Part 64 (1/2)
A spectator, aware of certain facts, had viewed the progress of Chris with some slight interest. Three ways were open to her, three main thoroughfares leading out of Chagford to places of parallel or greater importance. Upon the Moor road Will wandered in deep perturbation; on that to Okehampton walked another man, concerned with the same problem from a different aspect; the third highway led to Moreton; and thither Chris might have proceeded unchallenged. But a little public vehicle would be returning just then from the railway station. That the runaway knew, and therefore selected another path.
In her pocket was all the money that she had; in her heart was a sort of alloyed sorrow. Two thoughts shared her mind after she had decided upon a course of action. She wondered how quickly Tim would learn to call her ”mother,” for that was the only sweet word life still held; yet of the child's father she did not think, for her mind, without special act of volition, turned and turned again to him upon whom the Indian summer of her love had descended.
CHAPTER IX
UNDER COSDON BEACON
Beneath a region where the ”newtakes” straggle up Cosdon's eastern flank and mark a struggle between man and the giant beacon, Chris Blanchard rested a while upon the gra.s.s by the highway. Tim, wrapped in a shawl, slept soundly beside his mother, and she sat with her elbows on her knees and one hand under her chin. It was already dusk; dark mist wreaths moved upon the Moor, and oncoming night winds sighed of rain.
Then a moment before her intended departure from this most solitary spot she heard footsteps upon the road. Not interested to learn anything of the pa.s.ser-by, Chris remained with her eyes upon the ground, but the footsteps stopped suddenly before her, whereupon she looked up and saw Martin Grimbal.
After a perambulation of twenty miles he had now set his face homewards, and thus the meeting was accomplished. Utmost constraint at first marked the expression of both man and woman, and it was left for Martin to break the silence, for Chris only started at seeing him, but said nothing. Her mind, however, ranged actively upon the reason of Grimbal's sudden appearance, and she did not at first believe it accidental.
”Why, my dear, what is this? You have wandered far afield!”
He addressed her in unnatural tones, for surprise and emotion sent his voice up into his head, and it came thin and tremulous as a woman's.
Even as he spoke Martin feared. From the knowledge gleaned by him that morning he suspected the meaning of this action, and thought that Chris was running away.
And she, at the same moment, divined that he guessed the truth in so far as the present position was concerned. Still she did not speak, and he grew calmer and took her silence as an admission.
”You're going away from Chagford? Is it wise?”
”Ess, Martin, 'tis best so. You see this poor child be breedin' trouble, an' bringing bad talk against Will. He ban't wanted--little Timothy--an'
I ban't wanted overmuch, so it comed to me I'd--I'd just slip away out of the turmoil an' taake Tim. Then--”
She stopped, for her heart was beating so fast that she could speak no more. She remembered her own arguments in the recent past,--that this flight must tell all who cared to reflect that the child was her own.
Now she looked up at Martin to see if he had guessed it. But he exhibited extreme self-control and she was rea.s.sured.
”Just like your thoughtful self to try and save others from sorrow.
Where are you going to, Chris? Don't tell me more than you please; but I may be useful to you on this, the first stage of the journey.”
”To Okehampton to-night. To-morrow--but I'd rather not say any more. I don't care so long as you think I'm right.”
”I haven't said that yet. But I'll go as far as Zeal with you. Then we'll get a covered cab or something. We may reach the village before rain.”
”No call for your coming. 'Tis awnly a short mile.”
”But I must. I'll carry the laddie. Poor little man! Hard to be the cause of such a bother.”
He picked Timothy up so gently that the child did not wake.
”Now,” he said, ”come along. You must be tired already.”
”How gude you be!” she said wearily. ”I'm glad you doan't scold or fall into a rage wi' me, for I knaw I'm right. The bwoy's better away, and I'm small use to any now. But I can be busy with this little wan. I might do worse than give up my life to un--eh, Martin?”
Then some power put words in his mouth. He trembled when he had spoken them, but he would not have recalled them.
”You couldn't do better. It's a duty staring you in the face.”
She started violently, and her dark skin flamed under the night.