Phoebe Blauchard hastened home, meanwhile, and kept her own counsel upon the subject of the dawn’s sensational incidents. Her first instinct was to tell her husband everything at the earliest opportunity, but Will had departed to his work before she reached the farm, and on second thoughts she hesitated to speak or give John Grimbal’s message. She feared to precipitate the inevitable. In her own heart what mystery revolved about Will’s past performances undoubtedly embraced the child fashioned in his likeness; and though she had long fought against the rumour and deceived herself by pretending to believe Chris, whose opinion differed from that of most people, yet at her heart she felt truth must lie hidden somewhere in the tangle. Will and Mr. Lyddon alone knew nothing of the report, and Phoebe hesitated to break it to her husband. He was happy—perhaps in the consciousness that nobody realised the truth; and yet at his very gates a bitter foe guessed at part of his secret and knew the rest. Still Phoebe could not bring herself to speak immediately. A day of mental stress and strain ended, and she retired and lay beside Will very sad. Under darkness of night the threats of the enemy grew into an imminent disaster of terrific dimensions, and with haunting fear she finally slept, to waken in a nightmare.
Will, wholly ignorant of the facts, soothed Phoebe’s alarm and calmed her as she clung to him in hysterical tears.
“No ill shall come to ’e while I live,” she sobbed: “not if all the airth speaks evil of ’e. I’ll cleave to ’e, and fight for ’e, an’ be a gude wife, tu,—a better wife than you’ve been husband.”
“Bide easy, an’ doan’t cry no more. My arm’s round ’e, dearie. Theer, give awver, do! You’ve been dreamin’ ugly along o’ the poor supper you made, I reckon. Doan’t ’e think nobody’s hand against me now, for ban’t so. Folks begin to see the manner of man I am; an’ Miller knaws, which is all I care about. He’ve got a strong right arm workin’ for him an’ a tidy set o’ brains, though I sez it; an’ you might have a worse husband, tu, Phoebe; but theer—shut your purty eyes—I knaw they ’m awpen still, for I can hear your lashes against the sheet. An’ doan’t ’e go out in the early dews mushrooming no more, for ’t is cold work, an’ you’ve got to be strong these next months.”
She thought for a moment of telling him boldly concerning the legend spreading on every side; but, like others less near and dear to him, she feared to do so.
Knowing Will Blanchard, not a man among the backbiters had cared to risk a broken head by hinting openly at the startling likeness between the child and himself; and Phoebe felt her own courage unequal to the task just then. She racked her brains with his dangers long after he was himself asleep, and finally she determined to seek Chris next morning and hear her opinion before taking any definite step.
On the same night another pair of eyes were open, and trouble of a sort only less deep than that of the wife kept her father awake. Billy had taken an opportunity to tell his master of the general report and spread before him the facts as he knew them.
The younger members of the household had retired early, and when Miller Lyddon took the cards from the mantelpiece and made ready for their customary game, Mr. Blee shook his head and refused to play.
“Got no heart for cards to-night,” he said.
“What’s amiss, then? Thank God I’ve heard little to call ill news for a month or two. Not but what I’ve fancied a shadow on my gal’s face more’n wance.”