Martin rose from his chair dazed and bewildered. He had seen his
brother's passion wither up many a rascal in the past; but he himself
had never suffered until now, and the savagery of this language hurled
against his own pure motives staggered him. He, of course, knew nothing
about Will Blanchard's enterprise, and his blundering and ill-judged
effort to restrain his brother from marrying Phoebe was absolutely
disinterested. It had been a tremendous task to him to speak on this
delicate theme, and regard for John alone actuated him; now he departed
without another word and went blankly to the little new stone house he
had taken and furnished on the outskirts of Chagford under Middledown.
He walked along the straight street of whitewashed cots that led him to
his home, and reflected with dismay on this catastrophe. The
conversation with his brother had scarcely occupied five minutes; its
results promised to endure a lifetime.

Meanwhile, and at the identical hour of this tremendous rupture, Chris
Blanchard, well knowing that the morrow would witness Phoebe's secret
marriage to her brother, walked down to see her. It happened that a
small party filled the kitchen of Monks Barton, and the maid who
answered her summons led Chris through the passage and upstairs to
Phoebe's own door. There the girls spoke in murmurs together, while
various sounds, all louder than their voices, proceeded from the kitchen
below. There were assembled the miller, Billy Blee, Mr. Chapple, and one
Abraham Chown, the police inspector of Chagford, a thin, black-bearded
man, oppressed with the cares of his office.

"They be arranging the programme of festive delights," explained Phoebe.
"My heart sinks in me every way I turn now. All the world seems thinking
about what's to come; an' I knaw it never will."