Part 70 (2/2)

”Then us won't,” promised Mr. Lyddon, and ten minutes after he proceeded to Mrs. Blanchard's cottage with the news. His first hasty survey of the position had not been wholly unfavourable to Will, but he was a man of unstable mind in his estimates of human character, and now he chiefly occupied his thoughts with the offence of desertion from the army. The disgrace of such an action magnified itself as he reflected upon Will's unhappy deed.

Phoebe, meantime, succ.u.mbed and found herself a helpless prey of terrors vague and innumerable. Will's fate she could not guess at; but she felt it must be severe; she doubted not that his sentence would extend over long years. In her dejection and misery she mourned for herself and wondered what manner of babe would this be that now took substance through a season of such gloom and acc.u.mulated sorrows. The thought begat pity for the coming little one,--utmost commiseration that set Phoebe's tears flowing anew,--and when the miller returned he found his daughter stricken beyond measure and incoherent under her grief. But Mr.

Lyddon came back with a companion, and it was her husband, not her father, who dried Phoebe's eyes and cheered her lonely heart. Will, indeed, appeared and stood by her suddenly; and she heard his voice and cried a loud thanksgiving and clasped him close.

Yet no occasion for rejoicing had brought about this unexpected reappearance. Indeed, more ill-fortune was responsible for it. When Mr.

Lyddon arrived at Mrs. Blanchard's gate, he found both Will and Doctor Parsons standing there, then learnt the incident that had prevented his son-in-law's proposed action.

Pa.s.sing that way himself some hours earlier, Will had been suddenly surprised to see blue smoke rising from a chimney of the house. It was a very considerable time before such event might reasonably be expected and a second look alarmed Blanchard's heart, for on the little chimney-stack he knew each pot, and it was not the kitchen chimney but that of his mother's bedroom which now sent evidence of a newly lighted fire into the morning.

In a second Will's plans and purposes were swept away before this spectacle. A fire in a bedroom represented a circ.u.mstance almost outside his experience. At least it indicated sickness unto death. He was in the house a moment later, for the latch lifted at his touch; and when he knocked at his mother's door and cried his name, she bade him come in.

”What's this? What's amiss with 'e, mother? Doan't say 't is anything very bad. I seed the smoke an' my heart stood still.”

She smiled and a.s.sured him her illness was of no account.

”Ban't nothing. Just a s.h.i.+vering an' stabbing in the chest. My awn fulishness to be out listening to they bells in the frost. But no call to fear. I awnly axed my li'l servant to get me a cup o' tea, an' she comed an' would light the fire, an' would go for doctor, though theer ban't no 'casion at all.”

”Every occasion, an' the gal was right, an' it shawed gude sense in such a d.i.n.ky maid as her. Nothin' like taaking a cold in gude time. Do 'e catch heat from the fire?”

Mrs. Blanchard's eyes were dull, and her breathing a little disordered.

Will instantly began to bustle about. He added fuel to the flame, set on a kettle, dragged blankets out of cupboards and piled them upon his mother. Then he found a pillow-case, aired it until the thing scorched, inserted a pillow, and placed it beneath the patient's head. His subsequent step was to rummage dried marshmallows out of a drawer, concoct a sort of dismal brew, and inflict a cup upon the sick woman.

Doctor Parsons still tarrying, Will went out of doors, knocked a brick from the fowl-house wall, brought it in, made it nearly red hot, then wrapped it up in an old rug and applied it to his parent's feet,--all of which things the sick woman patiently endured.

”You 'm doin' me a power o' gude, dearie,” she said, as her discomfort and suffering increased.

Presently Doctor Parsons arrived, checked Will in fantastic experiments with a poultice, and gave him occupation in a commission to the physician's surgery. When he returned, he heard that his mother was suffering from a severe chill, but that any definite declaration upon the case was as yet impossible.

”No cause to be 'feared?” he asked.

”'T is idle to be too sanguine. You know my philosophy. I've seen a scratched finger kill a man; I've known puny babes wriggle out of Death's hand when I could have sworn it had closed upon them for good and all. Where there 's life there 's hope.”

”Ess, I knaw you,” answered Will gloomily; ”an' I knaw when you say that you allus mean there ban't no hope at all.”

”No, no. A strong, hale woman like your mother need not give us any fear at present. Sleep and rest, cheerful faces round her, and no amateur physic. I'll see her to-night and send in a nurse from the Cottage Hospital at once.”

Then it was that Miller Lyddon arrived, and presently Will returned home. He wholly mistook Phoebe's frantic reception, and a.s.sumed that her tears must be flowing for Mrs. Blanchard.

”She'll weather it,” he said. ”Keep a gude heart. The gal from the hospital ban't coming 'cause theer 's danger, but 'cause she 'm smart an' vitty 'bout a sick room, an' cheerful as a canary an' knaws her business. Quick of hand an' light of foot for sartin. Mother'll be all right; I feel it deep in me she will.”

Presently conversation pa.s.sed to Will himself, and Phoebe expressed a hope this sad event would turn him from his determination for some time at least.

”What determination?” he asked. ”What be talkin' about?”

”The letter you left for faither, and the thing you started to do,” she answered.

”'S truth! So I did; an' if the sight o' the smoke an' then hearin' o'

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