a while and waited upon their old friend of the
mill, according to John's promise of the previous afternoon. Martin
carried the creel and the ample luncheon it contained; John smoked a
strong cigar and was only encumbered with his light fly-rod; the younger
designed to accompany his brother through Fingle Valley; then leave him
there, about his sport, and proceed alone to various places of natural
and antiquarian interest. But John meant fishing and nothing else. To
him great woods were no more than cover for fur and feathers; rivers and
streams meant a vehicle for the display of a fly to trout, and only
attracted him or the reverse, according to the fish they harboured. When
the moorland waters spouted and churned, cherry red from their springs
in the peat, he deemed them a noble spectacle; when, as at present,
Teign herself had shrunk to a mere silver thread, and the fingerling
trout splashed and wriggled half out of water in the shallows, he freely
criticised its scanty volume and meagre depths.

Miller Lyddon welcomed the men very heartily. He had been amongst those
who dismissed them with hope to their battle against the world, and now
he reminded them of his sanguine predictions. Will Blanchard's
disappearance amused John Grimbal and he laughed when Billy Blee
appeared red-hot with the news. Mr. Lyddon made no secret of his
personal opinion of Blanchard, and all debated the probable design of
the wanderer.

"Maybe he's 'listed," said John, "an' a good thing too if he has. It
makes a man of a young fellow. I'm for conscription myself--always have
been."

"I be minded to think he've joined the riders," declared Billy. "Theer
comed a circus here last month, with braave doin's in the way of
horsemanship and Merry Andrews, and such like devilries. Us all goes to
see it from miles round every year; an' Will was theer. Circus folk do
see the world in a way denied to most, and theer manner of life takes
'em even as far as Russia and the Indies I've heard."

"Then there's the gypsy blood in him--" declared Mr. Lyddon, "that might
send him roaming oversea, if nothing else did."

"Or my great doings are like to have fired him," said John. "How's
Phoebe?" he continued, dismissing Will. "I saw her yesterday--a bowerly
maiden she's grown--a prize for a better man that this wild youngster,
now bolted God knaws where."

"So I think," agreed the miller, "an' I hope she'll soon forget the
searching grey eyes of un and his high-handed way o' speech. Gals like
such things. Dear, dear! though he made me so darned angry last night, I
could have laughed in his faace more 'n wance."

"Missy's under the weather this marnin'," declared Billy. "Who tawld her
I ban't able to say, but she knawed he'd gone just arter feedin' the
fowls, and she went down valley alone, so slow, wi' her purty head that
bent it looked as if her sunbonnet might be hiding an auld gran'mother's
poll."

"She'll come round," said Martin; "she's only a young girl yet."

"And there 's fish as good in the sea as ever came out, and better,"
declared his brother. "She must wait for a man who is a man,--somebody
of good sense and good standing, with property to his name."

Miller Lyddon noted with surprise and satisfaction John Grimbal's warmth
of manner upon this question; he observed also the stout, hearty body of
him, and the handsome face that crowned it. Then the brothers proceeded
down-stream, and the master of Monks Barton looked after them and caught
himself hoping that they might meet Phoebe.

At a point where the river runs between a giant shoulder of heather-clad
hill on one side and the ragged expanses of Whiddon Park upon the other,
John clambered down to the streamside and began to fish, while Martin
dawdled at hand and watched the sport. A pearly clearness, caught from
the clouds, characterised earth as well as air, and proved that every
world-picture depends for atmosphere and colour upon the sky-picture
extended above it. Again there was movement and some music, for the
magic of the wind in a landscape's nearer planes is responsible for
both. The wooded valley lay under a grey and breezy forenoon; swaying
alders marked each intermittent gust with a silver ripple of upturned
foliage, and still reaches of the river similarly answered the wind with
hurrying flickers and furrows of dimpled light. Through its transparent
flood, where the waters ran in shadow and escaped reflections, the river
revealed a bed of ruddy brown and rich amber. This harmonious colouring
proceeded from the pebbly bottom, where a medley of warm agate tones
spread and shimmered, like some far-reaching mosaic beneath the crystal.
Above Teign's shrunken current extended oak and ash, while her banks
bore splendid concourse of the wild water-loving dwellers in that happy
valley. Meadowsweet nodded creamy crests; hemlock and fool's parsley and
seeding willow-herb crowded together beneath far-scattered filigree of
honeysuckles and brambles with berries, some ripe, some red; while the
scarlet corals of briar and white bryony gemmed every riotous trailing
thicket, dene, and dingle along the river's brink; and in the grassy
spaces between rose little chrysoprase steeples of wood sage all set in
shining fern. Upon the boulders in midstream subaqueous mosses, now
revealed and starved by the drought, died hard, and the seeds of
grasses, figworts, and persicarias thrust up flower and foliage,
flourishing in unwonted spots from which the next freshet would rudely
tear them. Insect life did not abundantly manifest itself, for the day
was sunless; but now and again, with crisp rattle of his gauze wings, a
dragon-fly flashed along the river. Through these scenes the Teign
rolled drowsily and with feeble pulses. Upon one bank rose the confines
of Whiddon; on the other, abrupt and interspersed with gulleys of
shattered shale, ascended huge slopes whereon a whole summer of sunshine
had scorched the heather to dry death. But fading purple still gleamed
here and there in points and splashes, and the lesser furze, mingling
therewith, scattered gold upon the tremendous acclivities even to the
crown of fir-trees that towered remote and very blue upon the uplifted
sky-line. Swallows, with white breasts flashing, circled over the river,
and while their elevation above the water appeared at times tremendous,
the abrupt steepness of the gorge was such that the birds almost brushed
the hillside with their wings. A sledge, laden with the timber of barked
sapling oaks, creaked and jingled over the rough road beside the stream;
a man called to his horses and a dog barked beside him; then they
disappeared and the spacious scene was again empty, save for its
manifold wild life and music.

John Grimbal fished, failed, and cursed the poor water and the lush
wealth of the riverside that caught his fly at every critical moment. A
few small trout he captured and returned; then, flinging down rod and
net, he called to his brother for the luncheon-basket. Together they sat
in the fern beside the river and ate heartily of the fare that Mrs.
Blanchard had provided; then, as John was about to light a pipe, his
brother, with a smile, produced a little wicker globe and handed it to
him. This unexpected sight awoke sudden and keen appetite on the elder's
face. He smacked his lips, swore a hearty oath of rejoicing, and held
out an eager hand for the thing.

"My God! to think I'll suck the smoke of that again,--the best baccy in
the wide world!"

The little receptacle contained a rough sort of sun-dried Kaffir
tobacco, such as John and Martin had both smoked for the past fifteen
years.

"I thought it would be a treat. I brought home a few pounds," said the
younger, smiling again at his brother's hungry delight. John cut into
the case, loaded his pipe, and lighted it with a contented sign. Then he
handed the rest back to its owner.

"No, no," said Martin. "I'll just have one fill, that's all. I brought
this for you. 'T will atone for the poor sport. The creel I shall leave
with you now, for I'm away to Fingle Bridge and Prestonbury. We'll meet
at nightfall."

Thereupon he set off down the valley, his mind full of early British
encampments, while John sat and smoked and pondered upon his future. He
built no castles in the air, but a solid country house of red brick,
destined to stand in its own grounds near Chagford, and to have a snug
game-cover or two about it, with a few good acres of arable land
bordering on forest. Roots meant cover for partridges in John Grimbal's
mind; beech and oak in autumn represented desirable food for pheasants;
and corn, once garnered and out of the way, left stubble for all manner
of game.

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