“No such gude fortune,” sighed Phoebe.
“’T wouldn’t be gude fortune,” answered her husband. “I’m like a dirty chamber coated wi’ cobwebs an’ them ghostly auld spiders as hangs dead in unsecured corners. Plaaces so left gets worse. My mind ’s all in a ferment, an’ ’t wouldn’t be none the better now if Jan Grimbal broke his damned neck to-morrow an’ took my secret with him. I caan’t breathe for it; it ’s suffocating me.”
Phoebe used subtlety in her answer, and invited him to view the position from her standpoint rather than his own.
“Think o’ me, then, an’ t’ others. ’T is plain selfishness, this talk, if you looks to the bottom of it.”
“As to that, I doan’t say so,” began Mr. Lyddon, slowly stuffing his pipe. “No. When a man goes so deep into his heart as what Will have before me this minute, doan’t become no man to judge un, or tell ’bout selfishness. Us have got to save our awn sawls, an’ us must even leave wife, an’ mother, and childer if theer ’s no other way to do it. Ban’t no right living—ban’t no fair travelling in double harness wi’ conscience, onless you’ve got a clean mind. An’ yet waitin’ ’pears the only way o’ wisdom just here. You’ve never got room in that head o’ yourn for more ’n wan thought to a time; an’ I doan’t blame ’e theer neither, for a chap wi’ wan idea, if he sticks to it, goes further ’n him as drives a team of thoughts half broken in. I mean you ’m forgettin’ your mother for the moment. I should say, wait for her mendin’ ’fore you do anything.”
Back came Blanchard’s mind to his mother with a whole-hearted swing.
“Ess,” he said, “you ’m right theer. My plaace is handy to her till she ’m movin’; an’ if he tries to take me before she ’m down-house again, by God! I’ll—”
“Let it bide that way then. Put t’ other matter out o’ your mind so far as you can. Fill your pipe an’ suck deep at it. I haven’t seen ’e smoke this longful time; an’ in my view theer ’s no better servant than tobacco to a mind puzzled at wan o’ life’s cross-roads.”
CHAPTER XIII
MR. LYDDON’S TACTICS
In the morning Mrs. Blanchard was worse, and some few days later lay in danger of her life. Her son spent half his time in the sick-room, walked about bootless to make no sound, and fretted with impatience at thought of the length of days which must elapse before Chris could return to Chagford. Telegrams had been sent to Martin Grimbal, who was spending his honeymoon out of England; but on the most sanguine computation he and his wife would scarcely be home again in less than ten days or a fortnight.