Will of the Mill, by George 
Manville Fenn 
 
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Title: Will of the Mill 
Author: George Manville Fenn 
Release Date: May 8, 2007 [EBook #21376] 
Language: English 
Character set encoding: ASCII 
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILL OF 
THE MILL *** 
 
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England 
 
Will of the Mill, by George Manville Fenn. 
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A Huguenot settlement in the Derbyshire dales, in the middle of 
England, in the mid-nineteenth century. 
The Vicar's son, and the mill-owner's son are great friends. They 
become friends with a visiting artist, who is lodging in the house of one 
of the key-workers at the Mill, where they manufacture silk. The artist 
falls down an old mine-shaft up in the hills, and the boys find him. At 
home they are missed and a rescue party is sent out, and finds them all. 
One day the mill mysteriously goes on fire, and, equally mysteriously, 
the fire pump has been disabled. Just in time it is repaired by the man 
the artist is staying with. The man's name was originally Boileau, but 
like so many Huguenots, he has anglicised it to Drinkwater. 
Drinkwater goes mad, and has an obsessional hatred for the 
mill-owner. It is thought possible that he actually set the fire having 
previously disabled the fire-pump. 
But far worse is to befall. One night, in the autumn rains, the dam that 
feeds the mill bursts its banks, and the village is flooded, with much 
being washed away. Did Drinkwater do this too? There is a dramatic 
finish to the book. 
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WILL OF THE MILL, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. 
CHAPTER ONE. 
DOWN IN THE COUNTRY. 
"Here, I say, Josh, such a game!" 
"What is it?" 
The first speaker pointed down the gorge, tried to utter words, but 
began to choke with laughter, pointed again, and then stood stamping
his feet, and wiping his eyes. 
"Well," cried the other, addressed as Josh, "what is it? Don't stand 
pointing there like an old finger-post! I can't see anything." 
"It's--it's--it's--he--he--he!--Oh my!--Oh dear!" 
"Gahn! What an old silly you are! What's the game? Let's have a bit of 
the fun." 
"The sun--sun--sun--" 
"Don't stand stuttering there in that stupid way." 
"I couldn't help it--there, I'm better now. I was coming along the top 
walk, and there he was right down below, sitting under his old white 
mushroom." 
"Well, I can't see anything to laugh at in that. He always is sitting under 
his old white umbrella, painting, when he isn't throwing flies." 
"But he isn't painting. He's fast asleep; and I could almost hear him 
snore." 
"Well, if you could hear him snore, you needn't make a hyena of 
yourself. I don't see anything to laugh at in that." 
"No; you never see any fun in anything. Don't you see the sun's gone 
right round, and he's quite in the shade?" 
"Well, suppose he is; where's the fun?" 
Will Willows wiped his eyes, and then, with a mirthful look, 
continued-- 
"Oh, the idea struck me as being comic--keeping a great umbrella up 
when it wasn't wanted." 
"Oh, I don't know," said Josh, solemnly; "a shower might come down."
"But, I say, Josh, that won't do. I've got such a rum idea." 
"Let's have it." 
"Come along, then." 
A few words were whispered, though there was not the slightest need, 
for no one was in sight, and the rattle and whirr of machinery set in 
motion by a huge water-wheel, whose splashings echoed from the vast, 
wall-like sides of the lovely fern-hung glen in which it was placed, 
would have drowned anything lower than a shout. 
Willows' silk-mill had ages ago ceased to be a blot in one of the fairest 
valleys in beautiful Derbyshire, for it was time-stained with a rich store 
of colours from Nature's palette; great cushions of green velvet moss 
clung to the ancient stone-work, rich orange rosettes of lichen dotted 
the ruddy tiles, huge ferns shot their glistening green spears from every 
crack and chasm of the mighty walls of the deep glen; and here and 
there, high overhead, silver birches hung their pensile tassels, and scrub 
oaks thrust out their gnarled boughs from either side, as if in friendly 
vegetable feeling to grasp hands over the rushing, babbling stream; for 
Beldale--Belle Dale, before the dwellers there cut it short--formed one 
long series of pictures such as painters loved, so that they came 
regularly from the metropolis to settle down at one of the    
    
		
	
	
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