HOPE RENEWED
Jon Grimbal's desires toward Blanchard lay dormant, and the usual
interests of life filled his mind. The attitude he now assumed was one
of sustained patience and observation; and it may best be described in
words of his own employment.
Visiting Drewsteignton, about a month after the return of Chris
Blanchard to her own, the man determined to extend his ride and return
by devious ways. He passed, therefore, where the unique Devonian
cromlech stands hard by Bradmere pool. A lane separates this granite
antiquity from the lake below, and as John Grimbal rode between them,
his head high enough to look over the hedge, he observed a ladder raised
against the Spinsters' Rock, as the cromlech is called, and a man with a
tape-measure sitting on the cover stone.
It was the industrious Martin, home once again. After his difference
with Blanchard, the antiquary left Devon for another tour in connection
with his work, and had devoted the past six months to study of
prehistoric remains in Guernsey, Herm, and other of the Channel Islands.
Before departing, he had finally regained his brother's friendship,
though the close fraternal amity of the past appeared unlikely to return
between them. Now John recognised Martin, and his first impulse produced
pleasure, while his second was one of irritation. He felt glad to see
his brother; he experienced annoyance that Martin should thus return to
Chagford and not call immediately at the Red House.
"Hullo! Home again! I suppose you forgot you had a brother?"
"John, by all that's surprising! Forget? Was it probable? Have I so many
flesh-and-blood friends to remember? I arrived yesterday and called on
you this morning, only to find you were at Drewsteignton; so I came to
verify some figures at the cromlech, hoping we might meet the sooner."
He was beside his brother by this time, and they shook hands over the
hedge.
"I'll leave the ladder and walk by you and have a chat."
"It's too hot to ride at a walk. Come you here to Bradmere Pool. We can
lie down in the shade by the water, and I'll tether my horse for half an
hour."
Five minutes later the brothers sat under the shadow of oaks and beeches
at the edge of a little tarn set in fine foliage.
"Pleasant to see you," said Martin. "And looking younger I do think.
It's the open air. I'll wager you don't get slimmer in the waist-belt
though."
"Yes, I'm all right."
"What's the main interest of life for you now?"
John reflected before answering.
"Not quite sure. Depends on my mood. Just been buying a greyhound bitch
at Drewsteignton. I'm going coursing presently. A kennel will amuse me.
I spend most of my time with dogs. They never change. I turn to them
naturally. But they overrate humanity."
"Our interests are so different. Yet both belong to the fresh air and
the wild places remote from towns. My book is nearly finished. I shall
publish it in a year's time, or even less."
"Have you come back to stop?"
"Yes, for good and all now."
"You have found no wife in your wanderings?"
"No, John. I shall never marry. That was a dark spot in my life, as it
was in yours. We both broke our shins over that."
"I broke nothing--but another man's bones."
He was silent for a moment, then proceeded abruptly on this theme.
"The old feeling is pretty well dead though. I look on and watch the man
ruining himself; I see his wife getting hard-faced and thin, and I
wonder what magic was in her, and am quite content. I wouldn't kick him
a yard quicker to the devil if I could. I watch him drift there."
"Don't talk like that, dear old chap. You're not the man you pretend to
be, and pretend to think yourself. Don't sour your nature so. Let the
past lie and go into the world and end this lonely existence."
"Why don't you?"
"The circumstances are different. I am not a man for a wife. You are, if
ever there was one."
"I had him within a hair's-breadth once," resumed the other
inconsequently. "Blanchard, I mean. There 's a secret against him. You
didn't know that, but there is. Some black devilry for all I can tell.
But I missed it. Perhaps if I knew it would quicken up my spirit and
remind me of all the brute made me endure."
"Yet you say the old feeling is dead!"
"So it is--starved. Hicks knew. He broke his neck an hour too soon. It
was like a dream of a magnificent banquet I had some time ago. I woke
with my mouth watering, just as the food was uncovered, and I felt so
damned savage at being done out of the grub that I got up and went
down-stairs and had half a pint of champagne and half a cold roast
partridge! I watch Blanchard go down the hill--that's all. If this
knowledge had come to me when I was boiling, I should have used it to
his utmost harm, of course. Now I sometimes doubt, even if I could hang
the man, whether I should take the trouble to do it."
"Get away from him and all thought of him."
"I do. He never crosses my mind unless he crosses my eyes. I ride past
Newtake occasionally, and see him sweating and slaving and fighting the
Moor. Then I laugh, as you laugh at a child building sand castles
against an oncoming tide. Poor fool!"
"If you pity, you might find it in your heart to forgive."
"My attitude is assured. We will call it one of mere indifference. You
made up that row over the gate-post when his first child died, didn't
you?"
"Yes, yes. We shall be friendly--we must be, if only for the sake of the
memory of Chris. You and I are frank to-day. But you saw long ago what I
tried to hide, so it is no news to you. You will understand. When Hicks
died I thought perhaps after years--but that's over now. She 's gone."
"Didn't you know? She 's back again."
"Back! Good God!"
John laughed at his brother's profound agitation.
"Like as not you'd see her if you went over Rushford Bridge. She 's back
with her mother. Queer devils, all of them; but I suppose you can have
her for the asking now if you couldn't before. Damnably like her
brother she is. She passed me two days ago, and looked at me as if I was
transparent, or a mere shadow hiding something else."
A rush of feeling overwhelmed Martin before this tremendous news. He
could not trust himself to speak. Then a great hope wrestled with him
and conquered. In his own exaltation he desired to see all whom he loved
equally lifted up towards happiness.
"I wish to Heaven you would open your eyes and raise them from your dogs
and find a wife, John."
"Ah! We all want the world to be a pretty fairy tale for our friends.
You scent your own luck ahead, and wish me to be lucky too. I ought to
thank you for that; but, instead, I'll give you some advice. Don't
bother yourself with the welfare of others; to do that is to ruin your
own peace of mind and court more trouble than your share. Every
big-hearted man is infernally miserable--he can't help it. The only
philosopher's stone is a stone heart; that is what the world 's taught
me."
"Never! You're echoing somebody else, not yourself, I'll swear. I know
you better. We must see much of each other in the future. I shall buy a
little trap that I may drive often to the Red House. And I should like
to dedicate my book to you, if you would take it as a compliment."
"No, no; give it to somebody who may be able to serve you. I'm a fool in
such things and know no more about the old stones than the foxes and
rabbits that burrow among them. Come, I must get home. I'm glad you have
returned, though I hated you when you supported them against me; but
then love of family 's a mere ghost against love of women. Besides, how
seldom it is that a man's best friend is one of his own blood."
They rose and departed. John trotted away through Sandypark, having
first made Martin promise to sup with him that night, and the pedestrian
proceeded by the nearest road to Rushford Bridge.
Chris he did not see, but it happened that Mr. Lyddon met him just
outside Monks Barton, and though Martin desired no such thing at the
time, nothing would please the miller but that his friend should return
to the farm for some conversation.
"Home again, an' come to glasses, tu! Well, they clear the sight, an' we
must all wear 'em sooner or late. 'T is a longful time since I seed 'e,
to be sure."
"All well, I hope?"
"Nothing to grumble at. Billy an' me go down the hill as gradual an'
easy as any man 's a right to expect. But he's gettin' so bald as a
coot; an' now the shape of his head comes to be knawed, theer 's
wonnerful bumps 'pon it. Then your brother's all for sport an' war. A
Justice of the Peace they've made un, tu. He's got his volunteer chaps
to a smart pitch, theer's no gainsaying. A gert man for wild diversions
he is. Gwaine coursin' wi' long-dogs come winter, they tell me."
"And how are Phoebe and her husband?"
"A little under the weather just now; but I'm watchin' 'em unbeknawnst.
Theer's a glimmer of hope in the dark if you'll believe it, for Will
ackshally comed to me esster-night to ax my advice--_my_ advice--on a
matter of stock! What do 'e think of that?"
"He was fighting a losing battle in a manly sort of way it seemed to me
when last I saw him."
"So he was, and is. I give him eighteen month or thereabout--then'll
come the end of it."
"The 'end'! What end? You won't let them starve? Your daughter and the
little children?"
"You mind your awn business, Martin," said Mr. Lyddon, with nods and
winks. "No, they ban't gwaine to starve, but my readin' of Will's
carater has got to be worked out. Tribulation's what he needs to sweeten
him, same as winter sweetens sloes; an' 't is tribulation I mean him to
have. If Phoebe's self caan't change me or hurry me 't is odds you
won't. Theer's a darter for 'e! My Phoebe. She'll often put in a whole
week along o' me still. You mind this: if it's grawn true an' thrawn
true from the plantin', a darter's love for a faither lasts longer 'n
any mortal love at all as I can hear tell of. It don't wear out wi'
marriage, neither, as I've found, thank God. Phoebe rises above auld age
and the ugliness an' weakness an' bad temper of auld age. Even a poor,
doddering ancient such as I shall be in a few years won't weary her;
she'll look back'ards with butivul clear eyes, an' won't forget. She'll
see--not awnly a cracked, shrivelled auld man grizzling an' grumbling in
the chimbley corner, but what the man was wance--a faither, strong an'
lusty, as dandled her, an' worked for, an' loved her with all his heart
in the days of his bygone manhood. Ess, my Phoebe's all that; an' she
comes here wi' the child; an' it pleases me, for rightly onderstood,
childern be a gert keeper-off of age."
"I'm sure she's a good daughter to you, Miller. And Will?"
"Doan't you fret. We've worked it out in our minds--me an' Billy; an' if
two auld blids like us can't hatch a bit o' wisdom, what brains is worth
anything? We'm gwaine to purify the awdacious young chap 'so as by
fire,' in holy phrase."
"You're dealing with a curious temperament."
"I'm dealing with a damned fule," said Mr. Lyddon frankly; "but theer's
fules an' fules, an' this partickler wan's grawed dear to me in some
ways despite myself. 'T is Phoebe's done it at bottom I s'pose. The
man's so full o' life an' hope. Enough energy in un for ten men; an'
enough folly for twenty. Yet he've a gude heart an' never lied in's life
to my knawledge."
"That's to give him praise, and high praise. How's his sister? I hear
she's returned after all."
"Ess--naughty twoad of a gal--runned arter the gypsies! But she'm
sobered now. Funny to think her mother, as seemed like a woman robbed of
her right hand when Chris went, an' beginned to graw into the sere
onusual quick for a widow, took new life as soon as her gal comed back.
Just shaws what strength lies in a darter, as I tell 'e."
The old man's garrulity gained upon him, and though Martin much desired
to be gone, he had not the heart to hasten.
"A darter's the thing an'--but't is a secret yet--awnly you'll see what
you'll see. Coourse Billy's very well for gathered wisdom and high
conversation 'bout the world to come; but he ban't like a woman round
the house, an' for all his ripe larnin' he'll strike fire
sometimes--mostly when I gives him a bad beating at 'Oaks' of a evenin'.
Then he'm so acid as auld rhubarb, an' dots off to his bed wi'out a
'gude-night.'"
For another ten minutes Mr. Lyddon chattered, but at the end of that
time Martin escaped and proceeded homewards. His head throbbed and his
mind was much excited by the intelligence of the day. The yellow
stubbles, the green meadows, the ploughed lands similarly spun before
him and whirled up to meet the sky. As he re-entered the village a
butcher's cart nearly knocked him down. Hope rose in a glorious new
sunrise--the hope that he had believed was set for ever. Then, passing
that former home of Clement Hicks and his mother, did Grimbal feel great
fear and misgiving. The recollection of Chris and her love for the dead
man chilled him. He remembered his own love for Chris when he thought
she must be dead. He told himself that he must hope nothing; he repeated
to himself how fulfilment of his desire, now revived after long sleep,
might still be as remote as when Chris Blanchard said him nay in the
spring wastes under Newtake five years and more ago. His head dinned
this upon his heart; but his heart would not believe and responded with
a sanguine song of great promise.