Part 7 (1/2)
”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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 a.s.sist, 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 antic.i.p.ated 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 to bed.
Mr. Blee, very well knowing what matter moved the minds of his companions, spoke first.
”Missy have put on a temperate way of late days it do seem. I most begin to think that cat-a-mountain of a bwoy 's less in her thoughts than he was. She 'm larnin' wisdom, as well she may wi' sich a faither.”
”I doan't knaw what to think,” answered Mr. Lyddon, somewhat gloomily.
”I ban't so much in her confidence as of auld days. Damaris Blanchard's right, like enough. A maid 's tu deep even for the faither that got her, most times. A sweet, dear gal as ever was, for all that. How fares it, John? She never names 'e to me, though I do to her.”
”I'm biding my time, neighbour. I reckon 't will be right one day. It only makes me feel a bit mean now and again to have to say hard things about young Blanchard. Still, while she 's wrapped up there, I may whistle for her.”
”You 'm in the right,” declared Billy. ”'T is an auld sayin' that all manner of dealings be fair in love, an' true no doubt, though I'm a bachelor myself an' no prophet in such matters.”
”All's fair for certain,” admitted John, as though he had not before considered the position from this standpoint.
”Ay, an' a darter's welfare lies in her faither's hand. Thank G.o.d, I'm not a parent to my knowledge; but 'tis a difficult calling in life, an'
a young maiden gal, purty as a picksher, be a heavy load to a honest mind.”
”So I find it,” said the miller.
”You've forbid Will--lock, stock, and barrel--therefore, of coourse, she 's no right to think more of him, to begin with,” continued the old man. It was a new idea.
”Come to think of it, she hasn't--eh?” asked John.
”No, that's true enough,” admitted Mr. Lyddon.
”I speak, though of low position, but well thought of an' at Miller's right hand, so to say,” continued Mr. Blee; ”so theer 't is: Missy's in a dangerous pa.s.s. Eve's flesh be Eve's flesh, whether hid under flannel or silk, or shawed mother-naked to the sun after the manner of furrin cannibals. A gal 's a gal; an' if I was faither of such as your darter, I'd count it my solemn duty to see her out of the dangers of life an'
tidily mated to a gude man. I'd say to myself, 'Her'll graw to bless me for what I've done, come a few years.'”
So Billy Blee, according to his golden rule, advised men upon the road they already desired to follow, and thus increased his reputation for sound sense and far-reaching wisdom.
”It's true, every word he says,” declared John Grimbal.
”I believe it,” answered the miller; ”though G.o.d forbid any word or act of mine should bring wan tear to Phoebe's cheek. Yet, somehow, I doan't knaw but you 'm right.”
”I am, believe me. It's the truth. You want Phoebe's real happiness considered, and that now depends on--well, I'll say it out--on me. We have reached the point now when you must speak, as you promised to speak, and throw the weight of your influence on my side. Then, after you've had your say, I'll have mine and put the great question.”