Ford heard nothing more for a fortnight. Then he ascertained that John Grimbal was in the metropolis, that the sale of the Red House and its lands had been conducted by the London agent, and that no penny of the handsome commission involved would accrue to him. This position of affairs greatly (and to some extent reasonably) angered the local man, and he did not forgive what he considered a very flagrant slight. Extreme acerbity was bred in him, and his mind, vindictive by nature, cherished from that hour a hearty detestation of John Grimbal. The old man, his annual holiday ruined by the circumstance, went home to Newton, vowing vague vengeance and little dreaming how soon opportunity would offer to deal his enemy a return blow; while the purchaser of the Red House laughed at Ford’s angry letters, told him to his face that he was a greedy old rascal, and went on his way well pleased with himself and fully occupied with his affairs.
Necessary preliminaries were hastened; an architect visited the crumbling fabric of the old Red House and set about his plans. Soon, upon the ancient foundations, a new dwelling began to rise. The ancient name was retained at Martin’s entreaty and the surrounding property developed. A stir and hum crept through the domain. Here was planting of young birch and larch; here clearing of land; here mounds of manure steamed on neglected fallows. John Grimbal took up temporary quarters in the home farm that he might be upon the spot at all hours; and what with these great personal interests, good news of his property in Africa, and the growing distraction of one soft-voiced, grey-eyed girl, the man found his life a full and splendid thing.
That he should admit Phoebe into his thoughts and ambitions was not unreasonable for two reasons: he knew himself to be heartily in love with her by this time, and he had heard from her father a definite statement upon the subject of Will Blanchard. Indeed, the miller, from motives of worldly wisdom, took an opportunity to let John Grimbal know the situation.
“No shadow of any engagement at all,” he said. “I made it plain as a pikestaff to them both. It mustn’t be thought I countenanced their crack-brained troth-plighting. ’T was by reason of my final ’Nay’ that Will went off. He ’s gone out of her life, and she ’m free as the air. I tell you this because you may have heard different, and you mix with the countryside and can contradict any man who gives out otherwise. And, mind you, I say it from no ill-will to the bwoy, but out of justice to my cheel.”
Thus, to gain private ends, Mr. Lyddon spoke, and his information greatly heartened the listener. John had more than once sounded Phoebe on the subject of Will during the past few months, and was bound to confess that any chance he might possess appeared small; but he was deeply in love and a man accustomed to have his own way. Increasing portions of his time and thought were devoted to this ambition, and when Phoebe’s father spoke as recorded, Grimbal jumped at the announcement and pushed for his own hand.
“If a man that was a man, with a bit of land and a bit of stuff behind him, came along and asked to court her, ’t would be different, I suppose?” he inquired.
“I’d wish just such a man might come, for her sake.”
“Supposing I asked if I might try to win Phoebe?”
“I’d desire your gude speed, my son. Nothing could please, me better.”
“Then I’ve got you on my side?”
“You really mean it? Well, well! Gert news to be sure, an’ I be pleased as Punch to hear ’e. But take my word, for I’m richer than you by many years in knawledge of the world, though I haven’t seen so much of it. Go slow. Wait a while till that brown bwoy graws a bit dim in Phoebe’s eyes. Your life ’s afore you, and the gal ’s scarce marriageable, to my thinking. Build your house and bide your time.”
“So be it; and if I don’t win her presently, I sha’n’t deserve to.”
“Ess, but taake time, lad. She ’m a dutiful, gude maiden, and I’d be sore to think my awn words won’t carry their weight when the right moment comes for speaking ’em. Blanchard’s business pulled down the corners of her purty mouth a bit; but young hearts caan’t keep mournful for ever.”
Billy Blee then took his turn on the argument. Thus far he had listened, and now, according to his custom, argued on the popular side and bent his sail to the prevalent wind of opinion.
“You say right, Miller. ’T is out of nature that a maid should fret her innards to fiddlestrings ’bout a green bwoy when theer’s ripe men waitin’ for her.”
“Never heard better sense,” declared John Grimbal, in high good-humour; and from the red-letter hour of that conversation he let his love grow into a giant. A man of old-fashioned convictions, he honestly believed the parent wise who exercised all possible control over a child; and in this case personal interest prompted him the more strongly to that opinion. Common sense the world over was on his side, and no man with the facts before him had been likely to criticise Miller Lyddon on the course of action he thought proper to pursue for his daughter’s ultimate happiness. That he reckoned without his host naturally escaped the father’s thought at this juncture. Will Blanchard had dwindled in his mind to the mere memory of a headstrong youngster, now far removed from the scene of his stupidity and without further power to trouble. That he could advise John to wait a while until Will’s shadow grew less in Phoebe’s thought, argued kindness and delicacy of mind in Mr. Lyddon. Will he only saw and gauged as the rest of the world. He did not fathom all of him, as Mrs. Blanchard had said; while concerning Phoebe’s inner heart and the possibilities of her character, at a pinch, he could speak with still less certainty. She was a virgin page, unturned, unscanned. No man knew her strength or weakness; she did not know it herself.
Time progressed; the leaf fell and the long drought was followed by a mild autumn of heavy rains. John Grimbal’s days were spent between the Red House and Monks Barton. His rod was put up; but he had already made friends and now shot many partridges. He spent long evenings in the society of Phoebe and her father at the farm; and the miller not seldom contrived to be called away on these occasions. Billy proved ever ready to assist, and thus the two old men did the best in their power to aid Grimbal’s suit. In the great, comfortable kitchen, generally at some distance from each other, Phoebe and the squire of the new Red House would sit. She, now suspecting, was shy and uneasy; he, his wits quickened by love, displayed a tact and deftness of words not to have been anticipated from him. At first Phoebe took fire when Grimbal criticised Will in anything but a spirit of utmost friendliness; but it was vital to his own hopes that he should cloud the picture painted on her heart if he could; so, by degrees and with all the cleverness at his command, he dropped gall into poor Phoebe’s cup in minute doses. He mourned the extreme improbability of Blanchard’s success, grounding his doubt on Will’s uneven character; he pictured Blanchard’s fight with the world and showed how probable it was that he would make it a losing battle by his own peculiarities of temper. He declared the remoteness of happiness for Miss Lyddon in that direction to be extreme; he deplored the unstable nature of a young man’s affection all the world over; and he made solid capital out of the fact that not once since his departure had her lover communicated with Phoebe. She argued against this that her father had forbidden it; but Mr. Grimbal overrode the objection, and asked what man in love would allow himself to be bound by such a command. As a matter of fact, Will had sent two messages at different times to his sweetheart. These came through Clement Hicks, and only conveyed the intelligence that the wanderer was well.
So Phoebe suffered persistent courting and her soft mould of mind sank a little under the storm. Now, weary and weak, she hesitated; now a wave of strength fortified her spirit. That John Grimbal should be dogged and importunate she took as mere masculine characteristics, and the fact did not anger her against him; but what roused her secret indignation almost as often as they met was his half-hidden air of sanguine confidence. He was humble in a way, always the patient lover, but in his manner she detected an indefinable, irritating self-confidence—the demeanour of one who already knows himself a conqueror before the battle is fought.
Thus the position gradually developed. As yet her father had not spoken to Phoebe or pretended to any knowledge of what was doing; but there came a night, at the end of November, when John Grimbal, the miller, and Billy sat and smoked at Monks Barton after Phoebe’s departure