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Updated: May 18, 2025
He walked into the broader light which shone beneath the central lamp, and asked eagerly: 'There's no mistake about that, Dad? There's no mistake about it? The speaker was Jervase's son, as a stranger seeing them under the same roof would have been ready to swear at sight.
There was that in the ring of his voice which pierced to Jervase's intelligence, bemused as he was, and he staggered back into the parlour. The General undid the fastenings of the door and walked out into the keen, bright morning air. When he returned an hour later, Jervase had drunk himself to sleep, and there was no further trouble with him.
De Blacquaire's crutches had long since ceased to crunch along the road towards the hospital, and Jervase's broad shoulders had gone out of sight. There was no human creature near, but far and far away overhead a lark was soaring and singing.
A tall, gaunt man, with stooping shoulders, rose to meet him, and the expression of Mr. Jervase's face changed as if by magic. Something of such a change had taken place between his looking in on the rustics assembled round his kitchen fire and his appearance amongst them. But now it was even swifter, and more pronounced. 'Why, General Boswell! he cried. 'This is indeed an unexpected honour.
I've honoured and respected General Boswell since we first came to be neighbours, twenty years ago; and now I should have a very poor eye indeed if I couldn't see that he's on the way to lose his respect for me, if events don't change his mind. But if there's anything to be browt against Jack Jervase, let Jack Jervase's lad stand by and hear it, and see how his father takes the ackisation.
A drenched, bareheaded figure staggered into the hall, wind-driven, and would have fallen had not Jervase clutched at it. The newcomer and the master of the house held on to each other, and Jervase panted hoarsely: 'You? What's the matter? 'The matter? said the new arrival. 'The matter's ruin! The clatter of the tumbling objects in the hall brought out the General and Jack Jervase's son.
War in the abstract was a thing to cheer about, but war in the concrete war with its possibilities thus brought home to each individual mind excited no enthusiasm. 'You think about that, my lads, said the host, distributing a series of smiling nods about him. 'Old Jack Jervase's day is over, or he'd be at it again, and so I tell you.
The visitor's type was as pronouncedly English as John Jervase's own, and yet it could hardly have differed further from it if the two men had been inhabitants of planets strange to one another. John Jervase was British bourgeois from head to foot, and the General from crown to sole was an aristocrat.
He reached out a crumpled piece of paper to his cousin, who took it from him, and, after a single glance at it, started again, and, pale as he was already, grew still paler. 'He knows those three, said the General, voicelessly, and without a spoken word reached forward and took the crumpled page from Jervase's unresisting hand.
You're a lucky dog, not even to have your commission from your agent's hands, and yet to be on the edge of the biggest campaign since Waterloo. A lad of three-and-twenty had risen from a seat in the corner of the room at the moment of John Jervase's entry.
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