TWO MIGHTY SURPRISES
Will returned from survey of his tribulation. Hope was dead for the
moment, and death of hope in a man of Blanchard's character proved
painful. The writing materials distracted his mind. Beginning without
interest, his composition speedily absorbed him; and before the task was
half completed, he already pictured it set out in great black or red
print upon conspicuous places.
"I reckon it'll make some of 'em stare to see the scholar I am,
anyways," he reflected.
Through the hours of night he wrote and re-wrote. His pen scratched
along, echoed by an exactly similar sound from the wainscots, where mice
nibbled in the silence. Anon, from the debris of his composition, a
complete work took shape; and when Phoebe awoke at three o'clock,
discovered her husband was still absent, and sought him hurriedly, she
found the inventory completed and Will just fastening its pages together
with a piece of string. He was wide awake and in a particularly happy
humour.
"Ban't you never comin' to bed? 'T is most marnin'," she said.
"Just comin'. What a job! Look here--twelve pages. I be surprised myself
to think how blamed well I've got through wi' it. You doan't knaw what
you can do till you try. I used to wonder at Clem's cleverness wi' a
pen; but I be purty near so handy myself an' never guessed it!"
"I'm sure you've made a braave job of it. I'll read it fust thing
to-morrow."
"You shall hear it now."
"Not now, Will; 't is so late an' I'm three paarts asleep. Come to bed,
dearie."
"Oh--if you doan't care--if it's nought to you that I've sit up all
night slavin' for our gude--"
"Then I'll hear it now. Coourse I knaw 't is fine readin'. Awnly I
thought you'd be weary."
"Sit here an' put your toes to the heat."
He set Phoebe in the chimney corner, wrapped his coat round her, and
threw more turf on the fire.
"Now you'm vitty; an' if theer's anything left out, tell me."
"I lay, wi' your memory, you've forgot little enough."
"I lay I haven't. All's here; an' 't is a gert wonder what a lot o' gude
things us have got. They did ought to fetch a couple o' hunderd pound at
least, if the sale's carried out proper."
"They didn't cost so much as that."
"By Gor! Didn't they? Well, set out in full, like this here, they do
sound as if they ought to be worth it. Now, I'll read 'em to see how it
all sounds in spoken words."
He cleared his throat and began:
"'Sale this day to Newtake Farm, near Chagford, Dartmoor, Devonshire.
Mr. William Blanchard, being about to leave England for foreign parts,
desires to sell at auction his farm property, household goods, cloam,
and effects, etc., etc., as per items below, to the best bidder. Many
things so good as new.' How do 'e like that, Phoebe?"
"Butivul; but do 'e mean in all solemn seriousness to go out England? 'T
is a awful thought, come you look at it close."
"Ess, 't is a gert, bold thing to do; but I doan't fear it. I be gettin'
into a business-like way o' lookin' 'pon life of late; an' I counts the
cost an' moves arter, as is the right order. Listen to these items set
out here. If they 'm printed big, wan under t'other, same as I've wrote
'em, they'll fill a barn door purty nigh!"
Then he turned to his papers.
"'The said goods and chattels are as follows, namely,'--reg'lar lawyer's
English, you see, though how I comed to get it so pat I caan't tell. Yet
theer 'tis--'namely, 2 washing trays; 3 zinc buckets; 1 meat preserve; 1
lantern; 2 bird-cages; carving knife and steel (Sheffield make)--'"
"Do'e judge that's the best order, Will?"
"Coourse 't is! I thought that out specially. Doan't go thrawin' me from
my stride in the middle. Arter 'Sheffield make,' 'half-dozen knives and
forks; sundry ditto, not so good; hand saw; 2 hammers; 1 cleaver;
salting trendle; 3 wheelbarrows--'"
"Doan't forget you lent wan of 'em to Farmer Thackwell."
"No, I gived it to un, him bein' pushed for need of wan. It slipped my
memory. '2 wheelbarrows.' Then I goes on, 'pig stock; pig trough; 2
young breeding sows; 4 garden tools; 2 peat cutters; 2 carts; 1 market
trap; 1 empty cask; 1 Dutch oven; 1 funnel; 2 firkins and a cider jib;
small sieve; 3 pairs new Bedford harrows; 1 chain harrow (out of
repair).' You see all's straight enough, which it ban't in some sales.
No man shall say he's got less than full value."
"You'm the last to think of such a thing."
"I am. It goes on like this: '5 mattocks; 4 digging picks; 4 head
chains; 1 axe; sledge and wedges; also hooks, eyes, and hasps for hard
wood.' Never used 'em all the time us been here. '2 sets of trap
harness, much worn.' I ban't gwaine to sell the dogs--eh? Us won't sell
Ship or your li'l terrier. What do 'e say?"
"No. Nobody would buy two auld dogs, for that matter."
"Though how a upland dog like Ship be gwaine to faace the fiery sunshine
on furrin gawld diggings, I caan't answer. Here goes again: '1 sofa; 1
armchair; 4 fine chairs with green cloth seats; 1 bedstead; 2 cots; 1
cradle; feather beds and palliasses and bolster pillows to match;
wash-stands and sets of crockery, mostly complete; 2 swing glasses; 3
bedroom chairs; 1 set of breeching harness--'"
"Hadn't 'e better put that away from the furniture?"
"No gert odds. 'Also 1 set leading harness; 2 tressels and ironing
board; 2 fenders; fire-irons and fire-dogs; 1 old oak chest; 1 wardrobe;
1 Brussels carpet (worn in 1 spot only)--'"
"Ban't worn worth namin'."
"Ess fay, 'tis wheer I sit Sundays--'9 feet by 11; 3 four-prong dung
forks.' I'll move them. They doan't come in none tu well theer, I allow.
'5 cane-seated chairs, 1 specimen of wax fruit under glass.'"
"I caan't paart wi' that, lovey. Faither gived it to me; an' 'twas
mother's wance on a time."
"Well, bein' a forced sale it ought to go. An' seein' how Miller's left
us to sail our awn boat to hell--but still, if you'm set on it."
He crossed it out, then suddenly laughed until the walls rang.
"Hush! You'll wake everybody. What do 'e find to be happy about?"
"I was thinkin' that down in them furrin, fiery paarts we'm gwaine to,
as your wax plums an' pears'll damned soon run away. They'll melt for
sartin!"
"Caan't be so hot as that! The li'l gal will never stand it. Read on
now. Theer ban't much left, surely?"
"Scores o' things! '1 stuffed kingfisher in good case with painted
picture at back; 1 fox mask; 1 mahogany 2-lap table; 1 warming-pan;
Britannia metal teapot and 6 spoons ditto metal; 5 spoons--smaller--ditto
metal.'"
"I found the one us lost."
"Then 'tis '6 spoons--smaller--ditto metal.' Then, 'ironing stove; 5
irons; washing boiler; 4 fry pans; 2 chimney crooks; 6 saucepans; pestle
and mortar; chimney ornaments; 4 coloured almanacs--one with picture of
the Queen--'"
"They won't fetch nothin'."
"They might. 'Knife sharper; screen; pot plants; 1 towel-rail; 1 runner;
2 forms; kitchen table; scales and weights and beam; 1 set of casters; 4
farm horses, aged; 3 ploughs; 1 hay wain; 1 stack of dry fern; 1-1/2
tons good manure; old iron and other sundries, including poultry, ducks,
geese, and fowls.' That's all."
"Not quite; but I caan't call to mind much you've left out 'cept all the
china an' linen."
"Ah! that's your job. An' I just sit here an' brought the things to my
memory, wan by wan! An' that bit at the top came easy as cutting a
stick!"
"'Tis a wonnerful piece o' work! An' the piano, Will?"
"I hadn't forgot that. Must take it along wi' us, or else send it down
to mother. Couldn't look her in the faace if I sold that."
"Ban't worth much."
"Caan't say. Cost faither five pound, though that was long ago. Anyway I
be gwaine to buy it in."
Silence then fell upon them. Phoebe sighed and shivered. A cock crew and
his note came muffled from the hen-roost. A dim grey dawn just served to
indicate the recumbent carcasses without.
"Come to bed now an' take a little rest 'fore marnin', dearie. You've
worked hard an' done wonders."
"Ban't you surprised I could turn it out?"
"That I be. I'd never have thought 'twas in 'e. So forehanded, tu!
A'most afore them poor things be cold."
"'Tis the forehandedness I prides myself 'pon. Some of us doan't know
all that's in me yet. But they'll live to see it."
"I knaw right well they will."
"This'll 'maze mother to-morrow."
"'Twill, sure 'nough."
"Would 'e like me to read it just wance more wi'out stoppin', Phoebe?"
"No, dear love, not now. Give it to us all arter breakfast in the
marnin'."
"So I will then; an' take it right away to the auctioneer the minute
after."
He put his papers away in the drawer of the kitchen table and retired.
Uneasy sleep presently overtook him and long he tossed and turned,
murmuring of his astonishment at his own powers with a pen.
His impetuosity carried the ruined man forward with sufficient speed
over the dark bitterness of failure confessed, failure advertised,
failure proclaimed in print throughout the confines of his little world.
He suffered much, and the wide-spread sympathy of friends and
acquaintance proved no anodyne but rather the reverse. He hated to see
eyes grow grave and mouths serious upon his entry; he yearned to turn
his back against Chagford and resume the process of living in a new
environment. Temporary troubles vexed him more than the supreme disaster
of his failure. Mr. Bambridge made considerable alterations in his
cherished lucubration; and when the advertisement appeared in print, it
looked mean and filled but a paltry space. People came up before the
sale to examine the goods, and Phoebe, after two days of whispered
colloquies upon her cherished property, could bear it no longer, and
left Newtake with her own little daughter and little Timothy. The Rev.
Shorto-Champernowne himself called, stung Will into sheer madness, which
he happily restrained, then purchased an old oak coffer for two pounds
and ten shillings.
Miller Lyddon made no sign, and hard things were muttered against him
and Billy Blee in the village. Virtuous indignation got hold upon the
Chagford quidnuncs and with one consent they declared Mr. Lyddon to
blame. Where was his Christian charity--that charity which should begin
at home and so seldom does? This interest in others' affairs took shape
on the night before the Newtake sale. Then certain of the baser sort
displayed their anger in a practical form, and Mr. Blee was hustled one
dark evening, had his hat knocked off, and suffered from a dead cat
thrown by unseen hands. The reason for this outrage also reached him.
Then, chattering with indignation and alarm, he hurried home and
acquainted Mr. Lyddon with the wild spirit abroad.
As for Blanchard, he roamed moodily about the scene of his lost battle.
In his pockets were journals setting forth the innumerable advantages of
certain foreign regions that other men desired to people for their
private ends. But Will was undecided, because all the prospects
presented appeared to lead directly to fortune.
The day of the sale dawned fine and at the appointed hour a thin stream
of market carts and foot passengers wound towards Newtake from the
village beneath and from a few outlying farms. Blanchard had gone up the
adjacent hill; and lying there, not far distant from the granite cross,
he reclined with his dog and watched the people. Him they did not see;
but them he counted and found some sixty souls had been attracted by his
advertisement. Men laughed and joked, and smoked; women shrugged their
shoulders, peeped about and disparaged the goods. Here and there a
purchaser took up his station beside a coveted lot. Some noticed that
none of those most involved were present; others spread a rumour that
Miller Lyddon designed to stop the sale at the last moment and buy in
everything. But no such incident broke the course of proceedings.
Will, from his hiding-place in the heather, saw Mr. Bambridge drive up,
noted the crowd follow him about the farm, like black flies, and felt
himself a man at his own funeral. The hour was dark enough. In the ear
of his mind he listened to the auctioneer's hammer, like a death-bell,
beating away all that he possessed. He had worked and slaved through
long years for this,--for the sympathy of Chagford, for the privilege of
spending a thousand pounds, for barely enough money to carry himself
abroad. A few more figures dotted the white road and turned into the
open gate at Newtake. One shape, though too remote to recognise with
certainty, put him in mind of Martin Grimbal, another might have been
Sam Bonus. He mused upon the two men, so dissimilar, and his mind dwelt
chiefly with the former. He found himself thinking how good it would be
if Martin proposed to Chris again; that the antiquary had done so was
the last idea in his thoughts.
Presently a brown figure crept through Newtake gate, hesitated a while,
then began to climb the hill and approach Blanchard. Ship recognised it
before Will's eyes enabled him to do so, and the dog rose from a long
rest, stretched, sniffed the air, then trotted off to the approaching
newcomer.
It was Ted Chown; and in five minutes he reached his master with a
letter. "'Tis from Miller Lyddon," he said. "It comed by the auctioneer.
I thought you was up here."
Blanchard took it without thanks, waited until the labourer had
departed, then opened the letter with some slight curiosity.
He read a page of scriptural quotations and admonitions, then tore the
communication in half with a curse and flung it from him. But presently
his anger waned; he rose, picked up his father-in-law's note, and
plodded through it to the end.
His first emotion was one of profound thanksgiving that he had done so.
Here, at the very end of the letter, was the practical significance of
it.
"Powder fust, jam arter, by God!" cried Will aloud. Then a burst of
riotous delight overwhelmed him. Once again in his darkest hour had
Fortune turned the wheel. He shouted, put the letter into his breast
pocket, rose up and strode off to Chagford as fast as his legs would
carry him. He thought what his mother and wife would feel upon such
news. Then he swore heartily--swore down blessings innumerable on Miller
Lyddon, whistled to his dog, and so journeyed on.
The master of Monks Barton had reproved Will through long pages, cited
Scripture at him, displayed his errors in a grim procession, then
praised him for his prompt and manly conduct under the present
catastrophe, declared that his character had much developed of recent
years, and concluded by offering him five-and-thirty shillings a week at
Monks Barton, with the only stipulation that himself, his wife, and the
children should dwell at the farm.
Praise, of which he had received little enough for many years, was pure
honey to Will. From the extremity of gloom and from a dark and settled
enmity towards Mr. Lyddon, he passed quicker than thought to an opposite
condition of mind.
"'Tis a fairy story--awnly true!" he said to himself as he swept along.
Will came near choking when he thought of the miller. Here was a man
that believed in him! Newtake tumbled clean out of his mind before this
revelation of Mr. Lyddon's trust and confidence. He was full to the
brainpan with Monks Barton. The name rang in his ears. Before he reached
Chagford he had planned innumerable schemes for developing the valley
farm, for improving, saving, increasing possibilities in a hundred
directions. He pictured himself putting money into the miller's pocket.
He determined to bring that about if he had to work four-and-twenty
hours a day to do it. He almost wished some profound peril would
threaten his father-in-law, that he, at the cost of half his life, if
need be, might rescue him and so pay a little of this great debt. Ship,
taking the cue from his master, as a dog will, leapt and barked before
him. In the valley below, Phoebe wept on Mrs. Blanchard's bosom, and
Chris said hard things of those in authority at Monks Barton; up aloft
at Newtake, shillings rather than pounds changed hands and many a poor
lot found no purchaser.
Passing by a gate beneath the great hill of Middledown, Will saw two
sportsmen with a keeper and a brace of terriers, emerge from the wild
land above. They were come from rabbit shooting, as the attendant's
heavy bag testified. They faced him as he passed, and, recognising John
Grimbal, Will did not look at his companion. At rest with the world just
then, happy and contented to a degree he had not reached for years, the
young farmer was in such amiable mood that he had given the devil "good
day" on slightest provocation. Now he was carried out of himself, and
spoke upon a joyous inclination of the moment.
"Marnin' to 'e, Jan Grimbal! Glad to hear tell as your greyhound winned
the cup down to Newton coursing."
The other was surprised into a sort of grunt; then, as Will moved
rapidly out of earshot, Grimbal's companion addressed him. It was Major
Tremayne; and now the soldier regarded Blanchard's vanishing figure with
evident amazement, then spoke.
"By Jove! Tom Newcombe, by all that's wonderful," he said.