All the Brookfield household were now upon the lawn, awaiting the attack.  Mr. Pole would have liked to impound the impouring host, drum and all, for the audacity of the trespass, and then to have fed them liberally, as a return for the compliment.  Aware that he was being treated to the honours of a great man of the neighbourhood, he determined to take it cheerfully.

“Come; no laughing!” he said, directing a glance at the maids who were ranged behind their mistresses. “’Hem! we must look pleased:  we mustn’t mind their music, if they mean well.”

Emilia, whose face was dismally screwed up at the nerve-searching discord, said:  “Why do they try to play anything but a drum?”

“In the country, in the country;” Mr. Pole emphasized.  “We put up with this kind of thing in the country.  Different in town; but we—­a—­say nothing in the country.  We must encourage respect for the gentry, in the country.  One of the penalties of a country life.  Not much harm in it.  New duties in the country.”

He continued to speak to himself.  In proportion as he grew aware of the unnecessary nervous agitation into which the drum was throwing him, he assumed an air of repose, and said to Wilfrid:  “Read the paper to-day?” and to Arabella, “Quiet family dinner, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir,” he remarked to Mr. Barrett, as if resuming an old conversation:  “I dare say, you’ve seen better marching in foreign parts.  Right—­left; right—­left.  Ha! ha!  And not so bad, not so bad, I call it! with their right—­left; right—­left.  Ha! ha!  You’ve seen better.  No need to tell me that.  But, in England, we look to the meaning of things.  We’re a practical people.  What’s more, we’re volunteers.  Volunteers in everything.  We can’t make a regiment of ploughmen march like clock-work in a minute; and we don’t want to.  But, give me the choice; I’ll back a body of volunteers any day.”

“I would rather be backed by them, sir,” said Mr. Barrett.

“Very good.  I mean that.  Honest intelligent industry backing rank and wealth!  That makes a nation strong.  Look at England!”

Mr. Barrett observed him stand out largely, as if filled by the spirit of the big drum.

That instrument now gave a final flourish and bang whereat Sound, as if knocked on the head, died languishingly.

And behold, a spokesman was seen in relief upon a background of grins, that were oddly intermixed with countenances of extraordinary solemnity.

The same commenced his propitiatory remarks by assuring the proprietor of Brookfield that he, the spokesman, and every man present, knew they had taken a liberty in coming upon Squire Pole’s grounds without leave or warning.  They knew likewise that Squire Pole excused them.

Chorus of shouts from the divining brethren.

Right glad they were to have such a gentleman as Squire Pole among them:  and if nobody gave him a welcome last year, that was not the fault of the Yellow-and-Blues.  Eh, my boys?