As yet he knew nothing of Will’s good fortune, and when it came to his ears it unexpectedly failed to reawaken resentment or strengthen his animosity.  For, as he retraced the story of the past years, it was with him as with a man reading the narrative of another’s wrongs.  He could not yet absorb himself anew in the strife; he could not revive the personal element.

Sometimes he looked at himself in the glass as he shaved; and the sight of the grey hair thickening on the sides of his head, the spectacle of the deep lines upon his forehead and the stamp of many a shadowy crow’s-foot about his blue eyes—­these indications served more than all his thoughts to sting him into deeds and to rekindle an active malignancy.

CHAPTER VII

SMALL TIMOTHY

A year and more than a year passed by, during which time some pure sunshine brightened the life of Blanchard.  Chagford laughed at his sustained good fortune, declared him to have as many lives as a cat, and secretly regretted its outspoken criticism of Miller Lyddon before the event of his generosity.  Life at Monks Barton was at least wholly happy for Will himself.  No whisper or rumour of renewed tribulation reached his ear; early and late he worked, with whole-hearted energy; he differed from Mr. Blee as seldom as possible; he wearied the miller with new designs, tremendous enterprises, particulars concerning novel machinery, and much information relating to nitrates.  Newtake had vanished out of his life, like an old coat put off for the last time.  He never mentioned the place and there was now but one farm in all Devon for him.

Meantime a strange cloud increased above him, though as yet he had not discerned so much as the shadow of it.  This circumstance possessed no connection with John Grimbal.  Time passed and still he did not take action, though he continued to nurse his wrongs through winter, spring, and summer, as a child nurses a sick animal.  The matter tainted his life but did not dominate it.  His existence continued to be soured and discoloured, yet not entirely spoiled.  Now a new stone of stumbling lay ahead and Grimbal’s interest had shifted a little.

Like the rest of Chagford he heard the rumour of little Timothy’s parentage—­a rumour that grew as the resemblance ripened between Blanchard and the child.  Interested by this thought and its significance, he devoted some time to it; and then, upon an early October morning, chance hurried the man into action.  On the spur of an opportunity he played the coward, as many another man has done, only to mourn his weakness too late.