“Because I am Chris Blanchard,” she said. “I was gwaine to kill myself, but thought to see his dear face wance more before I done it. Now—”
“Kill yourself! God’s mercy! ’T will be killing Clem again if you do! You caan’t; you wouldn’t dare; theer’s black damnation in it an’ flat murder now. Hear me, for Christ’s sake, if that’s the awful thought in you: you’m God’s chosen tool in this—chosen to suffer an’ bring a bwoy in the world—Clem’s bwoy. Doan’t you see how’t is? ’Kill yourself’! How can ’e dream it? You’ve got to bring a bwoy, I tell ’e, to keep us from both gwaine stark mad. ’T was foreordained he should leave his holy likeness. God’s truth! You should be proud ’stead o’ fearful—such a man as he was. Hold your head high an’ pray when none’s lookin’, pray through every wakin’ hour an’ watch yourself as you’d watch the case of a golden jewel. What wise brain will think hard of you for followin’ the chosen path? What odds if a babe’s got ringless under the stars or in a lawful four-post bed? Who married Adam an’ Eve? You was the wife of un ’cordin’ to the first plan o’ the livin’ God; an’ if He changed His lofty mind when’t was tu late, blame doan’t fall on you or the dead. Think of a baaby—his baaby—under your breast! Think of meetin’ him in time to come, wi’ another soul got in sheer love! Better to faace the people an’ let the bairn come to fulness o’ life than fly them an’ cut your days short an’ go into the next world empty-handed. Caan’t you see it? What would Clem say? He’d judge you hard—such a lover o’ li’l childer as him. ’T is the first framework of an immortal soul you’ve got unfoldin’, like a rosebud hid in the green, an’ ban’t for you to nip that life for your awn whim an’ let the angels in heaven be fewer by wan. You must live. An’ the bwoy’ll graw into a tower of strength for ’e—a tower of strength an’ a glass belike wheer you’ll see Clem rose again.”
“The shame of it. My mother and Will—Will who’s a hard judge, an’ such a clean man.”
“‘Clean’! Christ A’mighty! You’d madden a saint of heaven! Weern’t Clem clean, tu? If God sends fire-fire breaks out—sweet, livin’ fire. You must go through with it—aye, an’ call the bwoy Clem, tu. Be you shamed of him as he lies here? Be you feared of anything the airth can do to you when you look at him? Do ’e think Heaven’s allus hard? No, I tell ’e, not to the young—not to the young. The wind’s mostly tempered to the shorn lamb, though the auld ewe do oftentimes sting for it, an’ get the seeds o’ death arter shearing. Wait, and be strong, till you feel Clem’s baaby in your arms. That’ll be reward enough, an’ you won’t care no more for the world then. His son, mind; who be you to take life, an’ break the buds of Clem’s plantin’? Worse than to go in another’s garden an’ tear down green fruit.”
So she pleaded volubly, with an electric increase of vitality, and continued to pour out a torrent of words, until Chris solemnly promised, before God and the dead, that she would not take her life. Having done so, some new design informed her.
“I must go,” she said; “the moon has set and dawn is near. Dying be so easy; living so hard. But live I will; I swear it, though theer’s awnly my poor mad brain to shaw how.”
“Clem’s son, mind. An’ let me be the first to see it, for I feel’t will be the gude pleasure of God I should.”
“An’ you promise to say no word, whatever betides, an’ whatever you hear?”
“Dumb I’ll be, as him theer—dumb, countin’ the weeks an’ months.”
“Day’s broke, an’ I must go home-along,” said Chris. She repeated the words mechanically, then moved away without any formal farewell. At the door she turned, hastened back, kissed the dead man’s face again, and then departed, while the other woman looked at her but spoke no more.