Will of the Mill

George Manville Fenn (continued 3)

Reading edition

“Ah, yes,” said Manners, sadly, “that’s quite right, boys; but when you came I wasn’t thinking about that, but about my own loss.”

“Oh,” said Will. “You mean about the place being so spoiled?”

“No, I don’t,” said the artist, gruffly. “I was thinking about my pictures—twelve canvases, a whole year’s work, washed right away, dead, as it were, and buried under some heap of stones. Ah, boys, they were only so much painted cloth, and I’m afraid they were very bad, but it was all so much work that was somehow very dear to me, and—bah! Never say die! I’ll begin again like your father, and build up something fresh.”

For some days Will paced about the devastated scene, looking white and strange—like one who had a burden on his mind.

The Vicar noticed it, and spoke to the doctor when he came to see his patient.

“Oh, yes,” said the doctor; “I saw it at once. Shock, my dear sir—shock! The poor boy has a deal to bear, but a young, elastic, healthy chap like that will soon come round.”

Josh mentioned it, too, in confidence to his father, saying—

“I don’t like poor Will’s looks. He’s so white and strange.”

But, on hearing the doctor’s words, he said—

“Well, he ought to know. We must wait.”

He had not long to wait. A few days later, Will was himself again, for the burden was off his mind. He had rested till he thought that his father was well enough to hear what he had to say, and then, alone by his bedside, he repeated almost word for word the confession Drinkwater had made.

Mr Willows listened silently right to the end, and then, after a long silence, he lay holding his son’s hand clasped between his own.

“Horrible, indeed, my boy,” he said, gently.

“Yes, horrible, indeed, father. What shall you do?”

There was another spell of silence before Mr Willows spoke again.

“Forgive, my boy,” he said, “as I hope to be forgiven. What did he say when he believed he was a dying man—that he was mad? Those must have been the words of truth.”

They were, for the time passed on, and as the new mill rose, James Drinkwater was one of the busiest hands, restoring the place to its old working state, a man completely changed, the most faithful worker about the establishment.

“It is our joint secret, Will, my boy,” said his father. “Let it rest.”

And it has rested until now, when, long years after the Drinkwaters have been laid to their rest, and Manners, the artist, has ceased to visit the beautiful vale, the story of Will of the Mill is told.

The End.