“An’ me, tu!” said Mr. Blee, with a fine disregard for his recent utterances.  “I’ve teached the chap purty nigh all he knaws an’ I ban’t gwaine to turn on un now, onless ‘t is proved blue murder.  An’ that Chown ‘s a disgrace to his cloth; an’ I’d pull his ugly bat’s ears on my awn behalf if I was a younger an’ spryer man.”

CHAPTER XVII

SUSPENSE

The fate of John Grimbal was learned within an hour or two of Inspector Chown’s departure from Monks Barton; and by the time that Martin Grimbal had been apprised of the matter his brother already lay at the Red House.

John had been found at daybreak upon the grass-land where he rode overnight on his journey to intercept the mail.  A moment after he descried the distant cart, his horse had set foot in a hole; and upon the accident being discovered, the beast was found lying with a broken leg within twenty yards of its insensible master.  His horse was shot, John Grimbal carried home with all despatch, and Doctor Parsons arrived as quickly as possible, to do all that might be done for the sufferer until an abler physician than himself reached the scene.

Three dreary days saw Grimbal at the door of death, then a brief interval of consciousness rewarded unceasing care, and a rumour spread that he might yet survive.  Martin, when immediate fear for his brother’s life was relieved, busied himself about Blanchard, and went to Plymouth.  There he saw Will, learned all facts concerning the letter, and did his best to win information of the prisoner’s probable punishment.  Fears, magnified rumours, expressed opinions, mostly erroneous, buzzed in the ears of the anxious party at Monks Barton.  Then Martin Grimbal returned to Chagford and there came an evening when those most interested met after supper at the farm to hear all he could tell them.

Long faces grouped round Martin as he made his statement in a grey June twilight.  Mr. Blee and the miller smoked, Mrs. Blanchard sat with her hand in her daughter’s, and Phoebe occupied a comfortable arm-chair by the wood fire.  Between intervals of long silence came loud, juicy, sounds from Billy’s pipe, and when light waned they still talked on until Chris stirred herself and sought the lamp.

“They tell me,” began Martin, “that a deserting soldier is punished according to his character and with regard to the fact whether he surrenders himself or is apprehended.  Of course we know Will gave himself up, but then they will find out that he knew poor John’s unfortunate letter had reached its destination—­or at any rate started for it; and they may argue, not knowing the truth, that it was the fact of the information being finally despatched made Will surrender.  They will say, I am afraid, as they said to me:  ’Why did he wait until now if he meant to do the right thing?  Why did he not give himself up long ago?’”

“That’s easy answered:  to please others,” explained Mr. Lyddon.  “Fust theer was his promise to Phoebe, then his mother’s illness, then his other promise, to bide till his wife was brought to bed.  Looking back I see we was wrong to use our power against his awn wish; but so it stands.”