“God bless me!” ejaculated Durham with amazing vivacity. “He marry her! Impossible! Preposterous! Where did you hear such a thing mentioned?”
Sam straightened himself and stood up in the boat he was pushing to shore.
“I ain’t heard nothing mentioned,” he said. “I onny puts two an’ two together an’ makes ’em four. T’other day the old chap comes down to the river edge an’ he sez, ‘Good-mornin’, Sam!’ ‘Good-mornin’,’ sez I. ‘Are you married?’ sez he. ‘I am,’ sez I. ‘An’ do you like it?’ sez he. ‘Wal, if I don’t like it now I never will,’ sez I. ‘I’ve been married these forty year.’ That seemed to puzzle an’ bother ’im a bit for ’e sucked at ’is pipe like a baby at its bottle, an’ ’e sez, ‘That’s a long time, Sam!’ I sez ‘It is, sir!’ ‘If I was to marry now,’ sez ’e, ‘I couldn’t manage forty year—I shouldn’t live so long.’ ‘That’s right!’ sez I. ‘So if you’re goin’ to do it you’d better lose no time!’ That seemed to strike ’im, an’ ’e stood thinkin’—then he sez, ‘All right, Sam!—I’ll take your advice!’ an’ off ’e went.”
“Well, well!” said John Durham impatiently. “All this has nothing to do with Miss Maynard—”
Sam shut up one filmy eye knowingly.
“Don’t ye be too sure o’ that!” he chuckled. “There’s onny one little bird on the ground wheer ’e is, an’ she’s worth ’avin’ a shot at! Lor’, sir! the old boys are as darin’ in matrimony as the young—more so, I’m thinkin’, special when there’s a bit of money about!”
Durham took in all this rambling talk with no real conviction, yet with a certain sense of uneasiness. Before a couple of hours had passed he started to worry himself over a number of possibilities. He knew well enough that his son—the blithe young fellow now marked as “Missing” had been deeply in love with Sylvia Maynard, and though, he, as the lad’s father, had said nothing for or against the pretty love-idyll which he saw expanding under his eyes, in his own heart he approved of it, and rejoiced that his son’s choice had fallen upon so sweet and dainty a flower of pure maidenhood. And the idea that the distinguished and erudite scholar, Walter Craig, F.S.A., LL.D., should actually entertain, even remotely, matrimonial intentions towards this selected “pearl of price” irritated him almost beyond endurance.
“I’ll speak to Maynard about it!” he resolved. “Obsessed as he is by his dictionary craze, I’ll make him give me his attention. He can’t be altogether such an old fool as to allow his only child’s life and happiness to be spoiled by such a marriage as this would be. Poor child! What a destiny for her! I’d ... yes!... I’d rather marry her myself!”
And, strengthened by this reflection, he took the earliest opportunity of paying an afternoon call on Dr. Maynard on a day when he happened to hear that the Philosopher had gone to London on one of his occasional expeditions to visit his publishers.
He found the old gentleman rather tired, rather irritable, and in a despondent humour generally, and therefore more or less pleased to see him as one to whom he could talk freely.