"Well, I ban't the hot-headed twoad Miller Lyddon thinks, or pretends he thinks, anyway. I'll shaw un! I can wait, an' Phoebe can wait, an' now she'll have to. I'm gwaine away."

"Going away. Why?"

"To shaw what 's in me. I ban't sorry for this for some things. Now no man shall say that I'm a home-stayin' gaby, tramping up an' down Teign Vale for a living. I'll step out into the wide world, same as them Grimbals done. They 'm back again made of money, the pair of 'em."

"It took them fifteen years and more, and they were marvellously lucky."

"What then? I'm as like to fare well as they. I've worked out a far-reaching plan, but the first step I've thought on 's terrible coorious, an' I reckon n.o.body but you'd see how it led to better things.

But you 'm book-larned and wise in your way, though I wish your wisdom had done more for yourself than it has. Anyway, you 'm tokened to Chris and will be one of the family some day perhaps when Mother Coomstock dies, so I'll leave my secret with you. But not a soul else--not mother even. So you must swear you'll never tell to man or woman or cheel what I've done and wheer I be gone."

"I'll swear if you like."

"By the livin' G.o.d."

"By any G.o.d you believe is alive."

"Say it, then."

"By the living G.o.d, I, Clement Hicks, bee-master of Chagford, Devon, swear to keep the secret of my friend and neighbour, William Blanchard, whatever it is."

"And may He tear the life out of you if you so much as think to tell."

Hicks laughed and shook his hair from his forehead.

"You're suspicious of the best friend you've got in the world."

"Not a spark. But I want you to see what an awful solemn thing I reckon it."

"Then may G.o.d rot me, and plague me, and let me roast in h.e.l.l-fire with the rogues for ever and a day, if I so much as whisper your news to man or mouse! There, will that do?"

"No call to drag in h.e.l.l fire, 'cause I knaw you doan't set no count on it. More doan't I. h.e.l.l's cold ashes now if all what you ve said is true. But you've sworn all right and now I'll tell 'e."

He bent forward and whispered in the other's ear, whereon Hicks started in evident amazement and showed himself much concerned.

"Good Heavens! Man alive, are you mad?"

"You doan't 'zactly look on ahead enough, Clem," said Will loftily.

"Ban't the thing itself's gwaine to make a fortune, but what comes of it. 'Tis a tidy stepping-stone lead-in' to gert matters very often, as your books tell, I dare say."

"It can't lead to anything whatever in your case but wasted years."

"I'm best judge of that. I've planned the road, and if I ban't home again inside ten year as good a man as Grimbal or any other I'll say I was wrong."

"You're a bigger fool than even I thought, Blanchard."

Will's eye flashed.

"You 'm a tidy judge of a fule, I grant," he said angrily, "or should be. But you 'm awnly wan more against me. You'll see you 'm wrong like the rest. Anyway, you've got to mind what you've sweared. An' when mother an' Chris ax 'e wheer I be, I'll thank you to say I'm out in the world doin' braave, an' no more."

"As you like. It 's idle, I know, trying to make you change your mind."

A thin voice from an upper chamber of the cottage here interrupted their colloquy, and the mother of the bee-keeper reminded him that he was due early on the following day at Okehampton with honey, and that he ought long since to be asleep.

"If that's Will Blanchard," she concluded, "tell un to be off home to bed. What 's the wisdom o' turning night hours into day like this here?"

"All right, mother," shouted Will. "Gude-night to 'e. I be off this moment."

Then bidding his friend farewell, he departed.

"Doan't think twice o' what I said a minute since. I was hot 'cause you couldn't see no wisdom in my plan. But that's the way of folks. They belittle a chap's best thoughts and acts till the time comes for luck to turn an' bring the fruit; then them as scoffed be the first to turn round smilin' an' handshaking and sayin', 'What did us say? Didn't us tell 'e so from the very beginning?'"

Away went the youthful water-keeper, inspired with the prospect of his contemplated flight. He strode home at a rapid pace, to find all lights out and the household in bed. Then he drank half a pint of cider, ate some bread and cheese, and set about a letter to Phoebe.

A little desk on a side-table, the common property of himself, his mother, and sister, was soon opened, and materials found. Then, in his own uncial characters, that always tended hopefully upward, and thus left a triangle of untouched paper at the bottom of every sheet, Will wrote a letter of two folios, or eight complete pages. In this he repeated the points of his conversation with Phoebe's father, told her to be patient, and announced that, satisfied of her unfailing love and steadfastness through all, he was about to pa.s.s into the wider world, and carve his way to prosperity and fortune. He hid particulars from her, but mentioned that Clement Hicks would forward any communications.

Finally he bid her keep a stout heart and live contented in the certainty of ultimate happiness. He also advised Phoebe to forgive her father. "I have already done it, honor bright," he wrote; "'t is a wise man's part to bear no malice, especially against an old grey body whose judgment 'pears to be gone bad for some reason." He also a.s.sured Phoebe that he was hers until death should separate them; in a postscript he desired her to break his departure softly to his mother if opportunity to do so occurred; and, finally, he was not ashamed to fill the empty triangles on each page with kisses, represented by triangles closely packed. Bearing this important communication, Will walked out again into the night, and soon his letter awaited Phoebe in the usual receptacle.

He felt therein himself, half suspecting a note might await him, but there was nothing. He hesitated for a moment, then climbed the gate into Monks Barton farmyard, went softly and stood in the dark shadow of the mill-house. The moon shone full upon the face of the dwelling, and its three fruit-trees looked as though painted in profound black against the pale whitewash; while Phoebe's dormer-window framed the splendour of the reflected sky, and shone very brightly. The blind was down, and the maiden behind it had been asleep an hour or two; but Will pictured her as sobbing her heart out still. Perhaps he would never see her again.

The path he had chosen to follow might take him over seas and through vast perils; indeed, it must do so if the success he desired was to be won. He felt something almost like a catch in his throat as he turned away and crossed the sleeping river. He glanced down through dreaming glades and saw one motionless silver spot on the dark waters beneath the alders. Sentiment was at its flood just then, and he spoke a few words under his breath. "'Tis thicky auld Muscovy duck, roostin' on his li'l island; poor lone devil wi' never a mate to fight for nor friend to swim along with. Worse case than mine, come to think on it!" Then an emotion, rare enough with him, vanished, and he sniffed the night air and felt his heart beat high at thoughts of what lay ahead.

Will returned home, made fast the outer door, took off his boots, and went softly up a creaking stair. Loud and steady music came from the room where John Grimbal lay, and Blanchard smiled when he heard it.

"'Tis the snore of a happy man with money in his purse," he thought.

Then he stood by his mother's door, which she always kept ajar at night, and peeped in upon her. Damaris Blanchard slumbered with one arm on the coverlet, the other behind her head. She was a handsome woman still, and looked younger than her eight-and-forty years in the soft ambient light.

"Muneshine do make dear mother so purty as a queen," said Will to himself. And he would never wish her "good-by," perhaps never see her again. He hastened with light, impulsive step into the room, thinking just to kiss the hand on the bed, but his mother stirred instantly and cried, "Who's theer?" with sleepy voice. Then she sat up and listened--a fair, grey-eyed woman in an old-fashioned night-cap. Her son had vanished before her eyes were opened, and now she turned and yawned and slept again.

Will entered his own chamber near at hand, doffed for ever the velveteen uniform of water-keeper, and brought from a drawer an old suit of corduroy. Next he counted his slight store of money, set his 'alarum'

for four o'clock, and, fifteen minutes later, was in bed and asleep, the time then being a little after midnight.

CHAPTER IV

BY THE RIVER

Clement Hicks paid an early visit to Will's home upon the following morning. He had already set out to Okehampton with ten pounds of honey in the comb, and at Mrs. Blanchard's cottage he stopped the little public vehicle which ran on market-days to the distant town. That the son of the house was up and away at dawn told his family nothing, for his movements were at all times erratic, and part of his duty consisted in appearing on the river at uncertain times and in unexpected localities. Clement Hicks often called for a moment upon his way to market, and Chris, who now greeted her lover, felt puzzled at the unusual gravity of his face. She turned pale when she heard his tremendous news; but the mother was of more Spartan temperament and received intelligence of Will's achievement without changing colour or ceasing from her occupation.

Between Damaris Blanchard and her boy had always existed a perfect harmony of understanding, rare even in their beautiful relationship. The thoughts of son and mother chimed; not seldom they antic.i.p.ated each other's words. The woman saw much of her dead husband reflected in Will and felt a moral conviction that through the storms of youth, high temper, and inexperience, he would surely pa.s.s to good things, by reason of the strenuous honesty and singleness of purpose that actuated him; he, on his side, admired the great calmness and self-possession of his mother. She was so steadfast, so strong, and wiser than any woman he had ever seen. With a fierce, volcanic affection Will Blanchard loved her.

She and Phoebe alike shared his whole heart.

"It is a manly way of life he has chosen, and that is all I may say. He is ambitious and strong, and I should be the last to think he has not done well to go into the world for a while," said Clement.

"When is he coming back again?" asked Chris.

"He spoke of ten years or so."

"Then 'twill be more or less," declared Mrs. Blanchard, calmly. "Maybe a month, maybe five years, or fifteen, not ten, if he said ten. He'll shaw the gude gold he's made of, whether or no. I'm happy in this and not surprised. 'Twas very like to come arter last night, if things went crooked."

"'Tis much as faither might have done," said Chris.