CHAPTER XIV

ACTION

Time pa.s.sed, and Mrs. Blanchard made a slow return to health. Her daughter a.s.sumed control of the sick-room, and Martin Grimbal was denied the satisfaction of seeing Chris settled in her future home for a period of nearly two months. Then, when the invalid became sufficiently restored to leave Chagford for change of air, both Martin and Chris accompanied her and spent a few weeks by the sea.

Will, meantime, revolved upon his own affairs and suffered torments long drawn out. For these protracted troubles those of his own house were responsible, and both Phoebe and the miller greatly erred in their treatment of him at this season. For the woman there were indeed excuses, but Mr. Lyddon might have been expected to show more wisdom and better knowledge of a character at all times transparent enough. Phoebe, nearing maternal tribulation, threw a new obstacle in her husband's way, and implored him by all holy things, now that he had desisted from confession thus far, to keep his secret yet a little longer and wait for the birth of the child. She used every possible expedient to win this new undertaking from Will, and her father added his voice to hers. The miller's expressed wish, strongly urged, frequently repeated, at last triumphed, and against his own desire and mental promptings, Blanchard, at terrible cost to himself, had promised patience until June.

Life, thus clouded and choked, wrought havoc with the man. His natural safety-valves were blocked, his nerves shattered, his temper poisoned.

Primitive characteristics appeared as a result of this position, and he exhibited the ferocity of an over-driven tame beast, or a hunted wild one. In days long removed from this crisis he looked back with chill of body and shudder of mind to that nightmare springtime; and he never willingly permitted even those dearest to him to retrace the period.

The struggle lasted long, but his nature beat Blanchard before the end, burst its bonds, shattered promises and undertakings, weakened marital love for a while, and set him free by one tremendous explosion and victory of natural force. There had come into his head of late a new sensation, as of busy fingers weaving threads within his skull and iron hands moulding the matter of his brain into new patterns. The demon things responsible for his torment only slept when he slept, or when, as had happened once or twice, he drank himself indifferent to all mundane matters. Yet he could not still them for long, and even Phoebe had heard mutterings and threats of the thread-spinners who were driving her husband mad.

On an evening in late May she became seriously alarmed for his reason.

Circ.u.mstances suddenly combined to strangle the last flickering breath of patience in Will, and the slender barriers were swept away in such a storm as even Phoebe's wide experience of him had never parallelled.

Miller Lyddon was out, at a meeting in the village convened to determine after what fashion Chagford should celebrate the Sovereign's Jubilee; Billy also departed about private concerns, and Will and his wife had Monks Barton much to themselves. Even she irritated the suffering man at this season, and her sunken face and chatter about her own condition and future hopes of a son often worried him into sheer frenzy. His promise once exacted she rarely touched upon that matter, believing the less said the better, but he misunderstood her reticence and held it selfish.

Indeed, Blanchard fretted and chafed alone now; for John Grimbal's sustained silence had long ago convinced Mr. Lyddon that the master of the Red House meant no active harm, and Phoebe readily grasped at the same conclusion.

This night, however, the flood-gates crumbled, and Will, before a futile a.s.sertion from Phoebe touching the happy promise of the time to come and the cheerful spring weather, dashed down his pipe with an oath, clenched his hands, then leapt to his feet, shook his head, and strode about like a maniac.

"Will! You've brawk un to shivers--the butivul wood pipe wi' amber that I gived 'e last birthday!"

"d.a.m.n my birthday--a wisht day for me 't was! I've lived tu long--tu long by all my years, an' n.o.body cares wan salt tear that I be roastin'

in h.e.l.l-fire afore my time. I caan't stand it no more--no more at all--not for you or your faither or angels in heaven or ten million babies to be born into this blasted world--not if I was faither to 'em all. I must live my life free, or else I'll go in a madhouse. Free--do 'e hear me? I've suffered enough and waited more 'n enough. Ban't months nor weeks neither--'t is a long, long lifetime. You talk o' time dragging! If you knawed--if you knawed! An' these devil-spinners allus knotting an' twisting. I could do things--I could--things man never dreamed. An' I will--for they 'm grawing and grawing, an' they'll burst my skull if I let 'em bide in it. Months ago I've sat on a fence unbeknawnst wheer men was shooting, an' whistled for death. So help me, 't is true. Me to do that! Theer 's a cur for 'e; an' yet ban't me neither, but the spinners in my head. Death 's a party easily called, mind you. A knife, or a pinch o' powder, or a drop o' deep water--they 'll bring un to your elbow in a moment. Awnly, if I done that, I'd go in company. n.o.body should bide to laugh. Them as would cry might cry, but him as would laugh should come along o' me--he should, by G.o.d!"

"Will, Will! It isn't my Will talking so?"

"It be me, an' it ban't me. But I'm in earnest at last, an' speakin'

truth. The spinners knaw, an' they 'm right. I'm sick to sheer hate o'

my life; and you've helped to make me so--you and your faither likewise.

This thing doan't tear your heart out of you an' grind your nerves to pulp as it should do if you was a true wife."

"Oh, my dear, my lovey, how can 'e say or think it? You knaw what it has been to me."

"I knaw you've thought all wrong 'pon it when you've thought at all. An'

Miller, tu. You've prevailed wi' me to go on livin' a coward's life for countless ages o' time--me--me--creepin' on the earth wi' my tail between my legs an' knawin' I never set eyes on a man as ban't braver than myself. An' him--Grimbal--laughing, like the devil he is, to think on what my life must be!"

"I caan't be no quicker. The cheel's movin' an' bracin' itself up an'

makin' ready to come in the world, ban't it? I've told 'e so fifty times. It's little longer to wait."

"It's no longer. It's nearer than sleep or food or drink. It's comin'

'fore the moon sets. 'T is that or the madhouse--nothin' else. If you'd felt the fire as have been eatin' my thinking paarts o' late days you'd knaw. Ban't no use your cryin', for 't isn't love of me makes you.

Rivers o' tears doan't turn me no more. I'm steel now--fust time for a month--an' while I'm steel I'll act like steel an' strike like steel.

I've had shaky nights an' silly nights an' haunted nights, but my head 's clear for wance, an' I'll use it while 'tis."

"Not to do no rash thing, Will? For Christ's sake, you won't hurt yourself or any other?"

"I must meet him wance for all."

"He 'm at the council 'bout Jubilee wi' faither an' parson an' the rest."

"But he'll go home arter. An' I'll have 'Yes' or 'No' to-night--I will, if I've got to shake the word out of his sawl. I ban't gwaine to be driven lunatic for him or you or any. Death's a sight better than a soft head an' a lifetime o' dirt an' drivelling an' babbling, like the brainless beasts they feed an' fatten in asylums. That's worse cruelty than any I be gwaine to suffer at human hands--to be mewed in wan of them gashly mad-holes wi' the rack an' ruins o' empty flesh grinning an'

gibbering 'pon me from all the corners o' the airth. I be sane now--sane enough to knaw I'm gwaine mad fast--an' I won't suffer it another hour.

It's come crying and howling upon my mind like a storm this night, an'

this night I'll end it."

"Wait at least until the morning. See him then."

"Go to bed, an' doan't goad me to more waiting, if you ever loved me.

Get to bed--out of my sight! I've had enough of 'e and of all human things this many days. An' that's as near madness as I'm gwaine. What I do, I do to-night."

She rose from her chair in sudden anger at his strange harshness, for the wife who has never heard an unkind word resents with pa.s.sionate protest the sting of the first when it falls. Now genuine indignation inflamed Phoebe, and she spoke bitterly.

"'Enough of me'! Ess fay! Like enough you have--a poor, patient creature sweatin' for 'e, an' thinkin' for 'e, an' blotting her eyes with tears for 'e, an' bearin' your childer an' your troubles, tu! 'Enough of me.'

Ess, I'll get gone to my bed an' stiffen my joints wi' kneelin' in prayer for 'e, an' weary G.o.d's ear for a fule!"

His answer was an action, and before she had done speaking he stretched above him and took his gun from its place on an old beam that extended across the ceiling.

"What in G.o.d's name be that for? You wouldn't--?"

"Shoot a fox? Why not? I'm a farmer now, and I'd kill best auld red Moor fox as ever gave a field forty minutes an' beat it. You was whinin'

'bout the chicks awnly this marnin'. I'll sit under the woodstack a bit an' think 'fore I starts. Ban't no gude gwaine yet."

Will's explanation of his deed was the true one, but Phoebe realised in some dim fashion that she stood within the shadow of a critical night and that action was called upon from her. Her anger waned a little, and her heart began to beat fast, but she acted with courage and prompt.i.tude.

"Let un be to-night--auld fox, I mean. Theer 'm more chicks than young foxes, come to think of it; an' he 'm awnly doin' what you forget to do--fighting for his vixen an' cubs."

She looked straight into Will's eyes, took the gun out of his hands, climbed on to a chair, and hung the weapon up again in its place.

He laughed curiously, and helped his wife to the ground again.

"Thank you," she said. "Now go an' do what you want to do, an' doan't forget the future happiness of women an' childer lies upon it." Her anger was nearly gone, as he spoke again.

"How little you onderstand me arter all these years--an' never will--n.o.body never will but mother. What did 'e fear? That I'd draw trigger on the man from behind a tree, p'r'aps?"

"No--not that, but that you might be driven to kill yourself along o'

having such a bad wife."

"Now we 'm both on the mad road," he said bitterly. Then he picked up his stick and, a moment later, went out into the night.

Phoebe watched his tall figure pa.s.s over the river, and saw him silhouetted against dead silver of moonlit waters as he crossed the stepping-stones. Then she climbed for the gun again, hid it, and presently prepared for her father's return.

"What butivul peace an quiet theer be in ministerin' to a gude faither,"

she thought, "as compared wi' servin' a stormy husband!" Then sorrow changed to active fear, and that, in its turn, sank into a desolate weariness and indifference. She detected no semblance of justice in her husband's outburst; she failed to see how circ.u.mstances must sooner or late have precipitated his revolt; and she felt herself very cruelly misjudged, very gravely wronged.

Meantime Blanchard pa.s.sed through a hurricane of rage against his enemy much akin to that formerly recorded of John Grimbal himself, when the brute won to the top of him and he yearned for physical conflict. That night Will was resolved to get a definite response or come to some conclusion by force of arms. His thoughts carried him far, and before he took up his station within the grounds of the Red House, at a point from which the avenue approach might be controlled, he had already fallen into a frantic hunger for fight and a hope that his enemy would prove of like mind. He itched for a.s.sault and battery, and his heart clamoured to be clean in his breast again.