There was a long silence. Grimbal poured out half a tumbler of brandy, added soda water, then handed the stimulant to Will; and Blauchard, after drinking, sat in comfort a while, rubbed his swollen jaw, and sc.r.a.ped the dried blood of Bonus off his hands.

"Why for did you chaange so sudden?" he asked, as Grimbal turned to his desk.

"I could tell you, but it doesn't matter. A letter in the mind looks different to one on paper; and duty often changes its appearance, too, when a man is honest with himself. To be honest with yourself is the hardest sort of honesty. I've had speech with others about this--my brother more particularly."

"I wish to G.o.d us could have settled it without no help from outside."

Grimbal rang the bell, then answered.

"As to settling it, I know nothing about that. I've settled with my own conscience--such as it is."

"I'd come for 'Yes' or 'No.'"

"Now you have a definite answer."

"An' thank you. Then what 's it to be between us, when I come back? May I ax that? Them as ban't enemies no more might grow to be friends--eh?"

What response Grimbal would have made is doubtful. He did not reply, for his servant, Lawrence Vallack, entered at the moment, and he turned abruptly upon the old man.

"Where 's the letter I left upon my desk? It was directed to Plymouth."

"All right, sir, all right; don't worrit. I've eyes in my head for my betters still, thank G.o.d. I seed un when I come to shut the shutters an'

sent Joe post-haste to the box. 'T was in plenty of time for the mail."

John emptied his lungs in a great respiration, half-sigh, half-groan. He could not speak. Only his fingers closed and he half lifted his hand as though to crush the smirking ancient. Then he dropped his arm and looked at Blanchard, asking the question with his eyes that he could find no words for.

"I heard the mail go just 'fore the hare squealed," said Will stolidly, "an' the letter with it for certain."

Grimbal started up and rushed to the hall while the other limped after him.

"Doan't 'e do nothin' fulish. I believe you never meant to post un. Ess, I'll take your solemn word for that. An' if you didn't mean to send letter, 't is as if you hadn't sent un. For my mind weer fixed, whatever you might do."

"Don't jaw, now! There 's time to stop the mail yet. I can get to Moreton as soon or sooner than that crawling cart if I ride. I won't be fooled like this!"

He ran to the stables, called to the groom, clapped a saddle on the horse that had just brought him home, and in about three minutes was riding down the avenue, while his lad reached the gate and swung it open just in time. Then Grimbal galloped into the night, with heart and soul fixed upon his letter. He meant to recover it at any reasonable cost.

The white road streaked away beneath him, and a breeze created by his own rapid progress steadied him as he hastened on. Presently at a hill-foot, he saw how to save a mile or more by short cuts over meadow-land, so left the highway, rode through a hayfield, and dashed from it by a gap into a second. Then he grunted and the sound was one of satisfaction, for his tremendous rate of progress had served its object and already, creeping on the main road far ahead, he saw the vehicle which held the mail.

Meanwhile Blanchard and the man-servant stood and watched John Grimbal's furious departure.

"Pity," said Will. "No call to do it. I've took his word, an' the end 's the same, letter or no letter. Now let me finish that theer brandy, then I'll go home."

But Mr. Vallack heard nothing. He was gazing out into the night and shaking with fear.

"High treason 'gainst the law of the land to lay a finger on the mail. A letter posted be like a stone flinged or a word spoken--out of our keeping for all time. An' me to blame for it. I'm a ruined man along o'

taking tu much 'pon myself an' being tu eager for others. He'll fling me out, sure 's death. 'T is all up wi' me."

"As to that, I reckon many a dog gets a kick wheer he thinks he 's earned a pat," said Will; "that's life, that is. An' maybe theer's sore hearts in dumb beasts, tu, sometimes, for a dog loves praise like a woman. He won't sack 'e. You done what 'peared your duty."

Blanchard then left the house, slowly proceeded along the avenue and presently pa.s.sed out on to the highroad. As he walked the pain of his leg diminished, but he put no strain upon it and proceeded very leisurely towards home. Great happiness broke into his mind, undimmed by aching bones and bruises. The reflection that he was reconciled to John Grimbal crowded out lesser thoughts. He knew the other had spoken truth, and accepted his headlong flight to arrest the mail as sufficient proof of it. Then he thought of the possibility of giving himself up before Grimbal's letter should come to be read.

At home Phoebe was lying awake in misery waiting for him. She had brought up to their bedroom a great plate of cold bacon with vegetables and a pint of beer; and as Will slowly appeared she uttered a cry and embraced him with thanksgivings. Upon Blanchard's mind the return to his wife impressed various strange thoughts. He soothed her, comforted her, and a.s.sured her of his safety. But to him it seemed that he spoke with a stranger, for half a century of experience appeared to stretch between the present and his departure from Monks Barton about three hours before. His wife experienced similar sensations. That this cheerful, battered, hungry man could be the same who had stormed from her into the night a few short hours before, appeared impossible.

CHAPTER XVI

A PAIR OF HANDCUFFS

Mr. Blee, to do him justice, was usually the first afoot at Monks Barton, both winter and summer. The maids who slept near him needed no alarum, for his step on the stair and his high-pitched summons, "Now then, you lazy gals, what be snorin' theer for, an' the day broke?" was always sufficient to ensure their wakening.

At an early hour of the morning that dawned upon Will's nocturnal adventures, Billy stood in the farmyard and surveyed the shining river to an accompaniment of many musical sounds. On Monks Barton thatches the pigeons cooed and bowed and gurgled to their ladies, cows lowed from the byres, c.o.c.ks crew, and the mill-wheel, already launched upon the business of the day, panted from its dark habitation of dripping moss and fern.

Billy sniffed the morning, then proceeded to a pig's sty, opened a door within it, and chuckled at the spectacle that greeted him.

"Burnish it all! auld sow 's farrowed at last, then. Busy night for her, sure 'nough! An' so fine a litter as ever I seed, by the looks of it."

He bustled off to get refreshment for the gaunt, new-made mother, and as he did so met Ted Chown, who now worked at Mr. Lyddon's, and had just arrived from his home in Chagford.

"Marnin', sir; have 'e heard the news? Gert tidings up-long I 'sure 'e."

"Not so gert as what I've got, I'll lay. Butivul litter 't is. Come an'

give me a hand."

"Bonus was catched poachin' last night to the Red House. An' he've had his faace smashed in, nose broke, an' all. He escaped arter; but he went to Doctor fust thing to-day an' got hisself plastered; an' then, knawin'

't weern't no use to hide, comed right along an' gived hisself up to faither."

"My stars! An' no more'n what he desarved, that's certain."

"But that ban't all, even. Maister Jan Grimbal's missing! He rode off last night, Laard knaws wheer, an' never a sign of un seed since.

They've sent to the station 'bout it a'ready; an' they 'm scourin' the airth for un. An' 't was Maister Blanchard as fought wi' Bonus, for Sam said so."

"Guy Fawkes an' angels! Here, you mix this. I must tell Miller an' run about a bit. Gwaine to be a gert day, by the looks of it!"

He hurried into the house, met his master and began with breathless haste,--

"Awful doin's! Awful doin's, Miller. Such a sweet-smellin' marnin', tu!

Bear yourself stiff against it, for us caan't say what remains to be told."

"What's wrong now? Doan't choke yourself. You 'm grawin' tu auld for all the excitements of modern life, Billy. Wheer's Will?"

"You may well ax. Sleepin' still, I reckon, for he comed in long arter midnight. I was stirrin' at the time an' heard un. Sleepin' arter black deeds, if all they tell be true."

"Black deeds!"

"The bwoy Ted's just comed wi' it. 'T is this way: Bonus be at death's door wi' a smashed nose, an' Blanchard done it; an' Jan Grimbal's vanished off the faace o' the airth. Not a sign of un seed arter he drove away last night from the Jubilee gathering. An' if 't is murder, you'll be in the witness-box, knawin' the parties same as you do; an'

the sow 's got a braave litter, though what's that arter such news?"