"Look at that sky," she said. "Those are thunderclouds coming up, as sure as I'm alive, and my poor head never deceives me. And surely you're old enough to please yourself; a grown-up man like you needn't be in such a hurry to run home to his mother."
"Ah, Mrs. Bland, you've never seen John's mother, or you'd know more about it," said the schoolmaster from his corner.
It was only two years since he, who always thought himself a confirmed old bachelor, had been fascinated by that smiling face, with its curls and pink ribbons. In some ways his marriage had made him much more comfortable. Mrs. Bland was a capital housekeeper, and he had never had any talent for taking care of himself. But she was small in mind and great in gossip, the schoolmaster's character being the contrary of both these, and thus his frame of mind towards her became gradually one of good-natured pity, which did not prevent him, being quick of tongue, from snubbing her sharply whenever she seemed to deserve it. But Mrs. Bland smiled through it all. She had a good home and a good husband, though the village was a little dull for her taste, and though he, she said, had all the silly fancies natural to a man of his age.
"I don't know Mrs. Randal, that's true," she said; "but if she expects her son in to the minute, and isn't ever disappointed, why, she's a lucky woman, I say."
"That's just what she is," said the schoolmaster, with his kind, sharp smile; "and her son John is a lucky lad. Well, John, my boy, start when you like. If there is a storm, you'll find plenty of shelter along the road."
John, who had been listening silently while his affairs were discussed, rose suddenly to his full height in the smart little parlour. "I'll be off at once, sir," he said.
A few minutes later they stood at their door and watched him striding off down the hot silent road on his way westward, into the depths of the quiet country, while in the south, as Mrs. Bland again pointed out to her husband, great threatening clouds climbed slowly up the sky.
"There goes a fine fellow," said Mr. Bland deliberately. "It's a real pleasure to see a young man walk like that, and John Randal is as well made in mind and soul, let me tell you, as he is in body. If that chap had lived in history, and had had a chance, he would have been a hero. He would have been a knight without fear and without reproach. No, we won't despair of England as long as a few men like that are left in her villages. Fellows like John are the backbone of England, mind you."
"And a pretty stiff backbone too," said Mrs. Bland half to herself. "Well, Isaac, you talk like a book, I'm sure. Your sort of hero is a bit too rough and dull and loutish for me, you know; but I wish him well, all the same, and I hope he won't catch rheumatic fever out of the storm that's coming. If that was the case, his mother might have reason to wish he'd stayed away a bit longer."
"Mrs. Randal is a worthy mother of a worthy son," said the schoolmaster. "Those two are the salt of Markwood, Jemima. You wouldn't believe me if I told you all I know of their influence in that ignorant village."