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 shouldn’t you put in a pipe an’ draw off a quart or so for her betterment? I’ll swear ’t would strengthen the heart of her.”

Time passed, and it happened on one occasion, while walking abroad between his vigils, that Blanchard met John Grimbal. Will had reflected curiously of late days into what ghostly proportions his affair with the master of the Red House now dwindled before this greater calamity of his mother’s sickness; but sudden sight of the enemy roused passion and threw back the man’s mind to that occasion of their last conversation in the woods.

Yet the first words that now passed were to John Grimbal’s credit. He made an astonishing and unexpected utterance. Indeed, the spoken word surprised him as much as his listener, and he swore at himself for a fool when Will’s retort reached his ear.

They were passing at close quarters,—Blanchard on foot, John upon horseback,—when the latter said,—

“How ’s Mrs. Blanchard to-day?”

“Mind your awn business an’ keep our name off your lips!” answered the pedestrian, who misunderstood the question, as he did most questions where possible, and now supposed that Grimbal meant Phoebe.

His harsh words woke instant wrath.

“What a snarling, cross-bred cur you are! I should judge your own family will be the first to thank me for putting you under lock and key. Hell to live with, you must be.”

“God rot your dirty heart! Do it—do it; doan’t jaw—do it! But if you lay a finger ’pon me while my mother ’s bad or have me took before she ’m stirring again, I’ll kill you when I come out. God ’s my judge if I doan’t!”

Then, forgetting what had taken him out of doors, and upon what matter he was engaged, Will turned back in a tempest, and hastened to his mother’s cottage.

At Monks Barton Mr. Lyddon and his daughter had many and long conversations upon the subject of Blanchard’s difficulties. Both trembled to think what might be the issue if his mother died; both began to realise that there could be no more happiness for Will until a definite extrication from his present position was forthcoming. At his daughter’s entreaty the miller finally determined on a strong step. He made up his mind to visit Grimbal at the Red House, and win from him, if possible, some undertaking which would enable him to relieve his son-in-law of the present uncertainty.

Phoebe pleaded for silence, and prayed her father to get a promise at any cost in that direction.

“Let him awnly promise ’e never to tell of his free will, an’ the door against danger ’s shut,” she said. “When Will knaws Grimbal ’s gwaine to be dumb, he’ll rage a while, then calm down an’ be hisself again. ’T is the doubt that drove him frantic.”

“I’ll see the man, then; but not a word to Will’s ear. All the fat would be in the fire if he so much as dreamed I was about any such business. As to a promise, if I can get it I will. An’ ’twixt me an’ you, Phoebe, I’m hopeful of it. He ’s kept quiet so long that theer caan’t be any fiery hunger ’gainst Will in un just now. I’ll soothe un down an’ get his word of honour if it ’s to be got. Then your husband can do as he pleases.”

“Leave the rest to me, Faither.”

A fortnight later the cautious miller, after great and exhaustive reflection, set out to carry into practice his intention. An appointment was made on the day that Will drove to Moreton to meet his sister and Martin Grimbal. This removed him out of the way, while Billy had been despatched to Okehampton for some harness, and Mr. Lyddon’s daughter, alone in the secret, was spending the afternoon with her mother-in-law.

So Miller walked over to the Red House and soon found himself waiting for John Grimbal in a cheerless but handsome dining-room. The apartment suggested little occupation. A desk stood in the window, and upon it were half a dozen documents under a paper-weight made from a horse’s hoof. A fire burned in the broad grate; a row of chairs, upholstered in dark red leather, stood stiffly round; a dozen indifferent oil-paintings of dogs and horses filled large gold frames upon the walls; and upon a massive sideboard of black oak a few silver cups, won by Grimbal’s dogs at various shows and coursing meetings, were displayed.

Mr. Lyddon found himself kept waiting about ten minutes; then John entered, bade him a cold “good afternoon” without shaking hands, and placed an easy-chair for him beside the fire.

“Would you object to me lighting my pipe, Jan Grimbal?” asked the miller humbly; and by way of answer the other took a box of matches from his pocket and handed it to the visitor.

“Thank you, thank you; I’m obliged to you. Let me get a light, then I’ll talk to ’e.”

He puffed for a minute or two, while Grimbal waited in silence for his guest to begin.

“Now, wi’out any beatin’ of the bush or waste of time, I’ll speak. I be come ’bout Blanchard, as I dare say you guessed. The news of what he done nine or ten years ago comed to me just a month since. A month ’t was, or might be three weeks. Like a bolt from the blue it falled ’pon me an’ that’s a fact. An’ I heard how you knawed the thing—you as had such gude cause to hate un wance.”

“‘Once?’”

“Well, no man’s hate can outlive his reason, surely? I was with ’e, tu, then; but a man what lets himself suffer lifelong trouble from a fule be a fule himself. Not that Blanchard ’s all fule—far from it. He’ve ripened a little of late years—though slowly as fruit in a wet summer. Granted he bested you in the past an’ your natural hope an’ prayer was to be upsides wi’ un some day. Well, that’s all dead an’ buried, ban’t it? I hated the shadow of un in them days so bad as ever you did; but you gets to see more of the world, an’ the men that walks in it when you ’m moved away from things by the distance of a few years. Then you find how wan deed bears upon t’ other. Will done no more than you’d ’a’ done if the cases was altered. In fact, you ’m alike at some points, come to think of it.”

“Is that what you’ve walked over here to tell me?”

“No; I’m here to ax ’e frank an’ plain, as a sportsman an’ a straight man wi’ a gude heart most times, to tell me what you ’m gwaine to do ’bout this job. I’m auld, an’ I assure ’e you’ll hate yourself if you give un up. ’T would be outside your carater to do it.”

“You say that! Would you harbour a convict from Princetown if you found him hiding on your farm?”

“Ban’t a like case. Theer ’s the personal point of view, if you onderstand me. A man deserts from the army ten years ago, an’ you, a sort o’ amateur soldier, feels ’t is your duty to give un to justice.”

“Well, isn’t that what has happened?”

“No fay! Nothing of the sort. If ’t was your duty, why didn’t you do it fust minute you found it out? If you’d writ to the authorities an’ gived the man up fust moment, I might have said ’t was a hard deed, but I’d never have dared to say ’t weern’t just. Awnly you done no such thing. You nursed the power an’ sucked the thought, same as furriners suck at poppy poison. You played with the picture of revenge against a man you hated, an’ let the idea of what you’d do fill your brain; an’ then, when you wanted bigger doses, you told Phoebe what you knawed—reckoning as she’d tell Will bimebye. That’s bad, Jan Grimbal—worse than poisoning foxes, by God! An’ you knaw it.”

“Who are you, to judge me and my motives?”

“An auld man, an’ wan as be deeply interested in this business. Time was when we thought alike touching the bwoy; now we doan’t; ’cause your knowledge of un hasn’t grawed past the point wheer he downed us, an’ mine has.”

“You ’re a fool to say so. D’ you think I haven’t watched the young brute these many years? Self-sufficient, ignorant, hot-headed, always in the wrong. What d’ you find to praise in the clown? Look at his life. Failure! failure! failure! and making of enemies at every turn. Where would he be to-day but for you?”

“Theer ’s a rare gert singleness of purpose ’bout un.”

“A grand success he is, no doubt. I suppose you couldn’t get on without him now. Yet you cursed the cub freely enough once.”

“Bitter speeches won’t serve ’e, Grimbal; but they show me mighty clear what’s hid in you. Your sawl ’s torn every way by this thing, an’ you turn an’ turn again to it, like a dog to his vomit, yet the gude in ’e drags ’e away.”

“Better cut all that. You won’t tell me what you’ve come for, so I’ll tell you. You want me to promise not to move in this matter,—is that so?”

“Why, not ezackly. I want more ’n that. I never thought for a minute you would do it, now you’ve let the time pass so far. I knaw you’ll never act so ugly a paart now; but Will doan ’t, an’ he’ll never b’lieve me if I told un.”

The other made a sound, half growl, half mirthless laugh.

“You’ve taken it all for granted, then—you, who know more about what ’s in my mind than I do myself? You ’re a fond old man; and if you’d wanted to screw me up to the pitch of taking the necessary trouble, you couldn’t have gone a better way. I’ve been too busy to bother about the young rascal of late or he’d lie in gaol now.”

“Doan’t say no such vain things! D’ you think I caan’t read what your face speaks so plain? A man’s eyes tell the truth awftener than what his tongue does, for they ’m harder to break into lying. ’Tu busy’! You be foul to the very brainpan wi’ this job an’ you knaw it.”

“Is the hatred all on my side, d’ you suppose? Curse the brute to hell! And you’d have me eat humble-pie to the man who ’s wrecked my life?”

“No such thing at all. All the hatred be on your side. He’d forgived ’e clean. Even now, though you ’m fretting his guts to fiddlestrings because of waiting for ’e, he feels no malice—no more than the caged rat feels ’gainst the man as be carrying him, anyway.”

“You ’re wrong there. He’d kill me to-morrow. He let me know it. In a weak moment I asked him the other day how his mother was; and he turned upon me like a mad dog, and told me to keep his name off my lips, and said he’d have my life if I gave him up.”

“That’s coorious then, for he ’s hungry to give himself up, so soon as the auld woman ’s well again.”

“Talk! I suppose he sent you to whine for him?”

“Not so. He’d have blocked my road if he’d guessed.”

“Well, I’m honest when I say I don’t care a curse what he does or does not. Let him go his way. And as to proclaiming him, I shall do so when it pleases me. An odious crime that,—a traitor to his country.”

“Doan’t become you nor me to dwell ’pon that, seeing how things was.”

Grimbal rose.

“You think he ’s a noble fellow, and that your daughter had a merciful escape. It isn’t for me to suggest you are mistaken. Now I’ve no more time to spare, I’m afraid.”

The miller also rose, and as he prepared to depart he spoke a final word.

“You ’m terrible pushed for time, by the looks of it. I knaw ’t is hard in this life to find time to do right, though every man can make a ’mazing mort o’ leisure for t’ other thing. But hear me: you ’m ruinin’ yourself, body an’ sawl, along o’ this job—body an’ sawl, like apples in a barrel rots each other. You ’m in a bad way, Jan Grimbal, an’ I’m sorry for ’e—brick house an’ horses an’ dogs notwithstanding. Have a spring cleaning in that sulky brain o’ yourn, my son, an’ be a man wi’ yourself, same as you be a man wi’ the world.”

The other sneered.

“Don’t get hot. The air is cold. And as you’ve given so much good advice, take some, too. Mind your own business, and let your son-in-law mind his.”

Mr. Lyddon shook his head.

“Such words do only prove me right. Look in your heart an’ see how ’t is with you that you can speak to an auld man so. ’T is common metal shawing up in ’e, an’ I’m sorry to find it.”

He set off home without more words and, as chance ordered the incident, emerged from the avenue gates of the Red House while a covered vehicle passed by on the way from Moreton Hampstead. Its roof was piled with luggage, and inside sat Chris, her husband, and Will. They spied Mr. Lyddon and made room for him; but later on in the evening Will taxed the miller with his action.

“I knawed right well wheer you’d come from,” he said gloomily, “an’ I’d ’a’ cut my right hand off rather than you should have done it. You did n’t ought, Faither; for I’ll have no living man come between me an’ him.”

“I made it clear I was on my awn paart,” explained Mr. Lyddon; but that night Will wrote a letter to his enemy and despatched it by a lad before breakfast on the following morning.

“Sir,” he said, “ Miller seen you yesterday out of his own head, and if I had knowed he was coming I would have took good care to prevent it.

“W. BLANCHARD.”

Time passed, and Mrs. Blanchard made a slow return to health. Her daughter assumed control of the sick-room, and Martin Grimbal was denied the satisfaction of seeing Chris settled in her future home for a period of nearly two months. Then, when the invalid became sufficiently restored to leave Chagford for change of air, both Martin and Chris accompanied her and spent a few weeks by the sea.

Will, meantime, revolved upon his own affairs and suffered torments long drawn out. For these protracted troubles those of his own house were responsible, and both Phoebe and the miller greatly erred in their treatment of him at this season. For the woman there were indeed excuses, but Mr. Lyddon might have been expected to show more wisdom and better knowledge of a character at all times transparent enough. Phoebe, nearing maternal tribulation, threw a new obstacle in her husband’s way, and implored him by all holy things, now that he had desisted from confession thus far, to keep his secret yet a little longer and wait for the birth of the child. She used every possible expedient to win this new undertaking from Will, and her father added his voice to hers. The miller’s expressed wish, strongly urged, frequently repeated, at last triumphed, and against his own desire and mental promptings, Blanchard, at terrible cost to himself, had promised patience until June.

Life, thus clouded and choked, wrought havoc with the man. His natural safety-valves were blocked, his nerves shattered, his temper poisoned. Primitive characteristics appeared as a result of this position, and he exhibited the ferocity of an over-driven tame beast, or a hunted wild one. In days long removed from this crisis he looked back with chill of body and shudder of mind to that nightmare springtime; and he never willingly permitted even those dearest to him to retrace the period.

The struggle lasted long, but his nature beat Blanchard before the end, burst its bonds, shattered promises and undertakings, weakened marital love for a while, and set him free by one tremendous explosion and victory of natural force. There had come into his head of late a new sensation, as of busy fingers weaving threads within his skull and iron hands moulding the matter of his brain into new patterns. The demon things responsible for his torment only slept when he slept, or when, as had happened once or twice, he drank himself indifferent to all mundane matters. Yet he could not still them for long, and even Phoebe had heard mutterings and threats of the thread-spinners who were driving her husband mad.

On an evening in late May she became seriously alarmed for his reason. Circumstances suddenly combined to strangle the last flickering breath of patience in Will, and the slender barriers were swept away in such a storm as even Phoebe’s wide experience of him had never parallelled. Miller Lyddon was out, at a meeting in the village convened to determine after what fashion Chagford should celebrate the Sovereign’s Jubilee; Billy also departed about private concerns, and Will and his wife had Monks Barton much to themselves. Even she irritated the suffering man at this season, and her sunken face and chatter about her own condition and future hopes of a son often worried him into sheer frenzy. His promise once exacted she rarely touched upon that matter, believing the less said the better, but he misunderstood her reticence and held it selfish. Indeed, Blanchard fretted and chafed alone now; for John Grimbal’s sustained silence had long ago convinced Mr. Lyddon that the master of the Red House meant no active harm, and Phoebe readily grasped at the same conclusion.

This night, however, the flood-gates crumbled, and Will, before a futile assertion from Phoebe touching the happy promise of the time to come and the cheerful spring weather, dashed down his pipe with an oath, clenched his hands, then leapt to his feet, shook his head, and strode about like a maniac.

“Will! You’ve brawk un to shivers—the butivul wood pipe wi’ amber that I gived ’e last birthday!”

“Damn my birthday—a wisht day for me ’t was! I’ve lived tu long—tu long by all my years, an’ nobody cares wan salt tear that I be roastin’ in hell-fire afore my time. I caan’t stand it no more—no more at all—not for you or your faither or angels in heaven or ten million babies to be born into this blasted world—not if I was faither to ’em all. I must live my life free, or else I’ll go in a madhouse. Free—do ’e hear me? I’ve suffered enough and waited more ’n enough. Ban’t months nor weeks neither—’t is a long, long lifetime. You talk o’ time dragging! If you knawed—if you knawed! An’ these devil-spinners allus knotting an’ twisting. I could do things—I could—things man never dreamed. An’ I will—for they ’m grawing and grawing, an’ they’ll burst my skull if I let ’em bide in it. Months ago I’ve sat on a fence unbeknawnst wheer men was shooting, an’ whistled for death. So help me, ’t is true. Me to do that! Theer ’s a cur for ’e; an’ yet ban’t me neither, but the spinners in my head. Death ’s a party easily called, mind you. A knife, or a pinch o’ powder, or a drop o’ deep water—they ’ll bring un to your elbow in a moment. Awnly, if I done that, I’d go in company. Nobody should bide to laugh. Them as would cry might cry, but him as would laugh should come along o’ me—he should, by God!”

“Will, Will! It isn’t my Will talking so?”

“It be me, an’ it ban’t me. But I’m in earnest at last, an’ speakin’ truth. The spinners knaw, an’ they ’m right. I’m sick to sheer hate o’ my life; and you’ve helped to make me so—you and your faither likewise. This thing doan’t tear your heart out of you an’ grind your nerves to pulp as it should do if you was a true wife.”

“Oh, my dear, my lovey, how can ’e say or think it? You knaw what it has been to me.”

“I knaw you’ve thought all wrong ’pon it when you’ve thought at all. An’ Miller, tu. You’ve prevailed wi’ me to go on livin’ a coward’s life for countless ages o’ time—me—me—creepin’ on the earth wi’ my tail between my legs an’ knawin’ I never set eyes on a man as ban’t braver than myself. An’ him—Grimbal—laughing, like the devil he is, to think on what my life must be!”

“I caan’t be no quicker. The cheel’s movin’ an’ bracin’ itself up an’ makin’ ready to come in the world, ban’t it? I’ve told ’e so fifty times. It’s little longer to wait.”

“It’s no longer. It’s nearer than sleep or food or drink. It’s comin’ ’fore the moon sets. ’T is that or the madhouse—nothin’ else. If you’d felt the fire as have been eatin’ my thinking paarts o’ late days you’d knaw. Ban’t no use your cryin’, for ’t isn’t love of me makes you. Rivers o’ tears doan’t turn me no more. I’m steel now—fust time for a month—an’ while I’m steel I’ll act like steel an’ strike like steel. I’ve had shaky nights an’ silly nights an’ haunted nights, but my head ’s clear for wance, an’ I’ll use it while ’tis.”

“Not to do no rash thing, Will? For Christ’s sake, you won’t hurt yourself or any other?”

“I must meet him wance for all.”

“He ’m at the council ’bout Jubilee wi’ faither an’ parson an’ the rest.”

“But he’ll go home arter. An’ I’ll have ’Yes’ or ’No’ to-night—I will, if I’ve got to shake the word out of his sawl. I ban’t gwaine to be driven lunatic for him or you or any. Death’s a sight better than a soft head an’ a lifetime o’ dirt an’ drivelling an’ babbling, like the brainless beasts they feed an’ fatten in asylums. That’s worse cruelty than any I be gwaine to suffer at human hands—to be mewed in wan of them gashly mad-holes wi’ the rack an’ ruins o’ empty flesh grinning an’ gibbering ’pon me from all the corners o’ the airth. I be sane now—sane enough to knaw I’m gwaine mad fast—an’ I won’t suffer it another hour. It’s come crying and howling upon my mind like a storm this night, an’ this night I’ll end it.”

“Wait at least until the morning. See him then.”

“Go to bed, an’ doan’t goad me to more waiting, if you ever loved me. Get to bed—out of my sight! I’ve had enough of ’e and of all human things this many days. An’ that’s as near madness as I’m gwaine. What I do, I do to-night.”

She rose from her chair in sudden anger at his strange harshness, for the wife who has never heard an unkind word resents with passionate protest the sting of the first when it falls. Now genuine indignation inflamed Phoebe, and she spoke bitterly.

“’Enough of me’! Ess fay! Like enough you have—a poor, patient creature sweatin’ for ’e, an’ thinkin’ for ’e, an’ blotting her eyes with tears for ’e, an’ bearin’ your childer an’ your troubles, tu! ’Enough of me.’ Ess, I’ll get gone to my bed an’ stiffen my joints wi’ kneelin’ in prayer for ’e, an’ weary God’s ear for a fule!”

His answer was an action, and before she had done speaking he stretched above him and took his gun from its place on an old beam that extended across the ceiling.

“What in God’s name be that for? You wouldn’t—?”

“Shoot a fox? Why not? I’m a farmer now, and I’d kill best auld red Moor fox as ever gave a field forty minutes an’ beat it. You was whinin’ ’bout the chicks awnly this marnin’. I’ll sit under the woodstack a bit an’ think ’fore I starts. Ban’t no gude gwaine yet.”

Will’s explanation of his deed was the true one, but Phoebe realised in some dim fashion that she stood within the shadow of a critical night and that action was called upon from her. Her anger waned a little, and her heart began to beat fast, but she acted with courage and promptitude.

“Let un be to-night—auld fox, I mean. Theer ’m more chicks than young foxes, come to think of it; an’ he ’m awnly doin’ what you forget to do—fighting for his vixen an’ cubs.”

She looked straight into Will’s eyes, took the gun out of his hands, climbed on to a chair, and hung the weapon up again in its place.

He laughed curiously, and helped his wife to the ground again.

“Thank you,” she said. “Now go an’ do what you want to do, an’ doan’t forget the future happiness of women an’ childer lies upon it.” Her anger was nearly gone, as he spoke again.

“How little you onderstand me arter all these years—an’ never will—nobody never will but mother. What did ’e fear? That I’d draw trigger on the man from behind a tree, p’r’aps?”

“No—not that, but that you might be driven to kill yourself along o’ having such a bad wife.”

“Now we ’m both on the mad road,” he said bitterly. Then he picked up his stick and, a moment later, went out into the night.

Phoebe watched his tall figure pass over the river, and saw him silhouetted against dead silver of moonlit waters as he crossed the stepping-stones. Then she climbed for the gun again, hid it, and presently prepared for her father’s return.

“What butivul peace an quiet theer be in ministerin’ to a gude faither,” she thought, “as compared wi’ servin’ a stormy husband!” Then sorrow changed to active fear, and that, in its turn, sank into a desolate weariness and indifference. She detected no semblance of justice in her husband’s outburst; she failed to see how circumstances must sooner or late have precipitated his revolt; and she felt herself very cruelly misjudged, very gravely wronged.

Meantime Blanchard passed through a hurricane of rage against his enemy much akin to that formerly recorded of John Grimbal himself, when the brute won to the top of him and he yearned for physical conflict. That night Will was resolved to get a definite response or come to some conclusion by force of arms. His thoughts carried him far, and before he took up his station within the grounds of the Red House, at a point from which the avenue approach might be controlled, he had already fallen into a frantic hunger for fight and a hope that his enemy would prove of like mind. He itched for assault and battery, and his heart clamoured to be clean in his breast again.

Whatever might happen, he was determined to give himself up on the following day. He had done all he could for those he loved, but he was powerless to suffer more. He longed now to trample his foe into the dust, and, that accomplished, he would depart, well satisfied, and receive what punishment was due. His accumulated wrongs must be paid at last, and he fully determined, an hour before John Grimbal came homewards, that the payment should be such as he himself had received long years before on Rushford Bridge. His muscles throbbed for action as he sat and waited at the top of a sloping bank dotted with hawthorns that extended upwards from the edge of the avenue and terminated on the fringe of young coverts.

And now, by a chance not uncommon, two separate series of circumstances were about to clash, while the shock engendered was destined to precipitate the climax of Will Blanchard’s fortunes, in so far as this record is concerned. On the night that he thus raged and suffered the gall bred of long inaction to overflow, John Grimbal likewise came to a sudden conclusion with himself, and committed a deed of nature definite so far as it went.

In connection with the approaching Jubilee rejoicings a spirit in some sense martial filled the air, and Grimbal with his yeomanry was destined to play a part. A transient comet-blaze of militarism often sparkles over fighting nations at any season of universal joy, and that more especially if the keystone of the land’s constitution be a crown. This fire found material inflammable enough in the hearts of many Devonshire men, and before its warm impulse John Grimbal, inspired by a particular occasion, compounded with his soul at last. Rumoured on long tongues from the village ale-house, there had come to his ears the report of certain ill-considered utterances made by his enemy upon the events of the hour. They were only a hot-headed and very miserable man’s foolish comments upon things in general and the approaching festival in particular, and they served but to illustrate the fact that no ill-educated and passionate soul can tolerate universal rejoicings, itself wretched; but Grimbal clutched at this proven disloyalty of an old deserter, and told himself that personal questions must weigh with him no more.

“The sort of discontented brute that drifts into Socialism and all manner of wickedness,” he thought. “The rascal must be muzzled once for all, and as a friend to the community I shall act, not as an enemy to him.”

This conclusion he came to on the evening of the day which saw Blanchard’s final eruption, and he was amazed to find how straightforward and simple his course appeared when viewed from the impersonal standpoint of duty. His brother was due to dine with John Grimbal in half an hour, for both men were serving on a committee to meet that night upon the question of the local celebrations at Chagford, and they were going together. Time, however, remained for John to put his decision into action. He turned to his desk, therefore, and wrote. The words to be employed he knew by heart, for he had composed his letter many months before, and it was with him always; yet now, seen thus set out upon paper for the first time, it looked strange.

“RED HOUSE, CHAGFORD, DEVON.

“To the Commandant, Royal Artillery, Plymouth.

“SIR,—It has come to my knowledge that the man, William Blanchard, who enlisted in the Royal Artillery under the name of Tom Newcombe and deserted from his battery when it was stationed at Shorncliffe some ten years ago, now resides at this place on the farm of Monks Barton, Chagford. My duty demands that I should lodge this information, and I can, of course, substantiate it, though I have reason to believe the deserter will not attempt to evade his just punishment if apprehended. I have the honour to be,

“Your obedient servant,

“JOHN GRIMBAL,

“Capt. Dev. Yeomanry.”

He had just completed this communication when Martin arrived, and as his brother entered he instinctively pushed the letter out of sight. But a moment later he rebelled against himself for the act, knowing the ugly tacit admission represented by it. He dragged forth the letter, therefore, and greeted his brother by thrusting the note before him.

“Read that,” he said darkly; “it will surprise you, I think. I want to do nothing underhand, and as you ’re linked to these people for life now, it is just that you should hear what is going to happen. There’s the knowledge I once hinted to you that I possessed concerning William Blanchard. I have waited and given him rope enough. Now he’s hanged himself, as I knew he would, and I must act. A few days ago he spoke disrespectfully of the Queen before a dozen other loafers in a public-house. That’s a sin I hold far greater than his sin against me. Read what I have just written.”

Martin gazed with mildness upon John’s savage and defiant face. His brother’s expression and demeanour by no means chimed with the judicial moderation of his speech. Then the antiquary perused the letter, and there fell no sound upon the silence, except that of a spluttering pen as John Grimbal addressed an envelope.

Presently Martin dropped the letter on the desk before him, and his face was very white, his voice tremulous as he spoke.

“This thing happened more than ten years ago.”

“It did; but don’t imagine I have known it ten years.”

“God forbid! I think better of you. Yet, if only for my sake, reflect before you send this letter. Once done, you have ruined a life. I have seen Will several times since I came home, and now I understand the terrific change in him. He must have known that you know this. It was the last straw. He seems quite broken on the wheel of the world, and no wonder. To one of his nature, the past, since you discovered this terrible secret, must have been sheer torment.”

John Grimbal doubled up the letter and thrust it into the envelope, while Martin continued:

“What do you reap? You’re not a man to do an action of this sort and live afterwards as though you had not done it. I warn you, you intend a terribly dangerous thing. This may be the wreck of another soul besides Blanchard’s. I know your real nature, though you’ve hidden it so close of late years. Post that letter, and your life’s bitter for all time. Look into your heart, and don’t pretend to deceive yourself.”

His brother lighted a match, burnt red wax, and sealed the letter with a signet ring.

“Duty is duty,” he said.

“Yes, yes; right shall be done and this extraordinary thing made known in the right quarter. But don’t let it come out through you; don’t darken your future by such an act. Your personal relations with the man, John,—it’s impossible you should do this after all these years.”

The other affixed a stamp to his letter.

“Don’t imagine personal considerations influence me. I’m a soldier, and I know what becomes a soldier. If I find a traitor to his Queen and country am I to pass upon the other side of the road and not do my duty because the individual happens to be a private enemy? You rate me low and misjudge me rather cruelly if you imagine that I am so weak.”

Martin gasped at this view of the position, instantly believed himself mistaken, and took John at his word. Thereon he came near blushing to think that he should have read such baseness into a brother’s character.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I ought to be ashamed to have misunderstood you so. I could not escape the personal factor in this terrible business, but you, I see, have duly weighed it. I wronged you. Yes, I wronged you, as you say. The writing of that letter was a very courageous action, under the circumstances—as plucky a thing as ever man did, perhaps. Forgive me for taking so mean a view of it, and forgive me for even doubting your motives.”

“I want justice, and if I am misunderstood for doing my duty—why, that is no new thing. I can face that, as better men have done before me.”

There was a moment or two of silence; then Martin spoke, almost joyfully.

“Thank God, I see a way out! It seldom happens that I am quick in any question of human actions, but for once, I detect a road by which right may be done and you still spared this terrible task. I do, indeed, because I know Blanchard better than you do. I can guess what he has been enduring of late, and I will show him how he may end the torture himself by doing the right thing even now.”

“It’s fear of me scorching the man, not shame of his own crime.”

“Then, as the stronger, as a soldier, put him out of his misery and set your mind at ease. Believe me, you may do it without any reflection on yourself. Tell him you have decided to take no step in the affair, and leave the rest to me. I will wager I can prevail upon him to give himself up. I am singularly confident that I can bring it about. Then, if I fail, do what you consider to be right; but first give me leave to try and save you from this painful necessity.”

There followed a long silence. John Grimbal saw how much easier it was to deceive another than himself, and, before the spectacle of his deluded brother, felt that he appreciated his own real motives and incentives at their true worth. The more completely was Martin hoodwinked, the more apparent did the truth grow within John’s mind. What was in reality responsible for his intended action never looked clearer than then, and as Martin spoke in all innocence of the courage that must be necessary to perform such a deed, Grimbal passed through the flash of a white light and caught a glimpse of his recent mental processes magnified by many degrees in the blinding ray. The spectacle sickened him a little, weakened him, touched the depths of him, stirred his nature. He answered presently in a voice harsh, abrupt, and deep.

“I’ve lied often enough in my life,” he said, “and may again, but I think never to you till to-day. You’re such a clean-minded, big-hearted man that you don’t understand a mind of my build—a mind that can’t forgive, that can’t forget, that’s fed full for years on the thought of revenging that frightful blow in the past. What you feared and hinted just now was partly the truth, and I know it well enough. But that is only to say my motives in this matter mixed.”

“None but a brave man would admit so mucn, but now you wrong yourself, as I wronged you. We are alike. I, too, have sometimes in dark moments blamed myself for evil thoughts and evil deeds beyond my real deserts. So you. I know nothing but your sense of duty would make you post that letter.”

“We’ve wrecked each other’s lives, he and I; only he’s a boy, and his life’s before him; I’m a man, and my life is lived, for I’m the sort that grows old early, and he’s helped Time more than anybody knows but myself.”

“Don’t say that. Happiness never comes when you are hungering most for it; sorrow never when you believe yourself best tuned to bear it. Once I thought as you do now. I waited long for my good fortune, and said ’good-by’ to all my hope of earthly delight.”

“You were easier to satisfy than I should have been. Yet you were constant, too,—constant as I was. We’re built that way. More’s the pity.”

“I have absolutely priceless blessings; my cup of happiness is full. Sometimes I ask myself how it comes about that one so little deserving has received so much; sometimes I waken in the very extremity of fear, for joy like mine seems greater than any living thing has a right to.”

“I’m glad one of us is happy.”

“I shall live to see you equally blessed.”

“It is impossible.”

There was a pause, then a gong rumbled in the hall, and the brothers went to dinner. Their conversation now ranged upon varied local topics, and it was not until the cloth had been removed according to old-fashioned custom, and fruit and wine set upon a shining table, that John returned to the crucial subject of the moment.

He poured out a glass of port for Martin, and pushed the cigars towards him, then spoke,—

“Drink. It’s very good. And try one of those. I shall not post that letter.”

“Man, I knew it! I knew it well, without hearing so from you. Destroy the thing, dear fellow, and so take the first step to a peace I fear you have not known for many days. All this suffering will vanish quicker than a dream then. Justice is great, but mercy is greater. Yours is the privilege of mercy, and yet justice shall not suffer either—not if I know Will Blanchard.”

They talked long and drank more than usual, while the elder man’s grim and moody spirit lightened a little before his determination and his wine. The reek of past passions, the wreckage of dead things, seemed to be sweeping out of his mind. He forgot the hour and their engagement until the time fixed for that conference was past. Then he looked at his watch, rose from the table, and hurried to the hall.

“Let us not go,” urged Martin. “They will do very well without us, I am sure.”

But John’s only answer was to pull on his driving gloves. He anticipated some satisfaction from the committee meeting; he suspected, indeed, that he would be asked to take the chair at it, and, like most men, he was not averse to the exercise of a little power in a small corner.

“We must go,” he said. “I have important suggestions to make, especially concerning the volunteers. A sham fight on Scorhill would be a happy thought. We’ll drive fast, and only be twenty minutes late.”

A dog-cart had been waiting half an hour, and soon the brothers quickly whirled down Red House avenue. A groom dropped from behind and opened the gate; then it was all his agility could accomplish to scramble into his seat again as a fine horse, swinging along at twenty miles an hour, trotted towards Chagford.

Silent and motionless sat Blanchard, on the fringe of a bank at the coppice edge. He watched the stars move onward and the shadows cast by moonlight creep from west to north, from north to east. Hawthorn scented the night and stood like masses of virgin silver under the moon; from the Red House ’owl tree’—a pollarded elm, sacred to the wise bird—came mewing of brown owls; and once a white one struck, swift as a streak of feathered moonlight, on the copse edge, and passed so near to Blanchard that he saw the wretched shrew-mouse in its talons. “’Tis for the young birds somewheers,” he thought; “an’ so they’ll thrive an’ turn out braave owlets come bimebye; but the li’l, squeakin’, blind shrews, what’ll they do when no mother comes home-along to ’em?”

He mused drearily upon this theme, but suddenly started, for there came the echo of slow steps in the underwood behind him. They sank into silence and set Will wondering as to what they might mean. Then another sound, that of a galloping horse and the crisp ring of wheels, reached him, and, believing that John Grimbal was come, he strung himself to the matter in hand. But the vehicle did not stop. A flash of yellow light leapt through the distance as a mail-cart rattled past upon its way to Moreton. This circumstance told Will the hour and he knew that his vigil could not be much longer protracted.

Then death stalked abroad again, but this time in a form that awoke the watcher’s deep-rooted instincts, took him clean out of himself, and angered him to passion, not in his own cause but another’s. There came the sudden scream of a trapped hare,—that sound where terror and agony mingle in a cry half human,—and so still was the hour that Blanchard heard the beast’s struggles though it was fifty yards distant. A hare in a trap at any season meant a poacher—a hated enemy of society in Blanchard’s mind; and his instant thought was to bring the rascal to justice if he could. Now the recent footfall was explained and Will doubted not that the cruel cry which had scattered his reveries would quickly attract some hidden man responsible for it. The hare was caught by a wire set in a run at the edge of the wood, and now Blanchard crawled along on his stomach to within ten yards of the tragedy, and there waited under the shadow of a white-thorn at the edge of the woods. Within two minutes the bushes parted and, where the foliage of a young silver birch showered above lesser brushwood, a man with a small head and huge shoulders appeared. Seeing no danger he crept into the open, lifted his head to the moon, and revealed the person and features of Sam Bonus, the labourer with whom Will had quarrelled in times long past. Here, then, right ahead of him, appeared such a battle as Blanchard had desired, but with another foe than he anticipated. That accident mattered nothing, however. Will only saw a poacher, and to settle the business of such an one out of hand if possible was, in his judgment, a definite duty to be undertaken by every true man at any moment when opportunity offered.

He walked suddenly from shadow and stood within three yards of the robber as Bonus raised the butt of his gun to kill the shrieking beast at his feet.

“You! An’ red-handed, by God! I knawed ’t was no lies they told of ’e.”

The other started and turned and saw who stood against him.

“Blanchard, is it? An’ what be you doin’ here? Come for same reason, p’r’aps?”

“I’d make you pay, if ’t was awnly for sayin’ that! I’m a man to steal others’ fur out of season, ban’t I? But I doan’t have no words wi’ the likes o’ you. I’ve took you fair an’ square, anyways, an’ will just ax if you be comin’ wi’out a fuss, or am I to make ’e?”

The other snarled.

“You—you come a yard nearer an’ I’ll blaw your damned head—”

But the threat was left unfinished, and its execution failed, for Will had been taught to take an armed man in his early days on the river, and had seen an old hand capture more than one desperate character. He knew that instantaneous action might get him within the muzzle of the gun and out of danger, and while Bonus spoke, he flew straight upon him with such unexpected celerity that Sam had no time to accomplish his purpose. He came down heavily with Blanchard on top of him, and his weapon fell from his hand. But the poacher was not done with. As they lay struggling, he found his foot clear and managed to kick Will twice on the leg above the knee. Then Blanchard, hanging like a dog to his foe, freed an arm, and hit hard more than once into Sam’s face. A blow on the nose brought red blood that spurted over both men black as ink under the moonlight.

It was not long before they broke away and rose from their first struggle on the ground, but Bonus finally got to his knees, then to his feet, and Will, as he did the same, knew by a sudden twinge in his leg that if the poacher made off it must now be beyond his power to follow.

“No odds,” he gasped, answering his thought aloud, while they wrestled. “If you’ve brawk me somewheers ’t is no matter, for you ’m marked all right, an’ them squinting eyes of yourn’ll be blacker ’n sloes come marnin’.”

This obvious truth infuriated Bonus. He did not attempt to depart, but, catching sight of his gun, made a tremendous effort to reach it. The other saw this aim and exerted his strength in an opposite direction. They fought in silence awhile—growled and cursed, sweated and swayed, stamped and slipped and dripped blood under the dewy and hawthorn-scented night. Bonus used all his strength to reach the gun; Will sacrificed everything to his hold. He suffered the greater punishment for a while, because Sam fought with all his limbs, like a beast; but presently Blanchard threw the poacher heavily, and again they came down together, this time almost on the wretched beast that still struggled, held by the wire at hand. It had dragged the fur off its leg, and white nerve fibres, torn bare, glimmered in the red flesh under the moon.

Both fighters were now growing weaker, and each knew that a few minutes more must decide the fortune of the battle. Bonus still fought for the gun, and now his weight began to tell. Then, as he got within reach, and stretched hand to grasp it, Blanchard, instead of dragging against him, threw all his force in the same direction, and Sam was shot clean over the gun. This time they twisted and Will fell underneath. Both simultaneously thrust a hand for the weapon; both gripped it, and then exerted their strength for possession. Will meant using it as a club if fate was kind; the other man, rating his own life at nothing, and, believing that he bore Blanchard the grudge of his own ruin, intended, at that red-hot moment, to keep his word and blow the other’s brains out if he got a chance to do so.

Then, unheard by the combatants, a distant gate was thrown open, two brilliant yellow discs of fire shone along the avenue below, and John Grimbal returned to his home. Suddenly, seeing figures fighting furiously on the edge of the hill not fifty yards away, he pulled up, and a din of conflict sounded in his ears as the rattle of hoof and wheel and harness ceased. Leaping down he ran to the scene of the conflict as fast as possible, but it was ended before he arrived. A gun suddenly exploded and flashed a red-hot tongue of flame across the night. A hundred echoes caught the detonation and as the discharge reverberated along the stony hills to Fingle Gorge, Will Blanchard staggered backwards and fell in a heap, while the poacher reeled, then steadied himself, and vanished under the woods.

“Bring a lamp,” shouted Grimbal, and a moment later his groom obeyed; but the fallen man was sitting up by the time John reached him, and the gun that had exploded was at his feet.

“You ’m tu late by half a second,” he gasped. “I fired myself when I seed the muzzle clear. Poachin’ he was, but the man ’s marked all right. Send p’liceman for Sam Bonus to-morrer, an’ I lay you’ll find a picter.”

“Blanchard!”

“Ess fay, an’ no harm done ’cept a stiff leg. Best to knock thicky poor twoad on the head. I heard the scream of un and comed along an’ waited an’ catched my gen’leman in the act.”

The groom held a light to the mangled hare.

“Scat it on the head,” said Will, “then give me a hand.”

He was helped to his feet; the servant went on before with the lamp, and Blanchard, finding himself able to walk without difficulty, proceeded, slowly supporting himself by the poacher’s gun.

Grimbal waited for him to speak and presently he did so.

“Things falls out so different in this maze of a world from what man may count on.”

“How came it that you were here?”

“Blamed if I can tell ’e till I gather my wits together. ’Pears half a century or so since I comed; yet ban’t above two hour agone.”

“You didn’t come to see Sam Bonus, I suppose?”

“No fay! Never a man farther from my thought than him when I seed un poke up his carrot head under the moon. I was ’pon my awn affairs an’ comed to see you. I wanted straight speech an’ straight hitting; an’ I got ’em, for that matter. An’ fightin’ ’s gude for the blood, I reckon—anyway for my fashion blood.”

“You came to fight me, then?”

“I did—if I could make ’e fight.”

“With that gun?”

“With nought but a savage heart an’ my two fistes. The gun belongs to Sam Bonus. Leastways it did, but ’t is mine now—or yours, as the party most wronged.”

“Come this way and drink a drop of brandy before you go home. Glad you had some fighting as you wanted it so bad. I know what it feels like to be that way, too. But there wouldn’t have been blows between us. My mind was made up. I wrote to Plymouth this afternoon. I wrote, and an hour later decided not to post the letter. I’ve changed my intentions altogether, because the point begins to appear in a new light. I’m sorry for a good few things that have happened of late years.”

Will breathed hard a moment; then he spoke slowly and not without more emotion than his words indicated.

“That’s straight speech—if you mean it. I never knawed how ’t was that a sportsman, same as you be, could keep rakin’ awver a job an’ drive a plain chap o’ the soil like me into hell for what I done ten year agone.”

“Let the past go. Forget it; banish it for all time as far as you have the power. Blame must be buried both sides. Here’s the letter upon my desk. I’ll burn it, and I’ll try to burn the memory often years with it. Your road’s clear for me.”

“Thank you,” said Blanchard, very slowly. “I lay I’ll never hear no better news than that on this airth. Now I’m free—free to do how I please, free to do it undriven.”

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 scraped 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 God 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 God. 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 passed 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 assured 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.