Miller Loveday and David, feeling themselves to be rather a desecration in the presence of Bob’s sacred emotions, managed to edge off by degrees, the former burying himself in the most floury recesses of the mill, his invariable resource when perturbed, the rumbling having a soothing effect upon the nerves of those properly trained to its music.
Bob was so impatient that, after going up to her room to assure himself once more that she had not undressed, but had only lain down on the outside of the bed, he went out of the house to meet John, and waited on the sunny slope of the down till his brother appeared. John looked so brave and shapely and warlike that, even in Bob’s present distress, he could not but feel an honest and affectionate pride at owning such a relative. Yet he fancied that John did not come along with the same swinging step he had shown yesterday; and when the trumpet-major got nearer he looked anxiously at the mate and waited for him to speak first.
‘You know our great trouble, John?’ said Robert, gazing stoically into his brother’s eyes.
‘Come and sit down, and tell me all about it,’ answered the trumpet-major, showing no surprise.
They went towards a slight ravine, where it was easier to sit down than on the flat ground, and here John reclined among the grasshoppers, pointing to his brother to do the same.
‘But do you know what it is?’ said Robert. ‘Has anybody told ye?’
‘I do know,’ said John. ‘She’s gone; and I am thankful!’
‘What!’ said Bob, rising to his knees in amazement.
‘I’m at the bottom of it,’ said the trumpet-major slowly.
‘You, John?’