“Wish theer was more so big in the sties,” she said.
Arrived at her bedside, the woman prayed before sinking to rest within reach of her child’s cot; while Will, troubling Heaven with no petition or thanksgiving, was in bed five minutes sooner than his wife.
“Gude-night, lad,” said Phoebe, as she put the candle out, but her husband only returned an inarticulate grunt for answer, being already within the portal of sleep.
A fair morning followed on the tempestuous night, and Winter, who had surely whispered her coming under the darkness, vanished again at dawn. The Moor still provided forage, but all light was gone out of the heather, though the standing fern shone yellow under the sun, and the recumbent bracken shed a rich russet in broad patches over the dewy green where Will had chopped it down and left it to dry for winter fodder. He was very late this year in stacking the fern, and designed that labour for his morning’s occupation.
Ted Chown chanced to be away for a week’s holiday, so Will entered his farmyard early. The variable weather of his mind rarely stood for long at storm, but, unlike the morning, he had awakened in no happy mood.
A child’s voice served for a time to smooth his brow, now clouded from survey of a broken spring in his market-cart; then came the lesser Will with a small china mug for his morning drink. Phoebe watched him sturdily tramp across the yard, and the greater Will laughed to see his son’s alarm before the sudden stampede of a belated heifer, which now hastened through the open gate to join its companions on the hillside.
“Cooshey, cooshey won’t hurt ’e, my li’l bud!” cried Phoebe, as Ship jumped and barked at the lumbering beast. Then the child doubled round a dung-heap and fled to his father’s arms. From the byre a cow with a full udder softly lowed, and now small Will had a cup of warm milk; then, with his red mouth like a rosebud in mist and his father’s smile magically and laughably reproduced upon his little face, he trotted back to his mother.
A moment later Will, still milking, heard himself loudly called from the gate. The voice he knew well enough, but it was pitched unusually high, and denoted a condition of excitement and impatience very seldom to be met with in its possessor. Martin Grimbal, for it was he, did not observe Blanchard, as the farmer emerged from the byre. His eye was bent in startled and critical scrutiny of a granite post, to which the front gate of Newtake latched, and he continued shouting aloud until Will stood beside him. Then he appeared on his hands and knees beside the gate-post. He had flung down his stick and satchel; his mouth was slightly open; his cap rested on the side of his head; his face seemed transfigured before some overwhelming discovery.
Relations were still strained between these men; and Will did not forget the fact, though it had evidently escaped Martin in his present excitement.
“What the deuce be doin’ now?” asked Blanchard abruptly.