“How’s Jan Grimbal, fust plaace?”
“On his legs again an’ out o’ danger if the Lunnon doctor knaws anything. A hunderd guineas they say that chap have had! Your name was danced to a mad tune ’pon Grimbal’s lips ’fore his senses corned back to un. Why for I caan’t tell ’e. He’ve shook hands wi’ Death for sartain while you was away.”
“An’ mother, an’ wife, an’ Miller?”
“Your mother be well—a steadfast woman her be. Joy doan’t lift her up, an’ sorrow doan’t crush her. Theer’s gert wisdom in her way of life. ’T is my awn, for that matter. Then Miller—well, he ’m grawin’ auld an’ doan’t rate me quite so high as formerly—not that I judge anybody but myself. An’ your missis—theer, if I haven’t kept it for the last! ’Tis news four-an-twenty hour old now an’ they wrote to ’e essterday, but I lay you missed the letter awin’ to me—”
“Get on!”
“Well, she’ve brought ’e a bwoy—so now you’ve got both sorts—bwoy an’ cheel. An’ all doin’ well as can be, though wisht work for her, thinkin’ ’pon you the while.”
Will stood still and uttered a triumphant but inarticulate sound—half-laugh, half-sob, half-thanksgiving. Then the man spoke, slow and deep,—
“He shall go for a soldier!”
“Theer! Now I knaw ’t is Blanchard back an’ no other! Hear me, will ’e; doan’t plan no such uneven way of life for un.”
“By God, he shall!”