'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 s