wtake had
vanished out of his life, like an old coat put off for the last time. He
never mentioned the place and there was now but one farm in all Devon
for him.

Meantime a strange cloud increased above him, though as yet he had not
discerned so much as the shadow of it. This circumstance possessed no
connection with John Grimbal. Time passed and still he did not take
action, though he continued to nurse his wrongs through winter, spring,
and summer, as a child nurses a sick animal. The matter tainted his life
but did not dominate it. His existence continued to be soured and
discoloured, yet not entirely spoiled. Now a new stone of stumbling lay
ahead and Grimbal's interest had shifted a little.

Like the rest of Chagford he heard the rumour of little Timothy's
parentage--a rumour that grew as the resemblance ripened between
Blanchard and the child. Interested by this thought and its
significance, he devoted some time to it; and then, upon an early
October morning, chance hurried the man into action. On the spur of an
opportunity he played the coward, as many another man has done, only to
mourn his weakness too late.

There came a misty autumn sunrise beside the river and Grimbal,
hastening through the valley of Teign, suddenly found himself face to
face with Phoebe. She had been upon the meadows since grey dawn, where
many mushrooms set in silvery dew glimmered like pearls through the
mist; and now, with a full basket, she was returning to Monks Barton for
breakfast. As she rested for a moment at a stile between two fields,
Grimbal loomed large from the foggy atmosphere and stood beside her. She
moved her basket for him to pass and her pulses quickened but slightly,
for she had met him on numerous occasions during past years and they
were now as strangers. To Phoebe he had long been nothing, and any
slight emotion he might awaken was in the nature of resentment that the
man could still harden his heart against her husband and remain thus
stubborn and obdurate after such lapse of time. When, therefore, John
Grimbal, moved thereto by some sudden prompting, addressed Will's wife,
she started in astonishment and a blush of warm blood leapt to her face.
He himself was surprised at his own voice; for it sounded unfamiliar, as
though some intelligent thing had suddenly possessed him and was using
his vocal organs for its own ends.

"Don't move. Why, 't is a year since we met alone, I think. So you are
back at Monks Bart