Phoebe’s conversation with her father occupied a space of time extending over just two minutes.  He met her eager eyes with a smile, patted her head, pinched her ear, and by his manner awakened a delicious flutter of hope in the girl before he spoke.  When, therefore, Phoebe learned that Will was sent about his business for ever, and must henceforth be wholly dismissed from her mind, the shock and disappointment of such intelligence came as a cruel blow.  She stood silent and thunderstruck before Miller Lyddon, a world of reproaches in her frightened eyes; then mutely the corners of her little mouth sank as she turned away and departed with her first great sorrow.

Phoebe’s earliest frantic thought had been to fly to Will, but she knew such a thing was impossible.  There would surely be a letter from him on the following morning hidden within their secret pillar-box between two bricks of the mill wall.  For that she must wait, and even in her misery she was glad that with Will, not herself, lay decision as to future action.  She had expected some delay; she had believed that her father would impose stern restrictions of time and make a variety of conditions with her sweetheart; she had even hoped that Miller Lyddon might command lengthened patience for the sake of her headstrong, erratic Will’s temper and character; but that he was to be banished in this crushing and summary fashion overwhelmed Phoebe, and that utterly.  Her nature, however, was not one nourished from any very deep wells of character.  She belonged to a class who suffer bitterly enough under sorrow, but the storm of it while tearing like a tropical tornado over heart and soul, leaves no traces that lapse of time cannot wholly and speedily obliterate.  On them it may be said that fortune’s sharpest strokes inflict no lasting scars; their dispositions are happily powerless to harbour the sustained agony that burrows and gnaws, poisons man’s estimate of all human affairs, wrecks the stores of his experience, and stamps the cicatrix of a live, burning grief on brow and brain for ever.  They find their own misery sufficiently exalted; but their temperament is unable to sustain a lifelong tribulation or elevate sorrow into tragedy.  And their state is the more blessed.  So Phoebe watered her couch with tears, prayed to God to hear her solemn promises of eternal fidelity, then slept and passed into a brief dreamland beyond sorrow’s reach.

Meantime young Blanchard took his stormy heart into a night of stars.  The moon had risen; the sky was clear; the silvery silence remained unbroken save for the sound of the river, where it flowed under the shadows of great trees and beneath aerial bridges and banners of the meadow mists.  Will strode through this scene, past his mother’s cottage, and up a hill behind it, into the village.  His mind presented in turn a dozen courses of action, and each was built upon the abiding foundation of Phoebe’s sure faithfulness.  That she would cling to him for ever the young man knew right well; no thought of a rival, therefore, entered into his calculations.  The sole problem was how quickest to make Mr. Lyddon change his mind; how best to order his future that the miller should regard him as a responsible person, and one of weight in affairs.  Not that Will held himself a slight man by any means; but he felt that he must straightway assert his individuality and convince the world in general and Miller Lyddon in particular of faulty judgment.  He was very angry still as he retraced the recent conversation.  Then, among those various fancies and projects in his mind, the wildest and most foolish stood out before him as both expedient and to be desired.  His purpose in Chagford was to get advice from another man; but before he reached the village his own mind was established.

Slated and thatched roofs glimmered under moonlight, and already the hamlet slept.  A few cats crept like shadows through the deserted streets, from darkness into light, from light back to darkness; and one cottage window, before which Will Blanchard stood, still showed a candle behind a white blind.  Most quaint and ancient was this habitation of picturesque build, with tiny granite porch, small entrance, and venerable thatches that hung low above the upper windows.  A few tall balsams quite served to fill the garden; indeed so small was it that from the roadway young Blanchard, by bending over the wooden fence, could easily reach the cottage window.  This he did, tapped lightly, and then waited for the door to be opened.

A man presently appeared and showed some surprise at the sight of his late visitor.

“Let me in, Clem,” said Will.  “I knawed you’d be up, sitting readin’ and dreamin’.  ‘T is no dreamin’ time for me though, by God!  I be corned straight from seeing Miller ’bout Phoebe.”

“Then I can very well guess what was last in your ears.”

Clement Hicks spoke in an educated voice.  He was smaller than Will but evidently older.  Somewhat narrow of build and thin, he looked delicate, though in reality wiry and sound.  He was dark of complexion, wore his hair long for a cottager, and kept both moustache and beard, though the latter was very scant and showed the outline of his small chin through it.  A forehead remarkably lofty but not broad, mounted almost perpendicularly above the man’s eyes; and these were large and dark and full of fire, though marred by a discontented expression.  His mouth was full-lipped, his other features huddled rather meanly together under the high brow:  but his face, while admittedly plain even to ugliness, was not commonplace; for its eyes were remarkable, and the cast of thought ennobled it as a whole.

Will entered the cottage kitchen and began instantly to unfold his experiences.

“You knaw me a man with a level head, as leaps after looking, not afore.  I put nothing but plain reason to him and he flouted me like you might a cheel.  An’ I be gwaine to make him eat his words such hard words as they was tu!  Think of it!  Me an’ Phoebe never to meet no more!  The folly of sayin’ such a thing!  Wouldn’t ’e reckon that grey hairs knawed better than to fancy words can keep lovers apart?”

“Grey hairs cover old brains; and old brains forget what it feels like to have a body full o’ young blood.  The best memory can’t keep the feeling of youth fresh in a man.”

“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 nobody 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’ God.”

“By any God you believe is alive.”

“Say it, then.”

“By the living God, 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 God rot me, and plague me, and let me roast in hell-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 hell fire, ’cause I knaw you doan’t set no count on it.  More doan’t I. Hell’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 pass 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 assured 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.