“Look, look, Will, dearie!  Did ‘e ever see aught like un?  An’ come evenin’, he ’m gwaine to have his fust li’l drink!”

CHAPTER II

THE KNIGHT OF FORLORN HOPES

The child brought all a child should bring to Newtake, though it could not hide the fact that Will Blanchard drifted daily a little nearer to the end of his resources.  But occasional success still flattered his ambition, and he worked hard and honestly.  In this respect at least the man proved various fears unfounded, yet the result of his work rarely took shape of sovereigns.  He marvelled at the extraordinary steadiness with which ill-fortune clung to Newtake and cursed when, on two quarter-days out of the annual four, another dip had to be made into the dwindling residue of his uncle’s bequest.  Some three hundred pounds yet remained when young Blanchard entered upon a further stage of his career,—­that most fitly recorded as happening within the shadow of a granite cross.

After long months of absence from home, Martin Grimbal returned, silent, unsuccessful, and sad.  Upon the foundations of facts he had built many tentative dwelling-places for hope; but all had crumbled, failure crowned his labours, and as far from the reach of his discovery seemed the secret of Chris as the secrets of the sacred circles, stone avenues, and empty, hypaethral chambers of the Moor.  Spiritless and bitterly discouraged, he returned after such labours as Will had dreamed not of; and his life, succeeding upon this deep disappointment, seemed far advanced towards its end in Martin’s eyes—­a journey whose brightest incidents, happiest places of rest, most precious companions were all left behind.  This second death of hope aged the man in truth and sowed his hair with grey.  Now only a melancholy memory of one very beautiful and very sad remained to him.  Chris indeed promised to return, but he told himself that such a woman had never left an unhappy mother for such period of time if power to come home still belonged to her.  Then, surveying the past, he taxed himself heavily with a deliberate and cruel share in it.  Why had he taken the advice of Blanchard and delayed his offer of work to Hicks?  He told himself that it was because he knew such a step would definitely deprive him of Chris for ever; and therein he charged himself with offences that his nature was above committing.  Then he burst into bitter blame of Will, and at a weak moment—­for nothing is weaker than the rare weakness of a strong man—­he childishly upbraided the farmer with that fateful advice concerning Clement, and called down upon his head deep censure for the subsequent catastrophe.  Will, as may be imagined, proved not slow to resent such an attack with heart and voice.  A great heat of vain recrimination followed, and the men broke into open strife.