“What butivul peace an quiet theer be in ministerin’ to a gude faither,” she thought, “as compared wi’ servin’ a stormy husband!” Then sorrow changed to active fear, and that, in its turn, sank into a desolate weariness and indifference. She detected no semblance of justice in her husband’s outburst; she failed to see how circumstances must sooner or late have precipitated his revolt; and she felt herself very cruelly misjudged, very gravely wronged.
Meantime Blanchard passed through a hurricane of rage against his enemy much akin to that formerly recorded of John Grimbal himself, when the brute won to the top of him and he yearned for physical conflict. That night Will was resolved to get a definite response or come to some conclusion by force of arms. His thoughts carried him far, and before he took up his station within the grounds of the Red House, at a point from which the avenue approach might be controlled, he had already fallen into a frantic hunger for fight and a hope that his enemy would prove of like mind. He itched for assault and battery, and his heart clamoured to be clean in his breast again.
Whatever might happen, he was determined to give himself up on the following day. He had done all he could for those he loved, but he was powerless to suffer more. He longed now to trample his foe into the dust, and, that accomplished, he would depart, well satisfied, and receive what punishment was due. His accumulated wrongs must be paid at last, and he fully determined, an hour before John Grimbal came homewards, that the payment should be such as he himself had received long years before on Rushford Bridge. His muscles throbbed for action as he sat and waited at the top of a sloping bank dotted with hawthorns that extended upwards from the edge of the avenue and terminated on the fringe of young coverts.
And now, by a chance not uncommon, two separate series of circumstances were about to clash, while the shock engendered was destined to precipitate the climax of Will Blanchard’s fortunes, in so far as this record is concerned. On the night that he thus raged and suffered the gall bred of long inaction to overflow, John Grimbal likewise came to a sudden conclusion with himself, and committed a deed of nature definite so far as it went.
In connection with the approaching Jubilee rejoicings a spirit in some sense martial filled the air, and Grimbal with his yeomanry was destined to play a part. A transient comet-blaze of militarism often sparkles over fighting nations at any season of universal joy, and that more especially if the keystone of the land’s constitution be a crown. This fire found material inflammable enough in the hearts of many Devonshire men, and before its warm impulse John Grimbal, inspired by a particular occasion, compounded with his soul at last. Rumoured on long tongues from the village ale-house, there had come to his ears the report of certain ill-considered utterances made by his enemy upon the events of the hour. They were only a hot-headed and very miserable man’s foolish comments upon things in general and the approaching festival in particular, and they served but to illustrate the fact that no ill-educated and passionate soul can tolerate universal rejoicings, itself wretched; but Grimbal clutched at this proven disloyalty of an old deserter, and told himself that personal questions must weigh with him no more.
“The sort of discontented brute that drifts into Socialism and all manner of wickedness,” he thought. “The rascal must be muzzled once for all, and as a friend to the community I shall act, not as an enemy to him.”
This conclusion he came to on the evening of the day which saw Blanchard’s final eruption, and he was amazed to find how straightforward and simple his course appeared when viewed from the impersonal standpoint of duty. His brother was due to dine with John Grimbal in half an hour, for both men were serving on a committee to meet that night upon the question of the local celebrations at Chagford, and they were going together. Time, however, remained for John to put his decision into action. He turned to his desk, therefore, and wrote. The words to be employed he knew by heart, for he had composed his letter many months before, and it was with him always; yet now, seen thus set out upon paper for the first time, it looked strange.
“RED HOUSE, CHAGFORD, DEVON.
“To the Commandant, Royal Artillery, Plymouth.
“SIR,—It has come to my knowledge that the man, William Blanchard, who enlisted in the Royal Artillery under the name of Tom Newcombe and deserted from his battery when it was stationed at Shorncliffe some ten years ago, now resides at this place on the farm of Monks Barton, Chagford. My duty demands that I should lodge this information, and I can, of course, substantiate it, though I have reason to believe the deserter will not attempt to evade his just punishment if apprehended. I have the honour to be,
“Your obedient servant,
“JOHN GRIMBAL,
“Capt. Dev. Yeomanry.”
He had just completed this communication when Martin arrived, and as his brother entered he instinctively pushed the letter out of sight. But a moment later he rebelled against himself for the act, knowing the ugly tacit admission represented by it. He dragged forth the letter, therefore, and greeted his brother by thrusting the note before him.
“Read that,” he said darkly; “it will surprise you, I think. I want to do nothing underhand, and as you ’re linked to these people for life now, it is just that you should hear what is going to happen. There’s the knowledge I once hinted to you that I possessed concerning William Blanchard. I have waited and given him rope enough. Now he’s hanged himself, as I knew he would, and I must act. A few days ago he spoke disrespectfully of the Queen before a dozen other loafers in a public-house. That’s a sin I hold far greater than his sin against me. Read what I have just written.”