distant, Phoebe’s fate in no way depended upon him.
Mr. Ford explained the position to Will, and the lover accepted it cheerfully.
“As to the marriage, that’ll be hard and fast as a bench of bishops can make it; but wedding a woman under age, against the wish of her legal guardian, is an offence against the law. Nobody can undo the deed itself, but Miller Lyddon will have something to say afterwards. And there’s that blustering blackguard, John Grimbal, to reckon with. Unscrupulous scoundrel! Just the sort to be lawless and vindictive if what you tell me concerning him is true.”
“And so he be; let un! Who cares a brass button for him? ’T is awnly Miller I thinks of. What’s worst he can do?”
“Send you to prison, Will.”
“For how long?”
“That I can’t tell you exactly. Not for marrying his daughter of course, but for abduction—that’s what he’ll bring against you.”
“An’ so he shall, uncle, an’ I’ll save him all the trouble I can. That’s no gert hardship—weeks, or months even. I’ll go like a lark, knawin’ Phoebe’s safe.”
So the matter stood and the days passed. Will’s personal affairs, and the secret of the position from which he had come was known only to Clement Hicks. The lover talked of returning again thither after his marriage, but he remained vague on that point, and, indeed, modified his plans after the above recorded conversation with his uncle. Twice he wrote to Phoebe in the period of waiting, and the letter had been forwarded on both occasions through Clement. Two others knew what was afoot, and during that time of trial Phoebe found Chris her salvation. The stronger girl supported her sinking spirit and fortified her courage. Chris mightily enjoyed the whole romance, and among those circumstances that combined to make John Grimbal uneasy during the days of waiting was her constant presence at Monks Barton. There she came as Phoebe’s friend, and the clear, bright eyes she often turned on him made him angry, he knew not why. As for Mrs. Blanchard, she had secretly learnt more than anybody suspected, for while Will first determined to tell her nothing until afterwards, a second thought rebuked him for hiding such a tremendous circumstance from his mother, and he wrote to her at full length from Newton, saying nothing indeed of the past but setting out the future in detail. Upon the subject Mrs. Blanchard kept her own counsel.
Preparations for Phoebe’s wedding moved apace, and she lived in a dim, heart-breaking dream. John Grimbal, despite her entreaties, continued to spend money upon her; yet each new gift brought nothing but tears. Grown desperate in his determination to win a little affection and regard before marriage, and bitterly conscious that he could command neither, the man plied her with what money would buy, and busied himself to bring her happiness in spite of herself. Troubled he was, nevertheless, and constantly sought the miller that he might listen to comforting assurances that he need be under no concern.
“ ’T is natural in wan who’s gwaine to say gude-bye to maidenhood so soon,” declared Mr. Lyddon. “I’ve thought ’bout her tears a deal. God knaws they hurt me more ’n they do her, or you either; but such sad whims and cloudy hours is proper to the time. Love for me’s got a share in her sorrow, tu. ’T will all be well enough when she turns her back on the church-door an’ hears the weddin’-bells a-clashing for her future joy. Doan’t you come nigh her much during the next few weeks.”
“Two,” corrected Mr. Grimbal, moodily.
“Eh! Awnly two! Well, ’t is gert darkness for me, I promise you—gert darkness comin’ for Monks Barton wi’out the butivul sound an’ sight of her no more. But bide away, theer’s a gude man; bide away these coming few days. Her last maiden hours mustn’t be all tears. But my gifts do awnly make her cry, tu, if that’s consolation to ’e. It’s the tenderness of her li’l heart as brims awver at kindness.”
In reality, Phoebe’s misery was of a complexion wholly different. The necessity for living thus had not appeared so tremendous until she found herself launched into this sea of terrible deception. In operation such sustained falsity came like to drive her mad. She could not count the lies each day brought forth; she was frightened to pray for forgiveness, knowing every morning must see a renewal of the tragedy. Hell seemed yawning for her, and the possibility of any ultimate happiness, reached over this awful road of mendacity and deceit, was more than her imagination could picture. With loss of self-respect, self-control likewise threatened to depart. She became physically weak, mentally hysterical. The strain told terribly on her nature; and Chris mourned to note a darkness like storm-cloud under her grey eyes, and unwonted pallor upon her cheek. Dr. Parsons saw Phoebe at this juncture, prescribed soothing draughts, and ordered rest and repose; but to Chris the invalid clung, and Mr. Lyddon was not a little puzzled that the sister of Phoebe’s bygone sweetheart should now possess such power to ease her mind and soothe her troubled nerves.
John Grimbal obeyed the injunction laid upon him and absented himself from Monks Barton. All was prepared for the ceremony. He had left his Red House farm and taken rooms for the present at “The Three Crowns.” Hither came his brother to see him four nights before the weddingday. Martin had promised to be best man, yet a shadow lay between the brothers, and John, his mind unnaturally jealous and suspicious from the nature of affairs with Phoebe, sulked of late in a conviction that Martin had watched his great step with unfraternal indifference and denied him the enthusiasm and congratulation proper to such an event.
The younger man found his brother scanning a new black broadcloth coat when he entered. He praised it promptly, whereupon John flung it from him and showed no more interest in the garment. Martin, not to be offended, lighted his pipe, took an armchair beside the fire, and asked for some whiskey. This mollified the other a little; he produced spirits, loaded his own pipe, and asked the object of the visit.
“A not over-pleasant business, John,” returned his brother, frankly; “but ’Least said, soonest mended.’ Only remember this, nothing must ever lessen our common regard. What I am going to say is inspired by my—”
“Yes, yes—cut that. Spit it out and have done with it. I know there’s been trouble in you for days. You can’t hide your thoughts. You’ve been grim as a death’s-head for a month—ever since I was engaged, come to think of it. Now open your jaws and have done.”
John’s aggressive and hectoring manner spoke volubly of his own lack of ease. Martin nerved himself to begin, holding it his duty, but secretly fearing the issue in the light of his brother’s hard, set face.
“You’ve something bothering you too, old man. I’m sure of it. God is aware I don’t know much about women myself, but—”
“Oh, dry up that rot! Don’t think I’m blind, if you are. Don’t deceive yourself. There’s a woman-hunger in you, too, though perhaps you haven’t found it out yet. What about that Blanchard girl?”
Martin flushed like a schoolboy; his hand went up over his mouth and chin as though to hide part of his guilt, and he looked alarmed and uneasy.
John laughed without mirth at the other’s ludicrous trepidation.
“Good heavens! I’ve done nothing surely to suggest—?”
“Nothing at all—except look as if you were going to have a fit every time you get within a mile of her. Lovers know the signs, I suppose. Don’t pretend you’re made of different stuff to the rest of us, that’s all.”
Martin removed his hand and gasped before the spectacle of what he had revealed to other eyes. Then, after a silence of fifteen seconds, he shut his mouth again, wiped his forehead with his hand, and spoke.
“I’ve been a silly fool. Only she’s so wonderfully beautiful—don’t you think so?”
“A gypsy all over—if you call that beautiful.”
The other flushed up again, but made no retort.
“Never mind me or anybody else. I want to speak to you about Phoebe, if I may, John. Who have I got to care about but you? I’m only thinking of your happiness,