Back came Blanchard’s mind to his mother with a whole-hearted swing.

“Ess,” he said, “you ’m right theer.  My plaace is handy to her till she ‘m movin’; an’ if he tries to take me before she ’m down-house again, by God!  I’ll—­”

“Let it bide that way then.  Put t’ other matter out o’ your mind so far as you can.  Fill your pipe an’ suck deep at it.  I haven’t seen ’e smoke this longful time; an’ in my view theer ’s no better servant than tobacco to a mind puzzled at wan o’ life’s cross-roads.”

CHAPTER XIII

MR. LYDDON’S TACTICS

In the morning Mrs. Blanchard was worse, and some few days later lay in danger of her life.  Her son spent half his time in the sick-room, walked about bootless to make no sound, and fretted with impatience at thought of the length of days which must elapse before Chris could return to Chagford.  Telegrams had been sent to Martin Grimbal, who was spending his honeymoon out of England; but on the most sanguine computation he and his wife would scarcely be home again in less than ten days or a fortnight.

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.”