Children of the Mist Part 48

"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 s.h.i.+p! 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 d.a.m.ned 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 nights.h.i.+rt inside them, he tumbled down-stairs, with pa.s.sion 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 Ba.s.sett 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 G.o.d'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? d.a.m.ned thieves, the lot of'e!"

"Doan't c.o.c.k 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 nutsh.e.l.l. 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 Ba.s.sett, 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 h.e.l.l 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. d.a.m.n 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 Ba.s.sett. "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 Ba.s.sett climbed into the cart and slowly pa.s.sed away homewards. The moon had risen clear of earth and threw light sufficient to show Ba.s.sett'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-c.o.c.k. 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 pa.s.sing 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."