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 assist, 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 anticipated 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.