“But the real gude men,” pleaded Phoebe—“them as had no whisper ’gainst ’em, same as Will? They couldn’t be hard ’pon them, ’specially if they knawed all?”
“I should hope not; I’m sure not. You see the case is so unusual, as an officer explained to me, and such a great length of time has elapsed between the action and the judgment upon it. That is in Will’s favour. A good soldier with a clean record who deserts and is apprehended does not get more than three months with hard labour and sometimes less. That’s the worst that can happen, I hope.”
“What’s hard labour to him?” murmured Billy, whose tact on occasions of universal sorrow was sometimes faulty. “’Tis the rankle of bein’ in every blackguard’s mouth that’ll cut Will to the quick.”
“What blackguards say and think ban’t no odds,” declared Mrs. Blanchard. “’Tis better—far better he should do what he must do. The disgrace is in the minds of them that lick theer lips upon his sorrow. Let him pay for a wrong deed done, for the evil he did that gude might come of it. I see the right hand o’ God holding’ the li’l strings of my son’s life, an’ I knaw better’n any of ’e what’ll be in the bwoy’s heart now.”
“Yet, when all’s said, ’tis a mournful sarcumstance an’ sent for our chastening,” contended Mr. Blee stoutly. “Us mustn’t argue away the torment of it an’ pretend ’tis nought. Ban’t a pleasing thing, ’specially at such a time when all the airth s gwaine daft wi’ joy for the gracious gudeness o’ God to the Queen o’ England. In plain speech, ’t is a damn dismal come-along-of-it, an’ I’ve cried by night, auld though I am, to think o’ the man’s babes grawin’ up wi’ this round theer necks. An’ wan to be born while he ’m put away! Theer ’s a black picksher for ’e! Him doin’ hard labour as the Law directs, an’ his wife doin’ hard labour, tu—in her lonely bed! Why, gormed if I—”
“For God’s sake shut your mouth, you horrible old man!” burst out Martin, as Phoebe hurried away in tears and Chris followed her. “You’re a disgrace to humanity and I don’t hesitate—I don’t hesitate at all to say you have no proper feeling in you!”
“Martin’s right, Billy,” declared Mr. Lyddon without emotion. “You ’m a thought tu quick to meet other people’s troubles half way, as I’ve told ’e before to-night. Ban’t a comely trait in ’e. You’ve made her run off sobbing her poor, bruised heart out. As if she hadn’t wept enough o’ late. Do ’e think us caan’t see what it all means an’ the wisht cloud that’s awver all our heads, lookin’ darker by contrast wi’ the happiness of the land, owing to the Jubilee of a gert Queen? Coourse we knaw. But’t is poor wisdom to talk ’bout the blackness of a cloud to them as be tryin’ to find its silver lining. If you caan’t lighten trouble, best to hold your peace.”
“What’s the use of cryin’ ‘peace’ when us knaws in our hearts ’tis war? Us must look inside an’ outside, an’ count the cost same as I be doin’ now,” declared Mr. Blee. “Then to be catched up so harsh ’mong friends! Well, well, gude-night, all; I’ll go to my rest. Hard words doan’t break, though they may bruise. But I’ll do my duty, whether or no.”
He rose and shuffled to the door, then looked round and opened his mouth to speak again. But he changed his mind, shook his head, snorted expressively, and disappeared.
“A straange-fashioned chap,” commented Mrs. Blanchard, “wi’ sometimes a wise word stuck in his sour speech, like a gude currant in a bad dumpling.”