She looked up and saw the unkempt head and rough brown face of “Riverside Sam” peering at her through a tangle of leaves.
“Don’t be skeered, Miss! It’s only me!” he said in a kind of hoarse whisper. “I say! Look ’ere! I thought ye might like to know Mr. Durham’s back. He got ’ome early this mornin’. Yes--he’s ’ome--all well an’ ’arty!”
“I’m very glad!” said Sylvia, gently. “Thanks, Sam! It’s kind of you to come and tell me. I shouldn’t have known unless you had, as I can’t go down to the cottage to-day--we have visitors this afternoon.”
“Have ye?” And Sam grinned through the aperture he had made in the hedge somewhat in the fashion of a yokel at a country fair grinning through a horse-collar. “Visitors comin’, eh? From Oxford mebbe?”
Sylvia nodded carelessly, a little surprised at his exceptionally friendly familiarity.
“The old gentleman ain’t arf bad!” went on Sam. “For all ’is larnin’ an’ queer talk ’e’s got a bit of ’art in the right place! I’ve taken to likin’ ’im now--I usen’t to. He’s not much sport about ’im--skeered of ’is life at a water-rat, an’ all that sort o’ thing. I s’pose ’e’ll be comin’ back from Oxford to-day?”
“Yes--I think so!” Sylvia answered, still perplexed by something in his manner which she could not understand. “Do you want to see him?”
“Not pertikerly,” and Sam grinned again. “‘E don’t owe me nothing. ’E ain’t very fond of the river,--fishin’ ain’t in ’is line. An’ Lor’ bless ye, the river ain’t much to look at now--all brown an’ muddy with a few whistlin’ reeds on the banks--very different to the days when you an’ _pore_ Mr. Jack used to walk along by the path as prutty to see as two birds on the ’op! Ah! _pore_ Mr. Jack!--he was a good lad! as good as ye’ll find anywhere! An’ to think the Germans ’ave got ’im!”
“I must be going, Sam,” she said. “Is there anything you want? Anything I can do for you?”
“No, Miss Maynard, no! Thank you all the same! No one wishes ye better luck than I do! That’s why I came up ’ere this mornin’--just to tell ye that old Mr. Durham is back safe so as ye mightn’t worry!”
And with that he drew his head back from the aperture in the hedge and went off, while the Sentimentalist stood inert for a moment, with the roses she had gathered in her hand, wondering whether she would have time before luncheon to run down to Mr. Durham’s cottage and see how he was, and what news he brought from London. News? What news _could_ he bring? Except just a description of how the ‘armistice’ was hailed by the great city’s multitudes. That would be interesting--but it could wait. She decided it would be best to remain at home, and let Mr. Durham take his own time for a visit to her father during the day.