Will returned home, made fast the outer door, took off his boots, and went softly up a creaking stair. Loud and steady music came from the room where John Grimbal lay, and Blanchard smiled when he heard it. “’Tis the snore of a happy man with money in his purse,” he thought. Then he stood by his mother’s door, which she always kept ajar at night, and peeped in upon her. Damaris Blanchard slumbered with one arm on the coverlet, the other behind her head. She was a handsome woman still, and looked younger than her eight-and-forty years in the soft ambient light. “Muneshine do make dear mother so purty as a queen,” said Will to himself. And he would never wish her “good-by,” perhaps never see her again. He hastened with light, impulsive step into the room, thinking just to kiss the hand on the bed, but his mother stirred instantly and cried, “Who’s theer?” with sleepy voice. Then she sat up and listened—a fair, grey-eyed woman in an old-fashioned night-cap. Her son had vanished before her eyes were opened, and now she turned and yawned and slept again.
Will entered his own chamber near at hand, doffed for ever the velveteen uniform of water-keeper, and brought from a drawer an old suit of corduroy. Next he counted his slight store of money, set his ‘alarum’ for four o’clock, and, fifteen minutes later, was in bed and asleep, the time then being a little after midnight.
CHAPTER IV
BY THE RIVER
Clement Hicks paid an early visit to Will’s home upon the following morning. He had already set out to Okehampton with ten pounds of honey in the comb, and at Mrs. Blanchard’s cottage he stopped the little public vehicle which ran on market-days to the distant town. That the son of the house was up and away at dawn told his family nothing, for his movements were at all times erratic, and part of his duty consisted in appearing on the river at uncertain times and in unexpected localities. Clement Hicks often called for a moment upon his way to market, and Chris, who now greeted her lover, felt puzzled at the unusual gravity of his face. She turned pale when she heard his tremendous news; but the mother was of more Spartan temperament and received intelligence of Will’s achievement without changing colour or ceasing from her occupation.
Between Damaris Blanchard and her boy had always existed a perfect harmony of understanding, rare even in their beautiful relationship. The thoughts of son and mother chimed; not seldom they anticipated each other’s words. The woman saw much of her dead husband reflected in Will and felt a moral conviction that through the storms of youth, high temper, and inexperience, he would surely pass to good things, by reason of the strenuous honesty and singleness of purpose that actuated him; he, on his side, admired the great calmness and self-possession of his mother. She was so steadfast, so strong, and wiser than any woman he had ever seen. With a fierce, volcanic affection Will Blanchard loved her. She and Phoebe alike shared his whole heart.
“It is a manly way of life he has chosen, and that is all I may say. He is ambitious and strong, and I should be the last to think he has not done well to go into the world for a while,” said Clement.
“When is he coming back again?” asked Chris.
“He spoke of ten years or so.”
“Then ’twill be more or less,” declared Mrs. Blanchard, calmly. “Maybe a month, maybe five years, or fifteen, not ten, if he said ten. He’ll shaw the gude gold he’s made of, whether or no. I’m happy in this and not surprised. ’Twas very like to come arter last night, if things went crooked.”
“’Tis much as faither might have done,” said Chris.