SUSPENSE
The fate of John Grimbal was learned within an hour or two of Inspector
Chown's departure from Monks Barton; and by the time that Martin Grimbal
had been apprised of the matter his brother already lay at the Red
House.
John had been found at daybreak upon the grass-land where he rode
overnight on his journey to intercept the mail. A moment after he
descried the distant cart, his horse had set foot in a hole; and upon
the accident being discovered, the beast was found lying with a broken
leg within twenty yards of its insensible master. His horse was shot,
John Grimbal carried home with all despatch, and Doctor Parsons arrived
as quickly as possible, to do all that might be done for the sufferer
until an abler physician than himself reached the scene.
Three dreary days saw Grimbal at the door of death, then a brief
interval of consciousness rewarded unceasing care, and a rumour spread
that he might yet survive. Martin, when immediate fear for his brother's
life was relieved, busied himself about Blanchard, and went to Plymouth.
There he saw Will, learned all facts concerning the letter, and did his
best to win information of the prisoner's probable punishment. Fears,
magnified rumours, expressed opinions, mostly erroneous, buzzed in the
ears of the anxious party at Monks Barton. Then Martin Grimbal returned
to Chagford and there came an evening when those most interested met
after supper at the farm to hear all he could tell them.
Long faces grouped round Martin as he made his statement in a grey June
twilight. Mr. Blee and the miller smoked, Mrs. Blanchard sat with her
hand in her daughter's, and Phoebe occupied a comfortable arm-chair by
the wood fire. Between intervals of long silence came loud, juicy,
sounds from Billy's pipe, and when light waned they still talked on
until Chris stirred herself and sought the lamp.
"They tell me," began Martin, "that a deserting soldier is punished
according to his character and with regard to the fact whether he
surrenders himself or is apprehended. Of course we know Will gave
himself up, but then they will find out that he knew poor John's
unfortunate letter had reached its destination--or at any rate started
for it; and they may argue, not knowing the truth, that it was the fact
of the information being finally despatched made Will surrender. They
will say, I am afraid, as they said to me: 'Why did he wait until now if
he meant to do the right thing? Why did he not give himself up long
ago?'"
"That's easy answered: to please others," explained Mr. Lyddon. "Fust
theer was his promise to Phoebe, then his mother's illness, then his
other promise, to bide till his wife was brought to bed. Looking back I
see we was wrong to use our power against his awn wish; but so it
stands."
"I ought to go; I ought to be alongside un," moaned Phoebe; "I was at
the bottom of everything from fust to last. For me he run away; for me
he stopped away. Mine's the blame, an' them as judge him should knaw it
an' hear me say so."
"Caan't do no such vain thing as that," declared Mr. Blee. "'T was never
allowed as a wife should be heard 'pon the doin's of her awn husband.
'Cause why? She'd be one-sided--either plump for un through thick an'
thin, or else all against un, as the case might stand."
"As to the sentence," continued Martin, "if a man with a good character
deserts and thinks better of it and goes back to his regiment, he is not
as a rule tried by court-martial at all. Instead, he loses all his
former service and has to begin to reckon his period of engagement--six
or seven years perhaps--all over again. But a notoriously bad character
is tried by court-martial in any case, whether he gives himself up or
not; and he gets a punishment according to the badness of his past
record. Such a man would have from eighty-four days' imprisonment, with
hard labour, up to six months, or even a year, if he had deserted more
than once. Then the out-and-out rascals are sentenced to be 'dismissed
her Majesty's service.'"
"But the real gude men," pleaded Phoebe--"them as had no whisper 'gainst
'em, same as Will? They couldn't be hard 'pon them, 'specially if they
knawed all?"
"I should hope not; I'm sure not. You see the case is so unusual, as an
officer explained to me, and such a great length of time has elapsed
between the action and the judgment upon it. That is in Will's favour. A
good soldier with a clean record who deserts and is apprehended does not
get more than three months with hard labour and sometimes less. That's
the worst that can happen, I hope."
"What's hard labour to him?" murmured Billy, whose tact on occasions of
universal sorrow was sometimes faulty. "'Tis the rankle of bein' in
every blackguard's mouth that'll cut Will to the quick."
"What blackguards say and think ban't no odds," declared Mrs. Blanchard.
"'Tis better--far better he should do what he must do. The disgrace is
in the minds of them that lick theer lips upon his sorrow. Let him pay
for a wrong deed done, for the evil he did that gude might come of it. I
see the right hand o' God holding' the li'l strings of my son's life,
an' I knaw better'n any of 'e what'll be in the bwoy's heart now."
"Yet, when all's said, 'tis a mournful sarcumstance an' sent for our
chastening," contended Mr. Blee stoutly. "Us mustn't argue away the
torment of it an' pretend 'tis nought. Ban't a pleasing thing,
'specially at such a time when all the airth s gwaine daft wi' joy for
the gracious gudeness o' God to the Queen o' England. In plain speech,
't is a damn dismal come-along-of-it, an' I've cried by night, auld
though I am, to think o' the man's babes grawin' up wi' this round theer
necks. An' wan to be born while he 'm put away! Theer 's a black
picksher for 'e! Him doin' hard labour as the Law directs, an' his wife
doin' hard labour, tu--in her lonely bed! Why, gormed if I--"
"For God's sake shut your mouth, you horrible old man!" burst out
Martin, as Phoebe hurried away in tears and Chris followed her. "You're
a disgrace to humanity and I don't hesitate--I don't hesitate at all to
say you have no proper feeling in you!"
"Martin's right, Billy," declared Mr. Lyddon without emotion. "You 'm a
thought tu quick to meet other people's troubles half way, as I've told
'e before to-night. Ban't a comely trait in 'e. You've made her run off
sobbing her poor, bruised heart out. As if she hadn't wept enough o'
late. Do 'e think us caan't see what it all means an' the wisht cloud
that's awver all our heads, lookin' darker by contrast wi' the happiness
of the land, owing to the Jubilee of a gert Queen? Coourse we knaw.
But't is poor wisdom to talk 'bout the blackness of a cloud to them as
be tryin' to find its silver lining. If you caan't lighten trouble, best
to hold your peace."
"What's the use of cryin' 'peace' when us knaws in our hearts 'tis war?
Us must look inside an' outside, an' count the cost same as I be doin'
now," declared Mr. Blee. "Then to be catched up so harsh 'mong friends!
Well, well, gude-night, all; I'll go to my rest. Hard words doan't
break, though they may bruise. But I'll do my duty, whether or no."
He rose and shuffled to the door, then looked round and opened his mouth
to speak again. But he changed his mind, shook his head, snorted
expressively, and disappeared.
"A straange-fashioned chap," commented Mrs. Blanchard, "wi' sometimes a
wise word stuck in his sour speech, like a gude currant in a bad
dumpling."