She remained silent until the lengthy ride was ended and her mother’s cottage reached. Then, as that home she had thought to enter no more appeared again, the nature of the woman awoke for one second, and she flung herself on Martin’s heart.
“May God make me half you think me, for I love you true, an’ you’m the best man He ever fashioned,” she said. “An’ to-morrow’s Sunday,” she added inconsequently, “an’ I’ll kneel in church an’ call down lifelong blessings on ’e.”
“Don’t go to-morrow, my darling. And yet—but no, we’ll not go, either of us. I couldn’t hear my own banns read out for the world, and I don’t think you could; yet read they’ll be as sure as the service is held.”
She said nothing, but he knew that she felt; then mother and child were gone, and Martin, dismissing his vehicle, proceeded to Monks Barton with the news that all was well.
Mrs. Blanchard heard her daughter’s story and its sequel. She exhibited some emotion, but no grief. The sorrow she may have suffered was never revealed to any eye by word or tear.
“I reckoned of late days theer was Blanchard blood to the child,” she said, “an’ I won’t hide from you I thought more’n wance you was so like to be the mother as Will the faither of un. Go to bed now, if you caan’t eat, an’ taake the bwoy, an’ thank God for lining your dark cloud with this silver. If He forgives ’e, an’ this here gude grey Martin forgives ’e, who be I to fret? Worse’n you’ve been forgived at fust hand by the Lard when He travelled on flesh-an’-blood feet ’mong men; an’ folks have short memories for dates, an’ them as sniggers now will be dust or dotards ’fore Tim’s grawed. When you’ve been a lawful wife ten year an’ more, who’s gwaine to mind this? Not little Tim’s fellow bwoys an’ gals, anyway. His awn generation won’t trouble him, an’ he’ll find a wise guardian in Martin, an’ a lovin’ gran’mother in me. Dry your eyes an’ be a Blanchard. God A’mighty sends sawls in the world His awn way, an’ chooses the faithers an’ mothers for ’em; an’ He’s never taught Nature to go second to parson yet, worse luck. ’Tis done, an’ to grumble at a dead man’s doin’s—specially if you caan’t mend ’em—be vain.”
“My share was half, an’ not less,” said Chris.
“Aye, you say so, but ’tis a deed wheer the blame ban’t awften divided equal,” answered Mrs. Blanchard. “Wheer’s the maiden as caan’t wait for her weddin’ bells?”
The use of the last two words magically swept Chris back into the past. The coincidence was curious, and she remembered when a man, destined never to listen to such melody, declared impatiently that he heard it in the hidden heart of a summer day long past. She did not reply to her mother, but arose and took her child and went to rest.