Hope and gloom succeeded each other swiftly within Will Blanchard’s mind, and at first he discounted the consistent pessimism of Doctor Parsons somewhat more liberally than the issue justified. When, therefore, he was informed of the truth and stood face to face with his mother’s danger, hope sank, and his unstable spirit was swept from an altitude of secret confidence to the opposite depth of despair.
Through long silences, while she slept or seemed to do so, the young man traced back his life and hers; and he began to see what a good mother means. Then he accused himself of many faults and made impetuous confession to his wife and her father. On these occasions Phoebe softened his self-blame, but Mr. Lyddon let Will talk, and told him for his consolation that every mother’s son must be accused of like offences.
“Best of childer falls far short,” he assured Will; “best brings tu many tears, if ’t is awnly for wantonness; an’ him as thinks he’ve been all he should be to his mother lies to himself; an’ him as says he has, lies to other people.”
Will’s wild-hawk nature was subdued before this grave crisis in his parent’s life; he sat through long nights and tended the fire with quiet fingers; he learnt from the nurse how to move a pillow tenderly, how to shut a door without any sound. He wearied Doctor Parsons with futile propositions, but the physician’s simulated cynicism often broke down in secret before this spectacle of the son’s dog-like pertinacity. Blanchard much desired to have a vein opened for his mother, nor was all the practitioner’s eloquence equal to convincing him such a course could not be pursued.
“She ’m gone that gashly white along o’ want o’ blood,” declared Will; “an’ I be busting wi’ gude red blood, an’ why for shouldn’t you put in a pipe an’ draw off a quart or so for her betterment? I’ll swear ’t would strengthen the heart of her.”
Time passed, and it happened on one occasion, while walking abroad between his vigils, that Blanchard met John Grimbal. Will had reflected curiously of late days into what ghostly proportions his affair with the master of the Red House now dwindled before this greater calamity of his mother’s sickness; but sudden sight of the enemy roused passion and threw back the man’s mind to that occasion of their last conversation in the woods.
Yet the first words that now passed were to John Grimbal’s credit. He made an astonishing and unexpected utterance. Indeed, the spoken word surprised him as much as his listener, and he swore at himself for a fool when Will’s retort reached his ear.
They were passing at close quarters,—Blanchard on foot, John upon horseback,—when the latter said,—
“How ’s Mrs. Blanchard to-day?”
“Mind your awn business an’ keep our name off your lips!” answered the pedestrian, who misunderstood the question, as he did most questions where possible, and now supposed that Grimbal meant Phoebe.