Mr. 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.