"Not a bit of it. Gaol-birds is all feathered alike inside clink, an'

honest men feathers 'em all alike when they come out," declared Will's father-in-law.

"A sheer Cain, as no man will touch by the hand--that's what you'll be,"

added Billy, without apparent regret.

"If that's so," said Will, very calmly, "you'd best to think twice 'fore you sends me. I've done a high-handed deed, bein' forced into the same by happenings here when I went off last summer; but 't is auld history now. I'd like to be a credit to 'e some time, not a misery for all time.

Why not--?" He was going to suggest a course of action more favourable to himself than that promised; but it struck him suddenly that any att.i.tude other than the one in which he had come savoured of snivelling for mercy. So he stopped, left a break of silence, and proceeded with less earnestness in his voice.

"You've had a matter of eight weeks to decide in, so I thought I might ax'e, man to man, what's gwaine to be done."

"I have decided," said the miller coldly; "I decided a week ago."

Billy started and his blue eyes blinked inquiringly. He sniffed his surprise and said "Well!" under his breath.

"Ess, 't is so, I didn't tell 'e, Blee, 'cause I reckoned you'd try an'

turn me from my purpose, which wasn't to be done."

"Never--not me. I'm allus in flat agreement with 'e, same as any wise man finds hisself all times."

"Well, doan't 'e take it ill, me keepin' it to myself."

"No, no--awnly seem' how--"

"If it 's all the same," interrupted Will, "I'd like to knaw what you 'm gwaine for to do."

"I'm gwaine to do nort, Will Blanchard--nort at all. G.o.d He knaws you 've wronged me, an' more 'n me, an' her--Phoebe--worst of all; but I'll lift no hand ag'in' you. Bide free an' go forrard your awn way--"

"To the Dowl!" concluded Billy.

There was a silence, then Will spoke with some emotion.

"You 'm a big, just man, Miller Lyddon; an' if theer was anything could make me sorry for the past--which theer ban't--'t would be to knaw you've forgived me."

"He ain't done no such thing!" burst out Mr. Blee. "Tellin' 'e to go to the Dowl ban't forgivin' of 'e!"

"That was your word," answered Will hotly, "an' if you didn't open your ugly mouth so wide, an' shaw such a 'mazing poor crop o' teeth same time, me an' Miller might come to onderstanding. I be here to see him, not you."

"Gar! you 'm a beast of a bwoy, looked at anyhow, an' I wouldn't have no dealin's with 'e for money," snorted the old man.

"Theer we'll leave it then, Blanchard," said Mr. Lyddon, as Will turned his back upon the last speaker without answering him. "Go your way an'

try to be a better man; but doan't ax me to forget what 's pa.s.sed--no, nor forgive it, not yet. I'll come to a Christian sight of it some day, G.o.d willin'; but it 's all I can say that I bear you no ill-will."

"An' I'm beholden enough for that. You wait an' keep your eye on me.

I'll shaw you what's in me yet. I'll surprise 'e, I promise. n.o.body in these paarts 'cept mother, knaws what 's in me. But, wi'out boastful words, I'll prove it. Because, Miller, I may a.s.sure 'e I'm a man as have thought a lot in my time 'bout things in general."

"Ess, you'm a deep thinker, I doan't doubt. Now best to go; an', mind, no dealins wi' Phoebe, for that I won't stand."

"I've thought that out, tu. I'll give 'e my word of honour 'pon that."

"Best to seek work t'other side the Moor, if you ax me. Then you'll be out the way."

"As to that, I'd guessed maybe Martin Grimbal, as have proved a gert friend to me an' be quite o' my way o' thinking, might offer garden work while I looked round. Theer ban't a spark o' pride in me--tu much sense, I hope, for that."

The miller sighed.

"You've done a far-reachin' thing, as. .h.i.ts a man from all sorts o'

plaaces, like the echo in Teign Valley. I caan't see no end to it yet."

"Martin Grimbal's took on Wat Widdicombe, so you needn't fule yourself he'll give 'e work," snapped Mr. Blee.

"Well, theer be others."

And then that sudden smile, half sly, half sweet, leapt to Will's eyes and brightened all his grave face, as the sun gladdens a grey sky after rain.

"Look now, Miller Lyddon, why for shouldn't you, the biggest man to Chagford, give me a bit of work? I ban't no caddlin'[5] chap, an' for you--by G.o.d, I'd dig a mountain flat if you axed me!"

[5] _Caddling_ = loafing, idling.

"Well, I be gormed!" gasped Billy. It was a condition, though whether physical or mental he only knew, to which Will reduced Mr. Blee upon every occasion of their meeting.

"You hold your jaw an' let me talk to Mr. Lyddon. 'Tis like this, come to look at it: who should work for 'e same as what I would? Who should think for my wife's faither wi' more of his heart than me? I'd glory to do a bit of work for 'e--aye, I would so, high or low; an' do it in a way to make you rub your eyes!"

Billy saw the first-formed negative die still-born on his master's lips.

He began to cry out volubly that Monks Barton was over-manned, and that scandal would blast every opening bud on the farm if such a thing happened. Will glared at him, and in another moment Mr. Blee might have suffered physically had not the miller lifted his hand and bid both be silent.

For a full minute no man spoke, while in Mr. Lyddon's mind proceeded a strange battle of ideas. Will's audacity awakened less resentment than might have been foreseen. The man had bent before the shock of his daughter's secret marriage and was now returning to his customary mental condition. Any great alt.i.tude of love or extremity of hate was beyond Mr. Lyddon's calibre. Life slipped away and left his forehead smooth.

Sorrow brought no great scars, joy no particular exaltation. This temperament he had transmitted to Phoebe; and now she came into his mind and largely influenced him. A dozen times he opened his mind to say "No," but did not say it. Personal amiability could hardly have overcome natural dislike of Blanchard at such a moment, but the unexpected usually happens when weak natures are called upon to make sudden decisions; and though such may change their resolve again and again at a later date and before new aspects of the problem, their first hasty determination will often be the last another had predicted from them.

A very curious result accrued from Mr. Lyddon's mental conflict, and it was reached by an accidental train of thought. He told himself that his conclusion was generous to the extreme of the Christian ideal; he a.s.sured himself that few men so placed had ever before acted with such notable magnanimity; but under this repeated mental a.s.severation there spoke another voice which he stifled to the best of his power. The utterance of this monitor may best be judged from what followed.

"If I gave you work you'd stand to it, Will Blanchard?" he asked at length.

"Try me!"

"Whatsoever it might be?"

"Try me. Ban't for me to choose."

"I will, then. Come to-morrow by five, an' Billy shall show 'e what's to do."

It would be difficult to say which, of those who heard the miller's resolve received it with most astonishment. Will's voice was almost tremulous.

"You'll never be sorry, never. I couldn't have hoped such a thing.

Caan't think how I comed to ax it. An' yet--but I'll buckle to anything and everything, so help me. I'll think for 'e an' labour for 'e as no hireling that was ever born could, I will. An' you've done a big, grand-fashion thing, an' I'm yours, body an' bones, for it; an' you'll never regret it."

The young man was really moved by an issue so unexpected. He had uttered his suggestion on the spur of the moment, as he uttered most things, and such a reception argued a greatness of heart and generosity of spirit quite unparalleled in his experience. So he departed wishing all good on Mr. Lyddon and meaning all good with his whole soul and strength.