Time passed, and it happened on one occasion, while walking abroad between his vigils, that Blanchard met John Grimbal.  Will had reflected curiously of late days into what ghostly proportions his affair with the master of the Red House now dwindled before this greater calamity of his mother’s sickness; but sudden sight of the enemy roused passion and threw back the man’s mind to that occasion of their last conversation in the woods.

Yet the first words that now passed were to John Grimbal’s credit.  He made an astonishing and unexpected utterance.  Indeed, the spoken word surprised him as much as his listener, and he swore at himself for a fool when Will’s retort reached his ear.

They were passing at close quarters,—­Blanchard on foot, John upon horseback,—­when the latter said,—­

“How ’s Mrs. Blanchard to-day?”

“Mind your awn business an’ keep our name off your lips!” answered the pedestrian, who misunderstood the question, as he did most questions where possible, and now supposed that Grimbal meant Phoebe.

His harsh words woke instant wrath.

“What a snarling, cross-bred cur you are!  I should judge your own family will be the first to thank me for putting you under lock and key.  Hell to live with, you must be.”

“God rot your dirty heart!  Do it—­do it; doan’t jaw—­do it!  But if you lay a finger ’pon me while my mother ’s bad or have me took before she ’m stirring again, I’ll kill you when I come out.  God ’s my judge if I doan’t!”

Then, forgetting what had taken him out of doors, and upon what matter he was engaged, Will turned back in a tempest, and hastened to his mother’s cottage.

At Monks Barton Mr. Lyddon and his daughter had many and long conversations upon the subject of Blanchard’s difficulties.  Both trembled to think what might be the issue if his mother died; both began to realise that there could be no more happiness for Will until a definite extrication from his present position was forthcoming.  At his daughter’s entreaty the miller finally determined on a strong step.  He made up his mind to visit Grimbal at the Red House, and win from him, if possible, some undertaking which would enable him to relieve his son-in-law of the present uncertainty.

Phoebe pleaded for silence, and prayed her father to get a promise at any cost in that direction.

“Let him awnly promise ‘e never to tell of his free will, an’ the door against danger ’s shut,” she said.  “When Will knaws Grimbal ’s gwaine to be dumb, he’ll rage a while, then calm down an’ be hisself again.  ’T is the doubt that drove him frantic.”

“I’ll see the man, then; but not a word to Will’s ear.  All the fat would be in the fire if he so much as dreamed I was about any such business.  As to a promise, if I can get it I will.  An’ ‘twixt me an’ you, Phoebe, I’m hopeful of it.  He ’s kept quiet so long that theer caan’t be any fiery hunger ‘gainst Will in un just now.  I’ll soothe un down an’ get his word of honour if it ’s to be got.  Then your husband can do as he pleases.”