“Sure I could shed water myself to see you like this here,” said Mr. Blee, sympathetically; “but ’t is wan of them eternal circumstances we ’m faaced with that all the rain falled of a wet winter won’t wash away.  Theer ’s the lines.  They ’m a fact, same as the sun in heaven ’s a fact.  God A’mighty’s Self couldn’t undo it wi’out some violent invention; an’ for that matter I doan’t see tu clear how even Him be gwaine to magic a married woman into a spinster again; any more than He could turn a spinster into a married woman, onless some ordinary human man came forrard.  You must faace it braave an’ strong.  But that imp o’ Satan—­that damn Blanchard bwoy!  Theer!  I caan’t say what I think ’bout him.  Arter all that’s been done:  the guests invited, the banns axed out, the victuals bought, and me retracin’ my ballet night arter night, for ten days, to get un to concert pitch—­well, ’t is a matter tu deep for mere speech.”

“The—­the young devil!  I shall have no pity—­not a spark.  I wish to God he could hang for it!”

“As to that, might act worse than leave it to Jan Grimbal.  He’ll do summat ‘fore you’ve done talkin’, if I knaw un.  An’ a son-in-law ’s a son-in-law, though he’ve brought it to pass by a brigand deed same as this.  ’T is a kicklish question what a man should do to the person of his darter’s husband.  You bide quiet an’ see what chances.  Grimbal’s like to take law into his awn hands, as any man of noble nature might in this quandary.”

The disappointed lover’s probable actions offered dreary food for thought, and the two old men were still conversing when a maid entered to lay the cloth for supper.  Then Billy proceeded to the village and Mr. Lyddon, unnerved and restless, rambled aimlessly into the open air, addressed any man or woman who passed from the adjacent cottages, and querulously announced, to the astonishment of chance listeners, that his daughter’s match was broken off.

An hour later Phoebe reappeared in the kitchen and occupied her usual place at the supper-table.  No one spoke a word, but the course of the meal was suddenly interrupted, for there came a knock at the farmhouse door, and without waiting to be answered, somebody lifted the latch, tramped down the stone passage, and entered the room.

Now Phoebe, in the privacy of her little chamber beneath the thatch, had reflected miserably on the spectacle of her husband far away in a prison cell, with his curls cropped off and his shapely limbs clad convict-fashion.  When, therefore, Will, and not John Grimbal, as she expected, stood before her, his wife was perhaps more astonished than any other body present.  Young Blanchard appeared, however.  He looked weary and hungry, for he had been on his legs during the greater part of the day and had forgotten to eat since his pretence of wedding-breakfast ten hours earlier.  Now, newly returned from Exeter, he came straight to Monks Barton before going to his home.