NEW YEAR'S EVE AND NEW YEAR'S DAY
From this point in his career Will Blanchard, who lacked all power of
hiding his inner heart, soon made it superficially apparent that new
troubles had overtaken him. No word concerning his intolerable anxieties
escaped him, but a great cloud of tribulation encompassed every hour,
and was revealed to others by increased petulance and shortness of
temper. This mental friction quickly appeared on the young man's face,
and his habitual expression of sulkiness which formerly belied him, now
increased and more nearly reflected the reigning temperament of
Blanchard's mind. His nerves were on the rack and he grew sullen and
fretful. A dreary expression gained upon his features, an expression sad
as a winter twilight brushed with rain. To Phoebe he seldom spoke of the
matter, and she soon abandoned further attempts to intrude upon his
heart though her own was breaking for him. Billy Blee and the farm hands
were Will's safety-valve. One moment he showered hard and bitter words;
the next, at sight of some ploughboy's tears or older man's reasonable
anger, Will instantly relented and expressed his sorrow. The dullest
among them grew in time to discern matters were amiss with him, for his
tormented mind began to affect his actions and disorder the progress of
his life. At times he worked laboriously and did much with his own hands
that might have been left to others; but his energy was displayed in a
manner fitful and spasmodic; occasionally he would vanish altogether for
four-and-twenty hours or more; and none knew when he might appear or
disappear.
It happened on New Year's Eve that a varied company assembled at the
"Green Man" according to ancient custom. Here were Inspector Chown, Mr.
Chapple, Mr. Blee, Charles Coomstock, with many others; and the assembly
was further enriched by the presence of the bell-ringers. Their services
would be demanded presently to toll out the old year, to welcome with
joyful peal the new; and they assembled here until closing time that
they might enjoy a pint of the extra strong liquor a prosperous publican
provided for his customers at this season.
The talk was of Blanchard, and Mr. Blee, provided with a theme which
always challenged his most forcible diction, discussed Will freely and
without prejudice.
"I 'most goes in fear of my life, I tell 'e; but thank God 't is the
beginning of the end. He'll spread his wings afore spring and be off
again, or I doan't knaw un. Ess fay, he'll depart wi' his fiery nature
an' horrible ideas 'pon manuring of land; an' a gude riddance for Monks
Barton, I say."
"'Mazing 't is," declared Mr. Coomstock, "that he should look so black
all times, seeing the gude fortune as turns up for un when most he wants
it."
"So 't is," admitted Billy. "The faace of un weer allus sulky, like to
the faace of a auld ram cat, as may have a gude heart in un for all his
glowerin' eyes. But him! Theer ban't no pleasin' un. What do he want?
Surely never no man 's failed on his feet awftener."
"'T is that what 's spoilin' un, I reckon," said Mr. Chappie. "A li'l
ill-fortune he wants now, same as a salad o' green stuff wants some bite
to it. He'd grumble in heaven, by the looks of un. An' yet it do shaw
the patience of God wi' human sawls."
"Ess, it do," answered Mr. Blee; "but patience ban't a virtue, pushed tu
far. Justice is justice, as I've said more 'n wance to Miller an'
Blanchard, tu, an' a man of my years can see wheer justice lies so clear
as God can. For why? Because theer ban't room for two opinions. I've
give my Maker best scores an' scores o' times, as we all must; but truth
caan't alter, an' having put thinking paarts into our heads, 't is more
'n God A'mighty's Self can do to keep us from usin' of'em."
"A tremenjous thought," said Mr. Chapple.
"So 't is. An' what I want to knaw is, why should Blanchard have his
fling, an' treat me like dirt, an' ride rough-shod awver his betters,
an' scowl at the sky all times, an' nothin' said?"
"Providence doan't answer a question just 'cause we 'm pleased to ax
wan," said Abraham Chown. "What happens happens, because 't is
foreordained, an' you caan't judge the right an' wrong of a man's life
from wan year or two or ten, more 'n you can judge a glass o' ale by a
tea-spoon of it. Many has a long rope awnly to hang themselves in the
end, by the wonnerful foresight of God."
"All the same, theer'd be hell an' Tommy to pay mighty quick, if you an'
me did the things that bwoy does, an' carried on that onreligious,"
replied Mr. Blee, with gloomy conviction. "Ban't fair to other people,
an' if 't was Doomsday I'd up an' say so. What gude deeds have he done
to have life smoothed out, an' the hills levelled an' the valleys filled
up? An' nought but sour looks for it."
"But be you sure he 'm happy?" inquired Mr. Chapple. "He 'm not the man
to walk 'bout wi' a fiddle-faace if 't was fair weather wi' un. He've
got his troubles same as us, depend upon it."
Blanchard himself entered at this moment. It wanted but half an hour to
closing time when he did so, and he glanced round the bar, snorted at
the thick atmosphere of alcohol and smoke, then pulled out his pipe and
took a vacant chair.
"Gude evenin', Will," said Mr. Chapple.
"A happy New Year, Blanchard," added the landlord.
"Evening, sawls all," answered Will, nodding round him. "Auld year's
like to die o' frost by the looks of it--a stinger, I tell 'e. Anybody
seen Farmer Endicott? I've been looking for un since noon wi' a message
from my faither-in-law."
"I gived thicky message this marnin'," cried Billy.
"Ess, I knaw you did; that's my trouble. You gived it wrong. I'll just
have a pint of the treble X then. 'T is the night for 't."
Will's demeanour belied the recent conversation respecting him. He
appeared to be in great spirits, joked with the men, exchanged shafts
with Billy, and was the first to roar with laughter when Mr. Blee got
the better of him in a brisk battle of repartee. Truth to tell, the
young man's heart felt somewhat lighter, and with reason. To-morrow his
promise to Phoebe held him no longer, and his carking, maddening trial
of patience was to end. The load would drop from his shoulders at
daylight. His letter to Mr. Lyddon had been written; in the morning the
miller must read it before breakfast, and learn that his son-in-law had
started for Plymouth to give himself up for the crime of the past. John
Grimbal had made no sign, and the act of surrender would now be
voluntary--a thought which lightened Blanchard's heart and induced a
turn of temper almost jovial. He joined a chorus, laughed with the
loudest, and contrived before closing time to drink a pint and a half of
the famous special brew. Then the bell-ringers departed to their duties,
and Mr. Chapple with Mr. Blee, Will, and one or two other favoured
spirits spent a further half-hour in their host's private parlour, and
there consumed a little sloe gin, to steady the humming ale.
"You an' me must see wan another home," said Will when he and Mr. Blee
departed into the frosty night.
"Fust time as ever you give me an arm," murmured Billy.
"Won't be the last, I'm sure," declared Will.
"I've allus had a gude word for 'e ever since I knawed 'e," answered
Billy.
"An' why for shouldn't 'e?" asked Will.
"Beginning of New Year 's a solemn sarcumstance," proceeded Billy, as a
solitary bell began to toll. "Theer 's the death-rattle of eighteen
hunderd an' eighty-six! Well, well, we must all die--men an' mice."
"An' the devil take the hindmost."
Mr. Blee chuckled.
"Let 's go round this way," he said.
"Why? Ban't your auld bones ready for bed yet? Theer 's nought theer but
starlight an' frost."
"Be gormed to the frost! I laugh at it. Ban't that. 'T is the Union
workhouse, wheer auld Lezzard lies. I likes to pass, an' nod to un as he
sits on the lew side o' the wall in his white coat, chumping his
thoughts between his gums."
"He 'm happier 'n me or you, I lay."
"Not him! You should see un glower 'pon me when I gives un 'gude day.'
I tawld un wance as the Poor Rates was up somethin' cruel since he'd
gone in the House, an' he looked as though he'd 'a' liked to do me
violence. No, he ban't happy, I warn 'e."
"Well, you won't see un sitting under the stars in his white coat, poor
auld blid. He 'm asleep under the blankets, I lay."
"Thin wans! Thin blankets an' not many of 'em. An' all his awn doin'.
Patent justice, if ever I seed it."
"Tramp along! You can travel faster 'n that. Ess fay! Justice is the
battle-cry o' God against men most times. Maybe they 'm strong on it in
heaven, but theer 's damned little filters down here. Theer go the
bells! Another New Year come. Years o' the Lard they call 'em! Years o'
the devil most times, if you ax me. What do 'e want the New Year to
bring to you, Billy?"
"A contented 'eart," said Mr. Blee, "an' perhaps just half-a-crown more
a week, if 't was seemly. Brains be paid higher 'n sweat in this world,
an' I'm mostly brain now in my dealin's wi' Miller. A brain be like a
nut, as ripens all the year through an' awnly comes to be gude for
gathering when the tree 's in the sere. 'T is in the autumn of life a
man's brain be worth plucking like--eh?"
"Doan't knaw. They 'm maggoty mostly at your age!"
"An' they 'm milky mostly at yourn!"
"Listen to the bells an' give awver chattering," said Will.
"After gude store o' drinks, a sad thing like holy bells ringing in the
dark afar off do sting my nose an' bring a drop to my eye," confessed
Mr. Blee. "An' you--why, theer 's a baaby hid away in the New Year for
you--a human creature as may do gert wonders in the land an' turn out
into Antichrist, for all you can say positive. Theer 's a braave thought
for 'e!"
This remark sobered Blanchard and his mind travelled into the future, to
Phoebe, to the child coming in June.
Billy babbled on, and presently they reached Mrs. Blanchard's cottage.
Damaris herself, with a shawl over her head, stood and listened to the
bells, and Will, taking leave of Mr. Blee, hastened to wish his mother
all happiness in the year now newly dawned. He walked once or twice up
and down the little garden beside her, and with a tongue loosened by
liquor came near to telling her of his approaching action, but did not
do so. Meantime Mr. Blee steered himself with all caution over Rushford
Bridge to Monks Barton.
Presently the veteran appeared before his master and Phoebe, who had
waited for the advent of the New Year before retiring. Miller Lyddon was
about to suggest a night-cap for Billy, but changed his mind.
"Enough 's as gude as a feast," he said. "Canst get up-stairs wi'out
help?"
"Coourse I can! But the chap to the 'Green Man's' that perfuse wi' his
liquor at seasons of rejoicing. More went down than was chalked up; I
allow that. If you'll light my chamber cannel, I'll thank 'e, missis;
an' a Happy New Year to all."
Phoebe obeyed, launched Mr. Blee in the direction of his chamber, then
turned to receive Will's caress as he came home and locked the door
behind him.
The night air still carried the music of the bells. For an hour they
pealed on; then the chime died slowly, a bell at a time, until two
clanged each against the other. Presently one stopped and the last,
weakening softly, beat a few strokes more, then ceased to fret the
frosty birth-hour of another year.
The darkness slipped away, and Blanchard who had long learned to rise
without awakening his wife, was up and dressed again soon after five
o'clock. He descended silently, placed a letter on the mantelpiece in
the kitchen, abstracted a leg of goose and a hunch of bread from the
larder, then set out upon a chilly walk of five miles to Moreton
Hampstead. From there he designed to take train and proceed to Plymouth
as directly and speedily as possible.
Some two hours later Will's letter found itself in Mr. Lyddon's hand,
and his father-in-law learnt the secret. Phoebe was almost as amazed as
the miller himself when this knowledge came to her ear; for Will had not
breathed his intention to her, and no suspicion had crossed his wife's
mind that he intended to act with such instant promptitude on the
expiration of their contract.
"I doubted I knawed him through an' through at last, but 't is awnly
to-day, an' after this, that I can say as I do," mused Mr. Lyddon over
an untasted breakfast. "To think he runned them awful risks to make you
fast to him! To think he corned all across England in the past to make
you his wife against the danger on wan side, an' the power o' Jan
Grimbal an' me drawed up 'pon the other!"
Pursuing this strain to Phoebe's heartfelt relief, the miller neither
assumed an attitude of great indignation at Will's action nor affected
despair of his future. He was much bewildered, however.
"He'll keep me 'mazed so long as I live, 'pears to me. But he 'm gone
for the present, an' I doan't say I'm sorry, knawin' what was behind. No
call for you to sob yourself into a fever. Please God, he'll be back
long 'fore you want him. Us'll make the least we can of it, an' bide
patient until we hear tell of him. He've gone to Plymouth--that's all
Chagford needs to knaw at present."
"Theer 's newspapers an' Jan Grimbal," sobbed Phoebe.
"A dark man wi' fixed purposes, sure enough," admitted her father, for
Will's long letter had placed all the facts before him. "What he'll do
us caan't say, though, seein' Will's act, theer 's nothin' more left for
un. Why has the man been silent so long if he meant to strike in the
end? Now I must go an' tell Mrs. Blanchard. Will begs an' prays of me to
do that so soon as he shall be gone; an' he 'm right. She ought to knaw;
but 't is a job calling for careful choice of words an' a light hand.
Wonder is to me he didn't tell her hisself. But he never does what
you'd count 'pon his doing."
"You won't tell Billy, faither, will 'e? Ban't no call for that."
"I won't tell him, certainly not; but Blee 's a ferret when a thing 's
hid. A detective mind theer is to Billy. How would it do to tell un
right away an' put un 'pon his honour to say nothing?"
"He mustn't knaw; he mustn't knaw. He couldn't keep a secret like
that if you gived un fifty pounds to keep it. So soon tell a town-crier
as him."
"Then us won't," promised Mr. Lyddon, and ten minutes after he proceeded
to Mrs. Blanchard's cottage with the news. His first hasty survey of the
position had not been wholly unfavourable to Will, but he was a man of
unstable mind in his estimates of human character, and now he chiefly
occupied his thoughts with the offence of desertion from the army. The
disgrace of such an action magnified itself as he reflected upon Will's
unhappy deed.
Phoebe, meantime, succumbed and found herself a helpless prey of terrors
vague and innumerable. Will's fate she could not guess at; but she felt
it must be severe; she doubted not that his sentence would extend over
long years. In her dejection and misery she mourned for herself and
wondered what manner of babe would this be that now took substance
through a season of such gloom and accumulated sorrows. The thought
begat pity for the coming little one,--utmost commiseration that set
Phoebe's tears flowing anew,--and when the miller returned he found his
daughter stricken beyond measure and incoherent under her grief. But Mr.
Lyddon came back with a companion, and it was her husband, not her
father, who dried Phoebe's eyes and cheered her lonely heart. Will,
indeed, appeared and stood by her suddenly; and she heard his voice and
cried a loud thanksgiving and clasped him close.
Yet no occasion for rejoicing had brought about this unexpected
reappearance. Indeed, more ill-fortune was responsible for it. When Mr.
Lyddon arrived at Mrs. Blanchard's gate, he found both Will and Doctor
Parsons standing there, then learnt the incident that had prevented his
son-in-law's proposed action.
Passing that way himself some hours earlier, Will had been suddenly
surprised to see blue smoke rising from a chimney of the house. It was a
very considerable time before such event might reasonably be expected
and a second look alarmed Blanchard's heart, for on the little
chimney-stack he knew each pot, and it was not the kitchen chimney but
that of his mother's bedroom which now sent evidence of a newly lighted
fire into the morning.
In a second Will's plans and purposes were swept away before this
spectacle. A fire in a bedroom represented a circumstance almost outside
his experience. At least it indicated sickness unto death. He was in the
house a moment later, for the latch lifted at his touch; and when he
knocked at his mother's door and cried his name, she bade him come in.
"What's this? What's amiss with 'e, mother? Doan't say 't is anything
very bad. I seed the smoke an' my heart stood still."
She smiled and assured him her illness was of no account.
"Ban't nothing. Just a shivering an' stabbing in the chest. My awn
fulishness to be out listening to they bells in the frost. But no call
to fear. I awnly axed my li'l servant to get me a cup o' tea, an' she
comed an' would light the fire, an' would go for doctor, though theer
ban't no 'casion at all."
"Every occasion, an' the gal was right, an' it shawed gude sense in such
a dinky maid as her. Nothin' like taaking a cold in gude time. Do 'e
catch heat from the fire?"
Mrs. Blanchard's eyes were dull, and her breathing a little disordered.
Will instantly began to bustle about. He added fuel to the flame, set on
a kettle, dragged blankets out of cupboards and piled them upon his
mother. Then he found a pillow-case, aired it until the thing scorched,
inserted a pillow, and placed it beneath the patient's head. His
subsequent step was to rummage dried marshmallows out of a drawer,
concoct a sort of dismal brew, and inflict a cup upon the sick woman.
Doctor Parsons still tarrying, Will went out of doors, knocked a brick
from the fowl-house wall, brought it in, made it nearly red hot, then
wrapped it up in an old rug and applied it to his parent's feet,--all of
which things the sick woman patiently endured.
"You 'm doin' me a power o' gude, dearie," she said, as her discomfort
and suffering increased.
Presently Doctor Parsons arrived, checked Will in fantastic experiments
with a poultice, and gave him occupation in a commission to the
physician's surgery. When he returned, he heard that his mother was
suffering from a severe chill, but that any definite declaration upon
the case was as yet impossible.
"No cause to be 'feared?" he asked.
"'T is idle to be too sanguine. You know my philosophy. I've seen a
scratched finger kill a man; I've known puny babes wriggle out of
Death's hand when I could have sworn it had closed upon them for good
and all. Where there 's life there 's hope."
"Ess, I knaw you," answered Will gloomily; "an' I knaw when you say that
you allus mean there ban't no hope at all."
"No, no. A strong, hale woman like your mother need not give us any fear
at present. Sleep and rest, cheerful faces round her, and no amateur
physic. I'll see her to-night and send in a nurse from the Cottage
Hospital at once."
Then it was that Miller Lyddon arrived, and presently Will returned
home. He wholly mistook Phoebe's frantic reception, and assumed that her
tears must be flowing for Mrs. Blanchard.
"She'll weather it," he said. "Keep a gude heart. The gal from the
hospital ban't coming 'cause theer 's danger, but 'cause she 'm smart
an' vitty 'bout a sick room, an' cheerful as a canary an' knaws her
business. Quick of hand an' light of foot for sartin. Mother'll be all
right; I feel it deep in me she will."
Presently conversation passed to Will himself, and Phoebe expressed a
hope this sad event would turn him from his determination for some time
at least.
"What determination?" he asked. "What be talkin' about?"
"The letter you left for faither, and the thing you started to do," she
answered.
"'S truth! So I did; an' if the sight o' the smoke an' then hearin' o'
mother's trouble didn't blaw the whole business out of my brain!"
He stood amazed at his own complete forgetfulness.
"Queer, to be sure! But coourse theer weern't room in my mind for
anything but mother arter I seed her stricken down."
During the evening, after final reports from Mrs. Blanchard's sick-room
spoke of soothing sleep, Miller Lyddon sent Billy upon an errand, and
discussed Will's position.
"Jan Grimbal 's waited so long," he said, "that maybe he'll wait longer
still an' end by doin' nothin' at all."
"Not him! You judge the man by yourself," declared Will. "But he 's made
of very different metal. I lay he's bidin' till the edge of this be
sharp and sure to cut deepest. So like 's not, when he hears tell mother
's took bad he'll choose that instant moment to have me marched away."
There was a moment's silence, then Blanchard burst out into a fury bred
of sudden thought, and struck the table heavily with his fist.
"God blast it! I be allus waitin' now for some wan's vengeance! I caan't
stand this life no more. I caan't an' I won't--'t is enough to soften
any man's wits."
"Quiet! quiet, caan't 'e?" said the miller, as though he told a dog to
lie down. "Theer now! You've been an' gived me palpitations with your
noise. Banging tables won't mend it, nor bad words neither. This thing
hasn't come by chance. You 'm ripening in mind an' larnin' every day.
You mark my word; theer 's a mort o' matters to pick out of this new
trouble. An' fust, patience."
"Patience! If a patient, long-suffering man walks this airth, I be him,
I should reckon. I caan't wait the gude pleasure of that dog, not even
for you, Miller."
"'T is discipline, an' sent for the strengthening of your fibre.
Providence barred the road to-day, else you'd be in prison now. Ban't
meant you should give yourself up--that's how I read it."
"'T is cowardly, waitin' an' playin' into his hands; an' if you awnly
knawed how this has fouled my mind wi' evil, an' soured the very taste
of what I eat, an' dulled the faace of life, an' blunted the right
feeling in me even for them I love best, you'd never bid me bide on
under it. 'T is rotting me--body an' sawl--that's what 't is doin'. An'
now I be come to such a pass that if I met un to-morrow an' he swore on
his dying oath he'd never tell, I shouldn't be contented even wi'
that."
"No such gude fortune," sighed Phoebe.
"'T wouldn't be gude fortune," answered her husband. "I'm like a dirty
chamber coated wi' cobwebs an' them ghostly auld spiders as hangs dead
in unsecured corners. Plaaces so left gets worse. My mind 's all in a
ferment, an' 't wouldn't be none the better now if Jan Grimbal broke
his damned neck to-morrow an' took my secret with him. I caan't breathe
for it; it 's suffocating me."
Phoebe used subtlety in her answer, and invited him to view the position
from her standpoint rather than his own.
"Think o' me, then, an' t' others. 'T is plain selfishness, this talk,
if you looks to the bottom of it."
"As to that, I doan't say so," began Mr. Lyddon, slowly stuffing his
pipe. "No. When a man goes so deep into his heart as what Will have
before me this minute, doan't become no man to judge un, or tell 'bout
selfishness. Us have got to save our awn sawls, an' us must even leave
wife, an' mother, and childer if theer 's no other way to do it. Ban't
no right living--ban't no fair travelling in double harness wi'
conscience, onless you've got a clean mind. An' yet waitin' 'pears the
only way o' wisdom just here. You've never got room in that head o'
yourn for more 'n wan thought to a time; an' I doan't blame 'e theer
neither, for a chap wi' wan idea, if he sticks to it, goes further 'n
him as drives a team of thoughts half broken in. I mean you 'm
forgettin' your mother for the moment. I should say, wait for her
mendin' 'fore you do anything."
Back came Blanchard's mind to his mother with a whole-hearted swing.
"Ess," he said, "you 'm right theer. My plaace is handy to her till she
'm movin'; an' if he tries to take me before she 'm down-house again, by
God! I'll--"
"Let it bide that way then. Put t' other matter out o' your mind so far
as you can. Fill your pipe an' suck deep at it. I haven't seen 'e smoke
this longful time; an' in my view theer 's no better servant than
tobacco to a mind puzzled at wan o' life's cross-roads."