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