The shot went home. Mrs. Yellam's florid face paled. She had deliberately put from her the dreadful possibility. But if Sir Geoffrey said so, it was so. The blood left her face, because her first thought had been for the gracious lady of the Manor, and the young wife, two women very dear to her. As the colour came back to her cheeks, she reflected that she, personally, was not involved in these fearful issues. Mr. Lionel was a professional soldier. Wife or no wife, a Pomfret would do his duty. England's army might have to fight side by side with the French, and England's army was invincible.
She said gravely:
"We be in God A'mighty's hands."
Uncle sat down, assuming a funereal expression which sat oddly upon his somewhat comical countenance. He did not share his sister's faith in an All-wise and Merciful Providence. Strong ale, perhaps, had weakened it, and over-indulgence in flesh-pots. But he dared not contradict his sister.
He fired another shot.
"Captain Davenant be sartain sure that our noble army be too small for such a tremenjous affair. He goes further than that, Susan. I wouldn't deceive 'ee or try to frighten 'ee for a barrel o' ale, but he be flustratingly positive that we be drawn into the bloodiest war as never was, and he do say that God A'mighty fights on the side o' the biggest army. His tarr'ble words, Susan, not mine. There be millions o' Proosians marchin' into France this very day, and the Captain says they Frenchies bain't ready for 'em."
He expected a cooling stream of comfort and a rebuttal of what the Captain said. If anybody could stand up against so redoubtable a personage it would be Susan Yellam. She said slowly:
"The Captain says that our army be too small! The King'll have to call for—millions?"
Uncle nodded dolorously. To his utter amazement and confounding, Susan raised her apron, and covered her face with it.
The abomination of coming desolation overwhelmed both of them.