Now that night was the longest in the whole year; and yet to Phoebe it passed with magic celerity.
Will awakened about half-past five, rose immediately according to his custom, lighted a candle, and started to dress himself. He began the day in splendid spirits, begotten of good sleep and good health; but his wife saw the lightness of heart, the bustling activity of body, sink into apathy and inertia as remembrance overtook his wakening hour. It was like a brief and splendid dawn crushed by storm-clouds at the very rise of the sun.
Phoebe presently dressed her little daughter and, as soon as the child had gone down-stairs, Will resumed the problems of his position.
“I be in two minds this marnin’,” he said. “I’ve a thought to tell mother of this matter. She ’m that wise, I’ve knawed her put me on the right track ’fore now, an’ never guess she’d done it. Not but what I allus awn up to taking advice, if I follow it, an’ no man ’s readier to profit by the wisdom of his betters than me. That’s how I’ve done all I have done in my time. T’ other thought was to take your counsel an’ see Miller ’pon it.”
“I was wrong, Will—quite wrong. I’ve been thinking, tu. He mustn’t knaw, nor yet mother, nor nobody. Quite enough knaws as ’t is.”
“What’s the wisdom o’ talkin’ like that? Who ’s gwaine to hide the thing, even if they wanted to? God knaws I ban’t. I’d like, so well as not, to go up Chagford next market-day an’ shout out the business afore the world.”
“You can’t now. You must wait. You promised. I thought about it with every inch of my brain last night, an’ I got a sort of feeling—I caan’t explain, but wait. I’ve trusted you all my life long an’ allus shall; now ’t is your turn to trust me, just this wance. I’ve got great thoughts. I see the way; I may do much myself. You see, Jan Grimbal—”
Will stood still with his chin half shorn.
“You dare to do that,” he said, “an’ I’ll raise Cain in this plaace; I’ll—”
He broke off and laughed at himself.