“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.
“Ford’s an attorney, Mrs. Blanchard’s brother, a maker of agreements between man and man, and a dusty, dry sort of chip, from all I’ve heard tell. His father and mine were friends forty years and more agone. Old Ford had Newtake Farm on the Moor, and wore his fingers to the bone that his son might have good schooling and a learned profession.”
“He’s in Chagford this very minute,” said Phoebe.
Then Mr. Blee spoke. On the occasion of any entertainment at Monks Barton he waited at table instead of eating with the family as usual. Now he addressed the company from his station behind Mr. Lyddon’s chair.
“Joel Ford’s biding with his sister. A wonderful deep man, to my certain knowledge, an’ wears a merchant-like coat an’ shiny hat working days an’ Sabbaths alike. A snug man, I’ll wager, if ’t is awnly by the token of broadcloth on week-days.”
“He looks for all the world like a yellow, shrivelled parchment himself. Regular gimlet eyes, too, and a very fitch for sharpness, though younger than his appearance might make you fancy,” said the miller.
“Then I’ll pay him a visit and see how things stand,” declared John. “Not that I’d employ any but my own London lawyer, of course,” he added, “but this old chap can give me the information I require; no doubt.”
“Ess fay! an’ draw you a dockyment in all the cautiousness of the law’s language,” promised Billy Blee. “’T is a fact makes me mazed every time I think of it,” he continued, “that mere fleeting ink on the skin tored off a calf can be so set out to last to the trump of doom. Theer be parchments that laugh at the Queen’s awn Privy Council and make the Court of Parliament look a mere fule afore ’em. But it doan’t do to be ’feared o’ far-reachin’ oaths when you ’m signing such a matter, for ’t is in the essence of ’em that the parties should swear deep.”
“I’ll mind what you say, Billy,” promised Grimbal; “I’ll pump old Ford as dry as I can, then be off to London and get such a good, binding deed of purchase as you suggest.”