“All the same, theer’d be hell an’ Tommy to pay mighty quick, if you an’ me did the things that bwoy does, an’ carried on that onreligious,” replied Mr. Blee, with gloomy conviction. “Ban’t fair to other people, an’ if ’t was Doomsday I’d up an’ say so. What gude deeds have he done to have life smoothed out, an’ the hills levelled an’ the valleys filled up? An’ nought but sour looks for it.”
“But be you sure he ’m happy?” inquired Mr. Chapple. “He ’m not the man to walk ’bout wi’ a fiddle-faace if ’t was fair weather wi’ un. He’ve got his troubles same as us, depend upon it.”
Blanchard himself entered at this moment. It wanted but half an hour to closing time when he did so, and he glanced round the bar, snorted at the thick atmosphere of alcohol and smoke, then pulled out his pipe and took a vacant chair.
“Gude evenin’, Will,” said Mr. Chapple.
“A happy New Year, Blanchard,” added the landlord.
“Evening, sawls all,” answered Will, nodding round him. “Auld year’s like to die o’ frost by the looks of it—a stinger, I tell ’e. Anybody seen Farmer Endicott? I’ve been looking for un since noon wi’ a message from my faither-in-law.”
“I gived thicky message this marnin’,” cried Billy.
“Ess, I knaw you did; that’s my trouble. You gived it wrong. I’ll just have a pint of the treble X then. ’T is the night for ’t.”
Will’s demeanour belied the recent conversation respecting him. He appeared to be in great spirits, joked with the men, exchanged shafts with Billy, and was the first to roar with laughter when Mr. Blee got the better of him in a brisk battle of repartee. Truth to tell, the young man’s heart felt somewhat lighter, and with reason. To-morrow his promise to Phoebe held him no longer, and his carking, maddening trial of patience was to end. The load would drop from his shoulders at daylight. His letter to Mr. Lyddon had been written; in the morning the miller must read it before breakfast, and learn that his son-in-law had started for Plymouth to give himself up for the crime of the past. John Grimbal had made no sign, and the act of surrender would now be voluntary—a thought which lightened Blanchard’s heart and induced a turn of temper almost jovial. He joined a chorus, laughed with the loudest, and contrived before closing time to drink a pint and a half of the famous special brew. Then the bell-ringers departed to their duties, and Mr. Chapple with Mr. Blee, Will, and one or two other favoured spirits spent a further half-hour in their host’s private parlour, and there consumed a little sloe gin, to steady the humming ale.
“You an’ me must see wan another home,” said Will when he and Mr. Blee departed into the frosty night.