Phoebe Lyddon it was who in all innocence and ignorance set rolling a pebble that finally fell in thundering avalanches; and her chance word was uttered at her father’s table on an occasion when John and Martin Grimbal were supping at Monks Barton.

The returned natives, and more especially the elder, had been much at the mill since their reappearance.  John, indeed, upon one pretext or another, scarcely spent a day without calling.  His rough kindness appealed to Phoebe, who at first suspected no danger from it, while Mr. Lyddon encouraged the man and made him and his brother welcome at all times.

John Grimbal, upon the morning that preceded the present supper party, had at last found a property to his taste.  It might, indeed, have been designed for him.  Near Whiddon it lay, in the valley of the Moreton Road, and consisted of a farm and the ruin of a Tudor mansion.  The latter had been tenanted until the dawn of this century, but was since then fallen into decay.  The farm lands stretched beneath the crown of Cranbrook, hard by the historic “Bloody Meadow,” a spot assigned to that skirmish between Royalist and Parliamentary forces during 1642 which cost brilliant young Sidney Godolphin his life.  Here, or near at hand, the young man probably fell, with a musket-bullet in his leg, and subsequently expired at Chagford[1] leaving the “misfortune of his death upon a place which could never otherwise have had a mention to the world,” according to caustic Chancellor Clarendon.

[1] At Chagford. The place of the poet’s passing is believed to have been an ancient dwelling-house adjacent to St. Michael’s Church.  At that date it was a private residence of the Whiddon family; but during later times it became known as the “Black Swan Inn,” or tavern (a black swan being the crest of Sir John Whiddon, Judge of Queen’s Bench in the first Mary’s reign); while to-day this restored Mansion appears as the hostelry of the “Three Crowns.”

Upon the aforesaid ruins, fashioned after the form of a great E, out of compliment to the sovereign who occupied the throne at the period of the decayed fabric’s erection, John Grimbal proposed to build his habitation of red brick and tile.  The pertaining farm already had a tenant, and represented four hundred acres of arable land, with possibilities of development; snug woods wound along the boundaries of the estate and mingled their branches with others not more stately though sprung from the nobler domain of Whiddon; and Chagford was distant but a mile, or five minutes’ ride.

Tongues wagged that evening concerning the Red House, as the ruin was called, and a question arose as to whom John Grimbal must apply for information respecting the property.

“I noted on the board two names—­one in London, one handy at Newton Abbot—­a Mr. Joel Ford, of Wolborough Street.”

Phoebe blushed where she sat and very nearly said, “My Will’s uncle!” but thought better of it and kept silent.  Meanwhile her father answered.