"I knaw, I knaw. 'Twill call itself Christian long arter your time an'

mine; as to bein' Christian--that's another story. Clem Hicks lightened such matters to me--fule though he was in the ordering of his awn life.

But s'pose you digs the post up, for argeyment's sake. What about me, as have to go out 'pon the Moor an' blast another new wan out the virgin granite wi' gunpowder? Do'e think I've nothin' better to do with my time than that?"

Here, in his supreme anxiety and eagerness, forgetting the manner of man he argued with, Martin made a fatal mistake.

"That's reasonable and business-like," he said. "I wouldn't have you suffer for lost time, which is part of your living. I'll give you ten pounds for the stone, Will, and that should more than pay for your time and for the new post."

He glanced into the other's face and instantly saw his error. The farmer's countenance clouded and his features darkened until he looked like an angry Redskin. His eyes glinted steel-bright under a ferocious frown; the squareness of his jaw became much marked.

"You dare to say that, do'e? An' me as good a man, an' better, than you or your brother either! Money--you remind me I'm--Theer! You can go to blue, blazin' h.e.l.l for your granite crosses--that's wheer you can go--you or any other poking, prying pelican! Offer money to me, would 'e? Who be you, or any other man, to offer me money for wasted time? As if I was a road scavenger or another man's servant! G.o.d's truth! you forget who you'm talkin' to!"

"This is to purposely misunderstand me, Blanchard. I never, never, meant any such thing. Am I one to gratuitously insult or offend another?

Typical this! Your cursed temper it is that keeps you back in the world and makes a failure of you," answered the student of stones, his own temper nearly lost under exceptional provocation.

"Who says I be a failure?" roared Will in return. "What do you know, you grey, dreamin' fule, as to whether I'm successful or not so? Get you gone off my land or--"

"I'll go, and readily enough. I believe you're mad. That's the conclusion I'm reluctantly driven to--mad. But don't for an instant imagine your lunatic stupidity is going to stand between the world and this discovery, because it isn't."

He strapped on his satchel, picked up his stick, put his hat on straight, and prepared to depart, breathing hard.

"Go," snorted Will; "go to your auld stones--they 'm the awnly fit comp'ny for 'e. Bruise your silly shins against 'em, an' ax 'em if a moorman's in the right or wrong to paart wi' his gate-post to the fust fule as wants it!"

Martin Grimbal strode off without replying, and Will, in a sort of grim good-humour at this victory, returned to milking his cows. The encounter, for some obscure reason, restored him to amiability. He reviewed his own dismal part in it with considerable satisfaction, and, after going indoors and eating a remarkably good breakfast, he lighted his pipe and, in the most benignant of moods, went out with a horse and cart to gather withered fern.

CHAPTER IV

MARTIN'S RAID

Mrs. Blanchard now dwelt alone, and all her remaining interests in life were cl.u.s.tered 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 circ.u.mstance, 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 a.s.sure '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' gra.s.s 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 a.s.sistance 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."