“Cheer up, Phoebe,” cried Will. “Trouble’s blawed awver for gude an’ all now by the look of it. ’Tis plain sailing hencefarrard, thank God, that is, if a pair o’ strong arms, working morning an’ night for Miller, can bring it about.”
So they went together, where Mr. Lyddon waited nervously within; and Damaris and Chris walked beside the river.
Upon his island sat the anchorite Muscovy duck as of yore. He was getting old. He still lived apart and thought deeply about affairs; but his conclusions he never divulged.
Yet another had been surprised into unutterable excitement during that afternoon. John Grimbal found the fruit of long desire tumble into his hand at last, as Major Tremayne made his announcement. The officer was spending a fortnight at the Red House, for his previous friendship with John Grimbal had ripened.
“By Jove! Tom Newcombe, by all that’s wonderful!” he exclaimed, as Will swung past him down the hill to happiness.
“That’s not his name. It’s Blanchard. He’s a young fool of a farmer, and Lord knows what he’s got to be so cock-a-hoop about. Up the hill they’re selling every stick he’s got at auction. He’s ruined.”
“He might be ruined, indeed, if I liked. ‘Tom Newcombe’ he called himself when he was with us.”
“A soldier!”
“He certainly was, and my servant; about the most decent, straightforward, childlike chap that ever I saw.”
“God!”