PHOEBE TAKES THOUGHT
That night Will sat and smoked in his bedroom and talked to Phoebe, who
had already gone to rest. She looked over her knees at him with round,
sad eyes; while beside her in a cot slept her small daughter. A candle
burned on the mantelpiece and served to illuminate one or two faded
pictures; a daguerreotype of Phoebe as a child sitting on a donkey, and
an ancient silhouette of Miller Lyddon, cut for him on his visit to the
Great Exhibition. In a frame beneath these appeared the photograph of
little Will who had died at Newtake.
"He thinks he be gwaine to bide his time an' let me stew an' sweat for
it," said the man moodily.
"Awnly a born devil could tell such wickedness. Ban't theer no ways o'
meetin' him, now you knaw? If you'd speak to faither--"
"What 's the use bringing sorrow on his grey hairs?"
"Well, it's got to come; you knaw that. Grimbal isn't the man to
forgive."
"Forgive! That would be worst of all. If he forgived me now I'd go mad.
Wait till I've had soldier law, then us'll talk 'bout forgiving arter."
Phoebe shivered and began to cry helplessly, drying her eyes upon the
sheet.
"Theer--theer," he said; "doan't be a cheel. We 'm made o' stern stuff,
you an' me. 'T is awnly a matter of years, I s'pose, an' the reason I
went may lessen the sentence a bit. Mother won't never turn against me,
an' so long as your faither can forgive, the rest of the world's welcome
to look so black as it pleases."
"Faither'll forgive 'e."
"He might--just wance more. He've got to onderstand my points better
late days."
"Come an' sleep then, an' fret no more till marnin' light anyway."
"'Tis the thing hidden, hanging over my head, biding behind every
corner. I caan't stand it; I caan't wait for it. I'll grow sheer devil
if I've got to wait; an', so like as not, I'll meet un faace to faace
some day an' send un wheer neither his bark nor bite will harm me. Ess
fay--solemn truth. I won't answer for it. I can put so tight a hand 'pon
myself as any man since Job, but to sit down under this--"
"Theer's nought else you can do," said Phoebe. She yawned as she spoke,
but Will's reply strangled the yawn and effectually woke her up.
"So Jan Grimbal said, an' I blamed soon shawed un he was out. Theer's a
thing I can do an' shall do. 'T will sweep the ground from under un; 't
will blaw off his vengeance harmless as a gun fired in the air; 't will
turn his malice so sour as beer after thunder. I be gwaine to give
myself up--then us'll see who's the fule!"
Phoebe was out of bed with her arms round her husband in a moment.
"No, no--never. You couldn't, Will; you daren't--'tis against nature.
You ban't free to do no such wild thing. You forget me, an' the li'l
maid, an' t' other comin'!"
"Doan't 'e choke me," he said; "an' doan't 'e look so terrified. Your
small hands caan't keep off what's ahead o' me; an' I wouldn't let 'em
if they could. 'T is in this world that a chap's got to pay for his sins
most times, an' damn short credit, tu, so far as I can see. So what they
want to bleat 'bout hell-fire for I've never onderstood, seeing you get
your change here. Anyway, so sure as I do a trick that ban't 'zactly
wise, the whip 's allus behind it--the whip--"
He repeated the word in a changed voice, for it reminded him of what
Grimbal had threatened. He did not know whether there might be truth in
it. His pride winced and gasped. He thought of Phoebe seeing his bare
back perhaps years afterwards. A tempest of rage blackened his face and
he spoke in a voice hoarse and harsh.
"Get up an' go to bed. Doan't whine, for God's sake, or you'll drive me
daft. I've paid afore, an' I'll pay again; an' may the Lard help him who
ever owes me ought. No mercy have I ever had from living man,--'cept
Miller,--none will I ever shaw."
"Not to-morrow, Will--not this week. Promise that, an' I'll get into bed
an' bide quiet. For your love o' me, just leave it till arter Christmas
time. Promise that, else you'll kill me. No, no, no--you shaa'n't shout
me down 'pon this. I'll cry to 'e while I've got life left. Promise not
till Christmas be past."
"I'll promise nothing. I must think in the peace o' night. Go to sleep
an 'bide quiet, else you'll wake the li'l gal."
"I won't--I won't--I'll never sleep again. Caan' t'e think o' me so well
as yourself--you as be allus thinking o' me? Ban't I to count in an
awful pass like this? I'm no fair-weather wife, as you knaws by now. If
you gives yourself up, I'll kill myself. You think I couldn't, but I
could. What's my days away from you?"
"Hush, hush!" he said. "Be you mad? 'T is a matter tu small for such
talk as that."
"Promise, then, promise you'll be dumb till arter Christmas."
"So I will, if you 'm that set on it; but if you knawed what waitin'
meant to the likes o' me, you wouldn't ax. You've got my word, now
keep quiet, theer 's a dear love, an' dry your eyes."
He put her into bed, and soon stretched himself beside her. Then she
clung to him as though powers were already dragging him away for ever.
Will, bored and weary, was sorry for his wife with all his soul, and
kept grunting words of good cheer and comfort as he sank to sleep. She
still begged and prayed for delay, and by her importunity made him
promise at last that he would take no step until after New Year's Day.
Then, finding she could win no more in that direction, Phoebe turned to
another aspect of the problem, and began to argue with unexpected if
sophistic skill. Her tears were now dry, her eyes very bright beneath
the darkness; she talked and talked with feverish volubility, and her
voice faded into a long-drawn murmur as Will's hearing weakened on the
verge of unconsciousness.
"Why for d' you say you was wrong in what you done? Why d' you harp an'
harp 'pon that, knawin' right well you'd do the same again to-morrow?
You wasn't wrong, an' the Queen's self would say the same if she
knawed. 'T was to save a helpless woman you runned; an' her--Queen
Victoria--wi' her big heart as can sigh for the sorrow of even such
small folks as us--she'd be the last to blame 'e."
"She'll never knaw nothin' 'bout it, gude or bad. They doan't vex her
ears wi' trifles. I deserted, an' that's a crime."
"I say 't weern't no such thing. You had to choose between that an'
letting me die. You saved my life; an' the facts would be judged the
same by any as was wife an' mother, high or low. God A'mighty 's best
an' awnly judge how much you was wrong; an' you knaw He doan't blame 'e,
else your heart would have been sore for it these years an' years. You
never blamed yourself till now."
"Ess, awften an' awften I did. It comed an' went, an' comed an' went
again, like winter frosts. True as I'm living it comed an' went like
that."
Thus he spoke, half incoherently, his voice all blurred and vague with
sleep.
"You awnly think 't was so. You'd never have sat down under it else. It
ban't meant you should give yourself up now, anyways. God would have
sent the sojers to find 'e when you runned away if He'd wanted 'em to
find 'e. You didn't hide. You looked the world in the faace bold as a
lion, didn't 'e? Coourse you did; an' 't is gwaine against God's will
an' wish for you to give yourself up now. So you mustn't speak an' you
must tell no one--not even faither. I was wrong to ax 'e to tell him.
Nobody at all must knaw. Be dumb, an' trust me to be dumb. 'T is buried
an' forgot. I'll fight for 'e, my dearie, same as you've fought for me
many a time; an' 't will all fall out right for 'e, for men 's come
through worse passes than this wi' fewer friends than what you've got."
She stopped to win breath and, in the silence, heard Will's regular
respiration and knew that he slept. How much he had heard of her speech
Phoebe could not say, but she felt glad to think that some hours at
least of rest and peace now awaited him. For herself she had never been
more widely awake, and her brains were very busy through the hours of
darkness. A hundred thoughts and schemes presented themselves. She
gradually eliminated everybody from the main issue but Will, John
Grimbal, and herself; and, pursuing the argument, began to suspect that
she alone had power to right the wrong. In one direction only could such
an opinion lead--a direction tremendous to her. Yet she did not shrink
from the necessity ahead; she strung herself up to face it; she longed
for an opportunity and resolved to make one at the earliest moment.
Now that night was the longest in the whole year; and yet to Phoebe it
passed with magic celerity.
Will awakened about half-past five, rose immediately according to his
custom, lighted a candle, and started to dress himself. He began the day
in splendid spirits, begotten of good sleep and good health; but his
wife saw the lightness of heart, the bustling activity of body, sink
into apathy and inertia as remembrance overtook his wakening hour. It
was like a brief and splendid dawn crushed by storm-clouds at the very
rise of the sun.
Phoebe presently dressed her little daughter and, as soon as the child
had gone down-stairs, Will resumed the problems of his position.
"I be in two minds this marnin'," he said. "I've a thought to tell
mother of this matter. She 'm that wise, I've knawed her put me on the
right track 'fore now, an' never guess she'd done it. Not but what I
allus awn up to taking advice, if I follow it, an' no man 's readier to
profit by the wisdom of his betters than me. That's how I've done all I
have done in my time. T' other thought was to take your counsel an' see
Miller 'pon it."
"I was wrong, Will--quite wrong. I've been thinking, tu. He mustn't
knaw, nor yet mother, nor nobody. Quite enough knaws as 't is."
"What's the wisdom o' talkin' like that? Who 's gwaine to hide the
thing, even if they wanted to? God knaws I ban't. I'd like, so well as
not, to go up Chagford next market-day an' shout out the business afore
the world."
"You can't now. You must wait. You promised. I thought about it with
every inch of my brain last night, an' I got a sort of feeling--I caan't
explain, but wait. I've trusted you all my life long an' allus shall;
now 't is your turn to trust me, just this wance. I've got great
thoughts. I see the way; I may do much myself. You see, Jan Grimbal--"
Will stood still with his chin half shorn.
"You dare to do that," he said, "an' I'll raise Cain in this plaace;
I'll--"
He broke off and laughed at himself.
"Here be I blusterin' like a gert bully now! Doan't be feared, Phoebe.
Forgive my noise. You mean so well, but you caan't hide your secrets,
fortunately. Bless your purty eyes--tu gude for me, an' allus was,
braave li'l woman!
"But no more of that--no seekin' him, an' no speech with him, if that's
the way your poor, silly thought was. My bones smart to think of you
bearin' any of it. But doan't you put no oar into this troubled water,
else the bwoat'll capsize, sure as death. I've promised 'e not to say a
word till arter New Year; now you must promise me never, so help you, to
speak to that man, or look at un, or listen to a word from un. Fly him
like you would the devil; an' a gude second to the devil he is--if 't is
awnly in the matter o' patience. Promise now."
"You 'm so hasty, Will. You doan't onderstand a woman's cleverness in
such matters. 'T is just the fashion thing as shaws what we 'm made of."
"Promise!" he thundered angrily. "Now, this instant moment, in wan
word."
She gave him a single defiant glance. Then the boldness of her eyes
faded and her lips drooped at the corners.
"I promise, then."
"I should think you did."
A few minutes later Will was gone, and Phoebe dabbed her moist eyes and
blamed herself for so clumsily revealing her great intention,--to see
John Grimbal and plead with him. This secret ambition was now swept
away, and she knew not where to turn or how to act for her husband.