John continued his sad and heavy pace till walking seemed too old and worn-out a way of showing sorrow so new, and he leant himself against the fork of an apple-tree like a log. There the trumpet-major remained for a considerable time, his face turned towards the house, whose ancient, many-chimneyed outline rose against the darkened sky, and just shut out from his view the camp above. But faint noises coming thence from horses restless at the pickets, and from visitors taking their leave, recalled its existence, and reminded him that, in consequence of Matilda’s arrival, he had obtained leave for the night—a fact which, owing to the startling emotions that followed his entry, he had not yet mentioned to his friends.
While abstractedly considering how he could best use that privilege under the new circumstances which had arisen, he heard Farmer Derriman drive up to the front door and hold a conversation with his father. The old man had at last apparently brought the tin box of private papers that he wished the miller to take charge of during Derriman’s absence; and it being a calm night, John could hear, though he little heeded, Uncle Benjy’s reiterated supplications to Loveday to keep it safe from fire and thieves. Then Uncle Benjy left, and John’s father went upstairs to deposit the box in a place of security, the whole proceeding reaching John’s preoccupied comprehension merely as voices during sleep.
The next thing was the appearance of a light in the bedroom which had been assigned to Matilda Johnson. This effectually aroused the trumpet-major, and with a stealthiness unusual in him he went indoors. No light was in the lower rooms, his father, Mrs. Garland, and Anne having gone out on the bridge to look at the new moon. John went upstairs on tip-toe, and along the uneven passage till he came to her door. It was standing ajar, a band of candlelight shining across the passage and up the opposite wall. As soon as he entered the radiance he saw her. She was standing before the looking-glass, apparently lost in thought, her fingers being clasped behind her head in abstraction, and the light falling full upon her face.
‘I must speak to you,’ said the trumpet-major.
She started, turned and grew paler than before; and then, as if moved by a sudden impulse, she swung the door wide open, and, coming out, said quite collectedly and with apparent pleasantness, ‘O yes; you are my Bob’s brother! I didn’t, for a moment, recognize you.’
‘But you do now?’
‘As Bob’s brother.’
‘You have not seen me before?’
‘I have not,’ she answered, with a face as impassible as Talleyrand’s.
‘Good God!’
‘I have not!’ she repeated.
‘Nor any of the --th Dragoons? Captain Jolly, for instance?’
‘No.’
‘You mistake. I’ll remind you of particulars,’ he said drily. And he did remind her at some length.
‘Never!’ she said desperately.
But she had miscalculated her staying powers, and her adversary’s character. Five minutes after that she was in tears, and the conversation had resolved itself into words, which, on the soldier’s part, were of the nature of commands, tempered by pity, and were a mere series of entreaties on hers.
The whole scene did not last ten minutes. When it was over, the trumpet-major walked from the doorway where they had been standing, and brushed moisture from his eyes. Reaching a dark lumber-room, he stood still there to calm himself, and then descended by a Flemish-ladder to the bakehouse, instead of by the front stairs. He found that the others, including Bob, had gathered in the parlour during his absence and lighted the candles.
Miss Johnson, having sent down some time before John re-entered the house to say that she would prefer to keep her room that evening, was not expected to join them, and on this account Bob showed less than his customary liveliness. The miller wishing to keep up his son’s spirits, expressed his regret that, it being Sunday night, they could have no songs to make the evening cheerful; when Mrs. Garland proposed that they should sing psalms which, by choosing lively tunes and not thinking of the words, would be almost as good as ballads.
This they did, the trumpet-major appearing to join in with the rest; but as a matter of fact no sound came from his moving lips. His mind was in such a state that he derived no pleasure even from Anne Garland’s presence, though he held a corner of the same book with her, and was treated in a winsome way which it was not her usual practice to indulge in. She saw that his mind was clouded, and, far from guessing the reason why, was doing her best to clear it.
At length the Garlands found that it was the hour for them to leave, and John Loveday at the same time wished his father and Bob good-night, and went as far as Mrs. Garland’s door with her.
He had said not a word to show that he was free to remain out of camp, for the reason that there was painful work to be done, which it would be best to do in secret and alone. He lingered near the house till its reflected window-lights ceased to glimmer upon the mill-pond, and all within the dwelling was dark and still. Then he entered the garden and waited there till the back door opened, and a woman’s figure timorously came forward. John Loveday at once went up to her, and they began to talk in low yet dissentient tones.
They had conversed about ten minutes, and were parting as if they had come to some painful arrangement, Miss Johnson sobbing bitterly, when a head stealthily arose above the dense hedgerow, and in a moment a shout burst from its owner.
‘Thieves! thieves!—my tin box!—thieves! thieves!’
Matilda vanished into the house, and John Loveday hastened to the hedge. ‘For heaven’s sake, hold your tongue, Mr. Derriman!’ he exclaimed.
‘My tin box!’ said Uncle Benjy. ‘O, only the trumpet-major!’
‘Your box is safe enough, I assure you. It was only’—here the trumpet-major gave vent to an artificial laugh—‘only a sly bit of courting, you know.’
‘Ha, ha, I see!’ said the relieved old squireen. ‘Courting Miss Anne! Then you’ve ousted my nephew, trumpet-major! Well, so much the better. As for myself, the truth on’t is that I haven’t been able to go to bed easy, for thinking that possibly your father might not take care of what I put under his charge; and at last I thought I would just step over and see if all was safe here before I turned in. And when I saw your two shapes my poor nerves magnified ye to housebreakers, and Boneys, and I don’t know what all.’
‘You have alarmed the house,’ said the trumpet-major, hearing the clicking of flint and steel in his father’s bedroom, followed in a moment by the rise of a light in the window of the same apartment. ‘You have got me into difficulty,’ he added gloomily, as his father opened the casement.
‘I am sorry for that,’ said Uncle Benjy. ‘But step back; I’ll put it all right again.’
‘What, for heaven’s sake, is the matter?’ said the miller, his tasselled nightcap appearing in the opening.
‘Nothing, nothing!’ said the farmer. ‘I was uneasy about my few bonds and documents, and I walked this way, miller, before going to bed, as I start from home to-morrow morning. When I came down by your garden-hedge, I thought I saw thieves, but it turned out to be—to be—’
Here a lump of earth from the trumpet-major’s hand struck Uncle Benjy in the back as a reminder.
‘To be—the bough of a cherry-tree a-waving in the wind. Good-night.’
‘No thieves are like to try my house,’ said Miller Loveday. ‘Now don’t you come alarming us like this again, farmer, or you shall keep your box yourself, begging your pardon for saying so. Good-night t’ ye!’
‘Miller, will ye just look, since I am here—just look and see if the box is all right? there’s a good man! I am old, you know, and my poor remains are not what my original self was. Look and see if it is where you put it, there’s a good, kind man.’
‘Very well,’ said the miller good-humouredly.
‘Neighbour Loveday! on second thoughts I will take my box home again, after all, if you don’t mind. You won’t deem it ill of me? I have no suspicion, of course; but now I think on’t there’s rivalry between my nephew and your son; and if Festus should take it into his head to set your house on fire in his enmity, ’twould be bad for my deeds and documents. No offence, miller, but I’ll take the box, if you don’t mind.’
‘Faith! I don’t mind,’ said Loveday. ‘But your nephew had better think twice before he lets his enmity take that colour.’ Receding from the window, he took the candle to a back part of the room and soon reappeared with the tin box.
‘I won’t trouble ye to dress,’ said Derriman considerately; ‘let en down by anything you have at hand.’
The box was lowered by a cord, and the old man clasped it in his arms. ‘Thank ye!’ he said with heartfelt gratitude. ‘Good-night!’
The miller replied and closed the window, and the light went out.
‘There, now I hope you are satisfied, sir?’ said the trumpet-major.
‘Quite, quite!’ said Derriman; and, leaning on his walking-stick, he pursued his lonely way.
That night Anne lay awake in her bed, musing on the traits of the new friend who had come to her neighbour’s house. She would not be critical, it was ungenerous and wrong; but she could not help thinking of what interested her. And were there, she silently asked, in Miss Johnson’s mind and person such rare qualities as placed that lady altogether beyond comparison with herself? O yes, there must be; for had not Captain Bob singled out Matilda from among all other women, herself included? Of course, with his world-wide experience, he knew best.
When the moon had set, and only the summer stars threw their light into the great damp garden, she fancied that she heard voices in that direction. Perhaps they were the voices of Bob and Matilda taking a lover’s walk before retiring. If so, how sleepy they would be next day, and how absurd it was of Matilda to pretend she was tired! Ruminating in this way, and saying to herself that she hoped they would be happy, Anne fell asleep.
Partly from the excitement of having his Matilda under the paternal roof, Bob rose next morning as early as his father and the grinder, and, when the big wheel began to patter and the little ones to mumble in response, went to sun himself outside the mill-front, among the fowls of brown and speckled kinds which haunted that spot, and the ducks that came up from the mill-tail.
Standing on the worn-out mill-stone inlaid in the gravel, he talked with his father on various improvements of the premises, and on the proposed arrangements for his permanent residence there, with an enjoyment that was half based upon this prospect of the future, and half on the penetrating warmth of the sun to his back and shoulders. Then the different troops of horses began their morning scramble down to the mill-pond, and, after making it very muddy round the edge, ascended the slope again. The bustle of the camp grew more and more audible, and presently David came to say that breakfast was ready.
‘Is Miss Johnson downstairs?’ said the miller; and Bob listened for the answer, looking at a blue sentinel aloft on the down.
‘Not yet, maister,’ said the excellent David.
‘We’ll wait till she’s down,’ said Loveday. ‘When she is, let us know.’
David went indoors again, and Loveday and Bob continued their morning survey by ascending into the mysterious quivering recesses of the mill, and holding a discussion over a second pair of burr-stones, which had to be re-dressed before they could be used again. This and similar things occupied nearly twenty minutes, and, looking from the window, the elder of the two was reminded of the time of day by seeing Mrs. Garland’s table-cloth fluttering from her back door over the heads of a flock of pigeons that had alighted for the crumbs.
‘I suppose David can’t find us,’ he said, with a sense of hunger that was not altogether strange to Bob. He put out his head and shouted.
‘The lady is not down yet,’ said his man in reply.
‘No hurry, no hurry,’ said the miller, with cheerful emptiness. ‘Bob, to pass the time we’ll look into the garden.’
‘She’ll get up sooner than this, you know, when she’s signed articles and got a berth here,’ Bob observed apologetically.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Loveday; and they descended into the garden.
Here they turned over sundry flat stones and killed the slugs sheltered beneath them from the coming heat of the day, talking of slugs in all their branches—of the brown and the black, of the tough and the tender, of the reason why there were so many in the garden that year, of the coming time when the grass-walks harbouring them were to be taken up and gravel laid, and of the relatively exterminatory merits of a pair of scissors and the heel of the shoe. At last the miller said, ‘Well, really, Bob, I’m hungry; we must begin without her.’
They were about to go in, when David appeared with haste in his motions, his eyes wider vertically than crosswise, and his cheeks nearly all gone.
‘Maister, I’ve been to call her; and as ‘a didn’t speak I rapped, and as ‘a didn’t answer I kicked, and not being latched the door opened, and—she’s gone!’
Bob went off like a swallow towards the house, and the miller followed like the rather heavy man that he was. That Miss Matilda was not in her room, or a scrap of anything belonging to her, was soon apparent. They searched every place in which she could possibly hide or squeeze herself, every place in which she could not, but found nothing at all.
Captain Bob was quite wild with astonishment and grief. When he was quite sure that she was nowhere in his father’s house, he ran into Mrs. Garland’s, and telling them the story so hastily that they hardly understood the particulars, he went on towards Comfort’s house, intending to raise the alarm there, and also at Mitchell’s, Beach’s, Cripplestraw’s, the parson’s, the clerk’s, the camp of dragoons, of hussars, and so on through the whole county. But he paused, and thought it would be hardly expedient to publish his discomfiture in such a way. If Matilda had left the house for any freakish reason he would not care to look for her, and if her deed had a tragic intent she would keep aloof from camp and village.
In his trouble he thought of Anne. She was a nice girl and could be trusted. To her he went, and found her in a state of excitement and anxiety which equalled his own.
‘’Tis so lonely to cruise for her all by myself!’ said Bob disconsolately, his forehead all in wrinkles, ‘and I’ve thought you would come with me and cheer the way?’
‘Where shall we search?’ said Anne.
‘O, in the holes of rivers, you know, and down wells, and in quarries, and over cliffs, and like that. Your eyes might catch the loom of any bit of a shawl or bonnet that I should overlook, and it would do me a real service. Please do come!’
So Anne took pity upon him, and put on her hat and went, the miller and David having gone off in another direction. They examined the ditches of fields, Bob going round by one fence and Anne by the other, till they met at the opposite side. Then they peeped under culverts, into outhouses, and down old wells and quarries, till the theory of a tragical end had nearly spent its force in Bob’s mind, and he began to think that Matilda had simply run away. However, they still walked on, though by this time the sun was hot and Anne would gladly have sat down.
‘Now, didn’t you think highly of her, Miss Garland?’ he inquired, as the search began to languish.
‘O yes,’ said Anne, ‘very highly.’
‘She was really beautiful; no nonsense about her looks, was there?’
‘None. Her beauty was thoroughly ripe—not too young. We should all have got to love her. What can have possessed her to go away?’
‘I don’t know, and, upon my life, I shall soon be drove to say I don’t care!’ replied the mate despairingly. ‘Let me pilot ye down over those stones,’ he added, as Anne began to descend a rugged quarry. He stepped forward, leapt down, and turned to her.
She gave him her hand and sprang down. Before he relinquished his hold, Captain Bob raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them.
‘O, Captain Loveday!’ cried Anne, snatching away her hand in genuine dismay, while a tear rose unexpectedly to each eye. ‘I never heard of such a thing! I won’t go an inch further with you, sir; it is too barefaced!’ And she turned and ran off.
‘Upon my life I didn’t mean it!’ said the repentant captain, hastening after. ‘I do love her best—indeed I do—and I don’t love you at all! I am not so fickle as that! I merely just for the moment admired you as a sweet little craft, and that’s how I came to do it. You know, Miss Garland,’ he continued earnestly, and still running after, ‘’tis like this: when you come ashore after having been shut up in a ship for eighteen months, women-folks seem so new and nice that you can’t help liking them, one and all in a body; and so your heart is apt to get scattered and to yaw a bit; but of course I think of poor Matilda most, and shall always stick to her.’ He heaved a sigh of tremendous magnitude, to show beyond the possibility of doubt that his heart was still in the place that honour required.
‘I am glad to hear that—of course I am very glad!’ said she, with quick petulance, keeping her face turned from him. ‘And I hope we shall find her, and that the wedding will not be put off, and that you’ll both be happy. But I won’t look for her any more! No; I don’t care to look for her—and my head aches. I am going home!’
‘And so am I,’ said Robert promptly.
‘No, no; go on looking for her, of course—all the afternoon, and all night. I am sure you will, if you love her.’
‘O yes; I mean to. Still, I ought to convoy you home first?’
‘No, you ought not; and I shall not accept your company. Good-morning, sir!’ And she went off over one of the stone stiles with which the spot abounded, leaving the friendly sailor standing in the field.
He sighed again, and, observing the camp not far off, thought he would go to his brother John and ask him his opinion on the sorrowful case. On reaching the tents he found that John was not at liberty just at that time, being engaged in practising the trumpeters; and leaving word that he wished the trumpet-major to come down to the mill as soon as possible, Bob went back again.
‘’Tis no good looking for her,’ he said gloomily. ‘She liked me well enough, but when she came here and saw the house, and the place, and the old horse, and the plain furniture, she was disappointed to find us all so homely, and felt she didn’t care to marry into such a family!’
His father and David had returned with no news.
‘Yes, ’tis as I’ve been thinking, father,’ Bob said. ‘We weren’t good enough for her, and she went away in scorn!’
‘Well, that can’t be helped,’ said the miller. ‘What we be, we be, and have been for generations. To my mind she seemed glad enough to get hold of us!’
‘Yes, yes—for the moment—because of the flowers, and birds, and what’s pretty in the place,’ said Bob tragically. ‘But you don’t know, father—how should you know, who have hardly been out of Overcombe in your life?—you don’t know what delicate feelings are in a real refined woman’s mind. Any little vulgar action unreaves their nerves like a marline-spike. Now I wonder if you did anything to disgust her?’
‘Faith! not that I know of,’ said Loveday, reflecting. ‘I didn’t say a single thing that I should naturally have said, on purpose to give no offence.’
‘You was always very homely, you know, father.’
‘Yes; so I was,’ said the miller meekly.
‘I wonder what it could have been,’ Bob continued, wandering about restlessly. ‘You didn’t go drinking out of the big mug with your mouth full, or wipe your lips with your sleeve?’
‘That I’ll swear I didn’t!’ said the miller firmly. ‘Thinks I, there’s no knowing what I may do to shock her, so I’ll take my solid victuals in the bakehouse, and only a crumb and a drop in her company for manners.’
‘You could do no more than that, certainly,’ said Bob gently.
‘If my manners be good enough for well-brought-up people like the Garlands, they be good enough for her,’ continued the miller, with a sense of injustice.
‘That’s true. Then it must have been David. David, come here! How did you behave before that lady? Now, mind you speak the truth!’
‘Yes, Mr. Captain Robert,’ said David earnestly. ‘I assure ye she was served like a royal queen. The best silver spoons wez put down, and yer poor grandfer’s silver tanket, as you seed, and the feather cushion for her to sit on—’
‘Now I’ve got it!’ said Bob decisively, bringing down his hand upon the window-sill. ‘Her bed was hard!—and there’s nothing shocks a true lady like that. The bed in that room always was as hard as the Rock of Gibraltar!’
‘No, Captain Bob! The beds were changed—wasn’t they maister? We put the goose bed in her room, and the flock one, that used to be there, in yours.’
‘Yes, we did,’ corroborated the miller. ‘David and I changed ’em with our own hands, because they were too heavy for the women to move.’
‘Sure I didn’t know I had the flock bed,’ murmured Bob. ‘I slept on, little thinking what I was going to wake to. Well, well, she’s gone; and search as I will I shall never find another like her! She was too good for me. She must have carried her box with her own hands, poor girl. As far as that goes, I could overtake her even now, I dare say; but I won’t entreat her against her will—not I.’
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?’
‘Yes; and if you will listen I’ll tell you all. Do you remember what happened when I came into the room last night? Why, she turned colour and nearly fainted away. That was because she knew me.’
Bob stared at his brother with a face of pain and distrust.
‘For once, Bob, I must say something that will hurt thee a good deal,’ continued John. ‘She was not a woman who could possibly be your wife—and so she’s gone.’
‘You sent her off?’
‘Well, I did.’
‘John!—Tell me right through—tell me!’
‘Perhaps I had better,’ said the trumpet-major, his blue eyes resting on the far distant sea, that seemed to rise like a wall as high as the hill they sat upon.
And then he told a tale of Miss Johnson and the --th Dragoons which wrung his heart as much in the telling as it did Bob’s to hear, and which showed that John had been temporarily cruel to be ultimately kind. Even Bob, excited as he was, could discern from John’s manner of speaking what a terrible undertaking that night’s business had been for him. To justify the course he had adopted the dictates of duty must have been imperative; but the trumpet-major, with a becoming reticence which his brother at the time was naturally unable to appreciate, scarcely dwelt distinctly enough upon the compelling cause of his conduct. It would, indeed, have been hard for any man, much less so modest a one as John, to do himself justice in that remarkable relation, when the listener was the lady’s lover; and it is no wonder that Robert rose to his feet and put a greater distance between himself and John.
‘And what time was it?’ he asked in a hard, suppressed voice.
‘It was just before one o’clock.’
‘How could you help her to go away?’
‘I had a pass. I carried her box to the coach-office. She was to follow at dawn.’
‘But she had no money.’
‘Yes, she had; I took particular care of that.’ John did not add, as he might have done, that he had given her, in his pity, all the money he possessed, and at present had only eighteen-pence in the world. ‘Well, it is over, Bob; so sit ye down, and talk with me of old times,’ he added.
‘Ah, Jack, it is well enough for you to speak like that,’ said the disquieted sailor; ‘but I can’t help feeling that it is a cruel thing you have done. After all, she would have been snug enough for me. Would I had never found out this about her! John, why did you interfere? You had no right to overhaul my affairs like this. Why didn’t you tell me fairly all you knew, and let me do as I chose? You have turned her out of the house, and it’s a shame! If she had only come to me! Why didn’t she?’
‘Because she knew it was best to do otherwise.’
‘Well, I shall go after her,’ said Bob firmly.
‘You can do as you like,’ said John; ‘but I would advise you strongly to leave matters where they are.’
‘I won’t leave matters where they are,’ said Bob impetuously. ‘You have made me miserable, and all for nothing. I tell you she was good enough for me; and as long as I knew nothing about what you say of her history, what difference would it have made to me? Never was there a young woman who was better company; and she loved a merry song as I do myself. Yes, I’ll follow her.’
‘O, Bob,’ said John; ‘I hardly expected this!’
‘That’s because you didn’t know your man. Can I ask you to do me one kindness? I don’t suppose I can. Can I ask you not to say a word against her to any of them at home?’
‘Certainly. The very reason why I got her to go off silently, as she has done, was because nothing should be said against her here, and no scandal should be heard of.’
‘That may be; but I’m off after her. Marry that girl I will.’
‘You’ll be sorry.’
‘That we shall see,’ replied Robert with determination; and he went away rapidly towards the mill. The trumpet-major had no heart to follow—no good could possibly come of further opposition; and there on the down he remained like a graven image till Bob had vanished from his sight into the mill.
Bob entered his father’s only to leave word that he was going on a renewed search for Matilda, and to pack up a few necessaries for his journey. Ten minutes later he came out again with a bundle in his hand, and John saw him go diagonally across the lower fields towards the high-road.
‘And this is all the good I have done!’ said John, musingly readjusting his stock where it cut his neck, and descending towards the mill.
Meanwhile Anne Garland had gone home, and, being weary with her ramble in search of Matilda, sat silent in a corner of the room. Her mother was passing the time in giving utterance to every conceivable surmise on the cause of Miss Johnson’s disappearance that the human mind could frame, to which Anne returned monosyllabic answers, the result, not of indifference, but of intense preoccupation. Presently Loveday, the father, came to the door; her mother vanished with him, and they remained closeted together a long time. Anne went into the garden and seated herself beneath the branching tree whose boughs had sheltered her during so many hours of her residence here. Her attention was fixed more upon the miller’s wing of the irregular building before her than upon that occupied by her mother, for she could not help expecting every moment to see some one run out with a wild face and announce some awful clearing up of the mystery.
Every sound set her on the alert, and hearing the tread of a horse in the lane she looked round eagerly. Gazing at her over the hedge was Festus Derriman, mounted on such an incredibly tall animal that he could see to her very feet over the thick and broad thorn fence. She no sooner recognized him than she withdrew her glance; but as his eyes were fixed steadily upon her this was a futile manoeuvre.
‘I saw you look round!’ he exclaimed crossly. ‘What have I done to make you behave like that? Come, Miss Garland, be fair. ’Tis no use to turn your back upon me.’ As she did not turn he went on—‘Well, now, this is enough to provoke a saint. Now I tell you what, Miss Garland; here I’ll stay till you do turn round, if ’tis all the afternoon. You know my temper—what I say I mean.’ He seated himself firmly in the saddle, plucked some leaves from the hedge, and began humming a song, to show how absolutely indifferent he was to the flight of time.
‘What have you come for, that you are so anxious to see me?’ inquired Anne, when at last he had wearied her patience, rising and facing him with the added independence which came from a sense of the hedge between them.
‘There, I knew you would turn round!’ he said, his hot angry face invaded by a smile in which his teeth showed like white hemmed in by red at chess.
‘What do you want, Mr. Derriman?’ said she.
‘“What do you want, Mr. Derriman?”—now listen to that! Is that my encouragement?’
Anne bowed superciliously, and moved away.
‘I have just heard news that explains all that,’ said the giant, eyeing her movements with somnolent irascibility. ‘My uncle has been letting things out. He was here late last night, and he saw you.’
‘Indeed he didn’t,’ said Anne.
‘O, now! He saw Trumpet-major Loveday courting somebody like you in that garden walk; and when he came you ran indoors.’
‘It is not true, and I wish to hear no more.’
‘Upon my life, he said so! How can you do it, Miss Garland, when I, who have enough money to buy up all the Lovedays, would gladly come to terms with ye? What a simpleton you must be, to pass me over for him! There, now you are angry because I said simpleton!—I didn’t mean simpleton, I meant misguided—misguided rosebud! That’s it—run off,’ he continued in a raised voice, as Anne made towards the garden door. ‘But I’ll have you yet. Much reason you have to be too proud to stay with me. But it won’t last long; I shall marry you, madam, if I choose, as you’ll see.’
When he was quite gone, and Anne had calmed down from the not altogether unrelished fear and excitement that he always caused her, she returned to her seat under the tree, and began to wonder what Festus Derriman’s story meant, which, from the earnestness of his tone, did not seem like a pure invention. It suddenly flashed upon her mind that she herself had heard voices in the garden, and that the persons seen by Farmer Derriman, of whose visit and reclamation of his box the miller had told her, might have been Matilda and John Loveday. She further recalled the strange agitation of Miss Johnson on the preceding evening, and that it occurred just at the entry of the dragoon, till by degrees suspicion amounted to conviction that he knew more than any one else supposed of that lady’s disappearance.
It was just at this time that the trumpet-major descended to the mill after his talk with his brother on the down. As fate would have it, instead of entering the house he turned aside to the garden and walked down that pleasant enclosure, to learn if he were likely to find in the other half of it the woman he loved so well.
Yes, there she was, sitting on the seat of logs that he had repaired for her, under the apple-tree; but she was not facing in his direction. He walked with a noisier tread, he coughed, he shook a bough, he did everything, in short, but the one thing that Festus did in the same circumstances—call out to her. He would not have ventured on that for the world. Any of his signs would have been sufficient to attract her a day or two earlier; now she would not turn. At last, in his fond anxiety, he did what he had never done before without an invitation, and crossed over into Mrs. Garland’s half of the garden, till he stood before her.
When she could not escape him she arose, and, saying ‘Good afternoon, trumpet-major,’ in a glacial manner unusual with her, walked away to another part of the garden.
Loveday, quite at a loss, had not the strength of mind to persevere further. He had a vague apprehension that some imperfect knowledge of the previous night’s unhappy business had reached her; and, unable to remedy the evil without telling more than he dared, he went into the mill, where his father still was, looking doleful enough, what with his concern at events and the extra quantity of flour upon his face through sticking so closely to business that day.
‘Well, John; Bob has told you all, of course? A queer, strange, perplexing thing, isn’t it? I can’t make it out at all. There must be something wrong in the woman, or it couldn’t have happened. I haven’t been so upset for years.’
‘Nor have I. I wouldn’t it should have happened for all I own in the world,’ said the dragoon. ‘Have you spoke to Anne Garland to-day—or has anybody been talking to her?’
‘Festus Derriman rode by half-an-hour ago, and talked to her over the hedge.’
John guessed the rest, and, after standing on the threshold in silence awhile, walked away towards the camp.
All this time his brother Robert had been hastening along in pursuit of the woman who had withdrawn from the scene to avoid the exposure and complete overthrow which would have resulted had she remained. As the distance lengthened between himself and the mill, Bob was conscious of some cooling down of the excitement that had prompted him to set out; but he did not pause in his walk till he had reached the head of the river which fed the mill-stream. Here, for some indefinite reason, he allowed his eyes to be attracted by the bubbling spring whose waters never failed or lessened, and he stopped as if to look longer at the scene; it was really because his mind was so absorbed by John’s story.
The sun was warm, the spot was a pleasant one, and he deposited his bundle and sat down. By degrees, as he reflected, first on John’s view and then on his own, his convictions became unsettled; till at length he was so balanced between the impulse to go on and the impulse to go back, that a puff of wind either way would have been well-nigh sufficient to decide for him. When he allowed John’s story to repeat itself in his ears, the reasonableness and good sense of his advice seemed beyond question. When, on the other hand, he thought of his poor Matilda’s eyes, and her, to him, pleasant ways, their charming arrangements to marry, and her probable willingness still, he could hardly bring himself to do otherwise than follow on the road at the top of his speed.
This strife of thought was so well maintained that sitting and standing, he remained on the borders of the spring till the shadows had stretched out eastwards, and the chance of overtaking Matilda had grown considerably less. Still he did not positively go towards home. At last he took a guinea from his pocket, and resolved to put the question to the hazard. ‘Heads I go; tails I don’t.’ The piece of gold spun in the air and came down heads.
‘No, I won’t go, after all,’ he said. ‘I won’t be steered by accidents any more.’
He picked up his bundle and switch, and retraced his steps towards Overcombe Mill, knocking down the brambles and nettles as he went with gloomy and indifferent blows. When he got within sight of the house he beheld David in the road.
‘All right—all right again, captain!’, shouted that retainer. ‘A wedding after all! Hurrah!’
‘Ah—she’s back again?’ cried Bob, seizing David, ecstatically, and dancing round with him.
‘No—but it’s all the same! it is of no consequence at all, and no harm will be done! Maister and Mrs. Garland have made up a match, and mean to marry at once, that the wedding victuals may not be wasted! They felt ’twould be a thousand pities to let such good things get blue-vinnied for want of a ceremony to use ’em upon, and at last they have thought of this.’
‘Victuals—I don’t care for the victuals!’ bitterly cried Bob, in a tone of far higher thought. ‘How you disappoint me!’ and he went slowly towards the house.
His father appeared in the opening of the mill-door, looking more cheerful than when they had parted. ‘What, Robert, you’ve been after her?’ he said. ‘Faith, then, I wouldn’t have followed her if I had been as sure as you were that she went away in scorn of us. Since you told me that, I have not looked for her at all.’
‘I was wrong, father,’ Bob replied gravely, throwing down his bundle and stick. ‘Matilda, I find, has not gone away in scorn of us; she has gone away for other reasons. I followed her some way; but I have come back again. She may go.’
‘Why is she gone?’ said the astonished miller.
Bob had intended, for Matilda’s sake, to give no reason to a living soul for her departure. But he could not treat his father thus reservedly; and he told.
‘She has made great fools of us,’ said the miller deliberately; ‘and she might have made us greater ones. Bob, I thought th’ hadst more sense.’
‘Well, don’t say anything against her, father,’ implored Bob. ‘’Twas a sorry haul, and there’s an end on’t. Let her down quietly, and keep the secret. You promise that?’
‘I do.’ Loveday the elder remained thinking awhile, and then went on—‘Well, what I was going to say is this: I’ve hit upon a plan to get out of the awkward corner she has put us in. What you’ll think of it I can’t say.’
‘David has just given me the heads.’
‘And do it hurt your feelings, my son, at such a time?’
‘No—I’ll bring myself to bear it, anyhow! Why should I object to other people’s happiness because I have lost my own?’ said Bob, with saintly self-sacrifice in his air.
‘Well said!’ answered the miller heartily. ‘But you may be sure that there will be no unseemly rejoicing, to disturb ye in your present frame of mind. All the morning I felt more ashamed than I cared to own at the thought of how the neighbours, great and small, would laugh at what they would call your folly, when they knew what had happened; so I resolved to take this step to stave it off, if so be ’twas possible. And when I saw Mrs. Garland I knew I had done right. She pitied me so much for having had the house cleaned in vain, and laid in provisions to waste, that it put her into the humour to agree. We mean to do it right off at once, afore the pies and cakes get mouldy and the blackpot stale. ’Twas a good thought of mine and hers, and I am glad ’tis settled,’ he concluded cheerfully.
‘Poor Matilda!’ murmured Bob.
‘There—I was afraid ’twould hurt thy feelings,’ said the miller, with self-reproach: ‘making preparations for thy wedding, and using them for my own!’
‘No,’ said Bob heroically; ‘it shall not. It will be a great comfort in my sorrow to feel that the splendid grub, and the ale, and your stunning new suit of clothes, and the great table-cloths you’ve bought, will be just as useful now as if I had married myself. Poor Matilda! But you won’t expect me to join in—you hardly can. I can sheer off that day very easily, you know.’
‘Nonsense, Bob!’ said the miller reproachfully.
‘I couldn’t stand it—I should break down.’
‘Deuce take me if I would have asked her, then, if I had known ’twas going to drive thee out of the house! Now, come, Bob, I’ll find a way of arranging it and sobering it down, so that it shall be as melancholy as you can require—in short, just like a funeral, if thou’lt promise to stay?’
‘Very well,’ said the afflicted one. ‘On that condition I’ll stay.’
Having entered into this solemn compact with his son, the elder Loveday’s next action was to go to Mrs. Garland, and ask her how the toning down of the wedding had best be done. ‘It is plain enough that to make merry just now would be slighting Bob’s feelings, as if we didn’t care who was not married, so long as we were,’ he said. ‘But then, what’s to be done about the victuals?’
‘Give a dinner to the poor folk,’ she suggested. ‘We can get everything used up that way.’
‘That’s true’ said the miller. ‘There’s enough of ’em in these times to carry off any extras whatsoever.’
‘And it will save Bob’s feelings wonderfully. And they won’t know that the dinner was got for another sort of wedding and another sort of guests; so you’ll have their good-will for nothing.’
The miller smiled at the subtlety of the view. ‘That can hardly be called fair,’ he said. ‘Still, I did mean some of it for them, for the friends we meant to ask would not have cleared all.’
Upon the whole the idea pleased him well, particularly when he noticed the forlorn look of his sailor son as he walked about the place, and pictured the inevitably jarring effect of fiddles and tambourines upon Bob’s shattered nerves at such a crisis, even if the notes of the former were dulled by the application of a mute, and Bob shut up in a distant bedroom—a plan which had at first occurred to him. He therefore told Bob that the surcharged larder was to be emptied by the charitable process above alluded to, and hoped he would not mind making himself useful in such a good and gloomy work. Bob readily fell in with the scheme, and it was at once put in hand and the tables spread.
The alacrity with which the substituted wedding was carried out, seemed to show that the worthy pair of neighbours would have joined themselves into one long ago, had there previously occurred any domestic incident dictating such a step as an apposite expedient, apart from their personal wish to marry.
The appointed morning came, and the service quietly took place at the cheerful hour of ten, in the face of a triangular congregation, of which the base was the front pew, and the apex the west door. Mrs. Garland dressed herself in the muslin shawl like Queen Charlotte’s, that Bob had brought home, and her best plum-coloured gown, beneath which peeped out her shoes with red rosettes. Anne was present, but she considerately toned herself down, so as not to too seriously damage her mother’s appearance. At moments during the ceremony she had a distressing sense that she ought not to be born, and was glad to get home again.
The interest excited in the village, though real, was hardly enough to bring a serious blush to the face of coyness. Neighbours’ minds had become so saturated by the abundance of showy military and regal incident lately vouchsafed to them, that the wedding of middle-aged civilians was of small account, excepting in so far that it solved the question whether or not Mrs. Garland would consider herself too genteel to mate with a grinder of corn.
In the evening, Loveday’s heart was made glad by seeing the baked and boiled in rapid process of consumption by the kitchenful of people assembled for that purpose. Three-quarters of an hour were sufficient to banish for ever his fears as to spoilt food. The provisions being the cause of the assembly, and not its consequence, it had been determined to get all that would not keep consumed on that day, even if highways and hedges had to be searched for operators. And, in addition to the poor and needy, every cottager’s daughter known to the miller was invited, and told to bring her lover from camp—an expedient which, for letting daylight into the inside of full platters, was among the most happy ever known.
While Mr. and Mrs. Loveday, Anne, and Bob were standing in the parlour, discussing the progress of the entertainment in the next room, John, who had not been down all day, entered the house and looked in upon them through the open door.
‘How’s this, John? Why didn’t you come before?’
‘Had to see the captain, and—other duties,’ said the trumpet-major, in a tone which showed no great zeal for explanations.
‘Well, come in, however,’ continued the miller, as his son remained with his hand on the door-post, surveying them reflectively.
‘I cannot stay long,’ said John, advancing. ‘The Route is come, and we are going away.’
‘Going away! Where to?’
‘To Exonbury.’
‘When?’
‘Friday morning.’
‘All of you?’
‘Yes; some to-morrow and some next day. The King goes next week.’
‘I am sorry for this,’ said the miller, not expressing half his sorrow by the simple utterance. ‘I wish you could have been here to-day, since this is the case,’ he added, looking at the horizon through the window.
Mrs. Loveday also expressed her regret, which seemed to remind the trumpet-major of the event of the day, and he went to her and tried to say something befitting the occasion. Anne had not said that she was either sorry or glad, but John Loveday fancied that she had looked rather relieved than otherwise when she heard his news. His conversation with Bob on the down made Bob’s manner, too, remarkably cool, notwithstanding that he had after all followed his brother’s advice, which it was as yet too soon after the event for him to rightly value. John did not know why the sailor had come back, never supposing that it was because he had thought better of going, and said to him privately, ‘You didn’t overtake her?’
‘I didn’t try to,’ said Bob.
‘And you are not going to?’
‘No; I shall let her drift.’
‘I am glad indeed, Bob; you have been wise,’ said John heartily.
Bob, however, still loved Matilda too well to be other than dissatisfied with John and the event that he had precipitated, which the elder brother only too promptly perceived; and it made his stay that evening of short duration. Before leaving he said with some hesitation to his father, including Anne and her mother by his glance, ‘Do you think to come up and see us off?’
The miller answered for them all, and said that of course they would come. ‘But you’ll step down again between now and then?’ he inquired.
‘I’ll try to.’ He added after a pause, ‘In case I should not, remember that Revalley will sound at half past five; we shall leave about eight. Next summer, perhaps, we shall come and camp here again.’
‘I hope so,’ said his father and Mrs. Loveday.
There was something in John’s manner which indicated to Anne that he scarcely intended to come down again; but the others did not notice it, and she said nothing. He departed a few minutes later, in the dusk of the August evening, leaving Anne still in doubt as to the meaning of his private meeting with Miss Johnson.
John Loveday had been going to tell them that on the last night, by an especial privilege, it would be in his power to come and stay with them until eleven o’clock, but at the moment of leaving he abandoned the intention. Anne’s attitude had chilled him, and made him anxious to be off. He utilized the spare hours of that last night in another way.
This was by coming down from the outskirts of the camp in the evening, and seating himself near the brink of the mill-pond as soon as it was quite dark; where he watched the lights in the different windows till one appeared in Anne’s bedroom, and she herself came forward to shut the casement, with the candle in her hand. The light shone out upon the broad and deep mill-head, illuminating to a distinct individuality every moth and gnat that entered the quivering chain of radiance stretching across the water towards him, and every bubble or atom of froth that floated into its width. She stood for some time looking out, little thinking what the darkness concealed on the other side of that wide stream; till at length she closed the casement, drew the curtains, and retreated into the room. Presently the light went out, upon which John Loveday returned to camp and lay down in his tent.
The next morning was dull and windy, and the trumpets of the --th sounded Reveille for the last time on Overcombe Down. Knowing that the Dragoons were going away, Anne had slept heedfully, and was at once awakened by the smart notes. She looked out of the window, to find that the miller was already astir, his white form being visible at the end of his garden, where he stood motionless, watching the preparations. Anne also looked on as well as she could through the dim grey gloom, and soon she saw the blue smoke from the cooks’ fires creeping fitfully along the ground, instead of rising in vertical columns, as it had done during the fine weather season. Then the men began to carry their bedding to the waggons, and others to throw all refuse into the trenches, till the down was lively as an ant-hill. Anne did not want to see John Loveday again, but hearing the household astir, she began to dress at leisure, looking out at the camp the while.
When the soldiers had breakfasted, she saw them selling and giving away their superfluous crockery to the natives who had clustered round; and then they pulled down and cleared away the temporary kitchens which they had constructed when they came. A tapping of tent-pegs and wriggling of picket-posts followed, and soon the cones of white canvas, now almost become a component part of the landscape, fell to the ground. At this moment the miller came indoors and asked at the foot of the stairs if anybody was going up the hill with him.
Anne felt that, in spite of the cloud hanging over John in her mind, it would ill become the present moment not to see him off, and she went downstairs to her mother, who was already there, though Bob was nowhere to be seen. Each took an arm of the miller, and thus climbed to the top of the hill. By this time the men and horses were at the place of assembly, and, shortly after the mill-party reached level ground, the troops slowly began to move forward. When the trumpet-major, half buried in his uniform, arms, and horse-furniture, drew near to the spot where the Lovedays were waiting to see him pass, his father turned anxiously to Anne and said, ‘You will shake hands with John?’
Anne faintly replied ‘Yes,’ and allowed the miller to take her forward on his arm to the trackway, so as to be close to the flank of the approaching column. It came up, many people on each side grasping the hands of the troopers in bidding them farewell; and as soon as John Loveday saw the members of his father’s household, he stretched down his hand across his right pistol for the same performance. The miller gave his, then Mrs. Loveday gave hers, and then the hand of the trumpet-major was extended towards Anne. But as the horse did not absolutely stop, it was a somewhat awkward performance for a young woman to undertake, and, more on that account than on any other, Anne drew back, and the gallant trooper passed by without receiving her adieu. Anne’s heart reproached her for a moment; and then she thought that, after all, he was not going off to immediate battle, and that she would in all probability see him again at no distant date, when she hoped that the mystery of his conduct would be explained. Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice at her elbow: ‘Thank heaven, he’s gone! Now there’s a chance for me.’
She turned, and Festus Derriman was standing by her.
‘There’s no chance for you,’ she said indignantly.
‘Why not?’
‘Because there’s another left!’
The words had slipped out quite unintentionally, and she blushed quickly. She would have given anything to be able to recall them; but he had heard, and said, ‘Who?’
Anne went forward to the miller to avoid replying, and Festus caught her no more.
‘Has anybody been hanging about Overcombe Mill except Loveday’s son the soldier?’ he asked of a comrade.
‘His son the sailor,’ was the reply.
‘O—his son the sailor,’ said Festus slowly. ‘Damn his son the sailor!’
At this particular moment the object of Festus Derriman’s fulmination was assuredly not dangerous as a rival. Bob, after abstractedly watching the soldiers from the front of the house till they were out of sight, had gone within doors and seated himself in the mill-parlour, where his father found him, his elbows resting on the table and his forehead on his hands, his eyes being fixed upon a document that lay open before him.
‘What art perusing, Bob, with such a long face?’
Bob sighed, and then Mrs. Loveday and Anne entered. ‘’Tis only a state-paper that I fondly thought I should have a use for,’ he said gloomily. And, looking down as before, he cleared his voice, as if moved inwardly to go on, and began to read in feeling tones from what proved to be his nullified marriage licence:—
‘“Timothy Titus Philemon, by permission Bishop of Bristol: To our well-beloved Robert Loveday, of the parish of Overcombe, Bachelor; and Matilda Johnson, of the same parish, Spinster. Greeting.”’
Here Anne sighed, but contrived to keep down her sigh to a mere nothing.
‘Beautiful language, isn’t it!’ said Bob. ‘I was never greeted like that afore!’
‘Yes; I have often thought it very excellent language myself,’ said Mrs. Loveday.
‘Come to that, the old gentleman will greet thee like it again any day for a couple of guineas,’ said the miller.
‘That’s not the point, father! You never could see the real meaning of these things. . . . Well, then he goes on: “Whereas ye are, as it is alleged, determined to enter into the holy estate of matrimony—” But why should I read on? It all means nothing now—nothing, and the splendid words are all wasted upon air. It seems as if I had been hailed by some venerable hoary prophet, and had turned away, put the helm hard up, and wouldn’t hear.’
Nobody replied, feeling probably that sympathy could not meet the case, and Bob went on reading the rest of it to himself, occasionally heaving a breath like the wind in a ship’s shrouds.
‘I wouldn’t set my mind so much upon her, if I was thee,’ said his father at last.
‘Why not?’
‘Well, folk might call thee a fool, and say thy brains were turning to water.’
Bob was apparently much struck by this thought, and, instead of continuing the discourse further, he carefully folded up the licence, went out, and walked up and down the garden. It was startlingly apt what his father had said; and, worse than that, what people would call him might be true, and the liquefaction of his brains turn out to be no fable. By degrees he became much concerned, and the more he examined himself by this new light the more clearly did he perceive that he was in a very bad way.
On reflection he remembered that since Miss Johnson’s departure his appetite had decreased amazingly. He had eaten in meat no more than fourteen or fifteen ounces a day, but one-third of a quartern pudding on an average, in vegetables only a small heap of potatoes and half a York cabbage, and no gravy whatever; which, considering the usual appetite of a seaman for fresh food at the end of a long voyage, was no small index of the depression of his mind. Then he had waked once every night, and on one occasion twice. While dressing each morning since the gloomy day he had not whistled more than seven bars of a hornpipe without stopping and falling into thought of a most painful kind; and he had told none but absolutely true stories of foreign parts to the neighbouring villagers when they saluted and clustered about him, as usual, for anything he chose to pour forth—except that story of the whale whose eye was about as large as the round pond in Derriman’s ewe-lease—which was like tempting fate to set a seal for ever upon his tongue as a traveller. All this enervation, mental and physical, had been produced by Matilda’s departure.
He also considered what he had lost of the rational amusements of manhood during these unfortunate days. He might have gone to the neighbouring fashionable resort every afternoon, stood before Gloucester Lodge till the King and Queen came out, held his hat in his hand, and enjoyed their Majesties’ smiles at his homage all for nothing—watched the picket-mounting, heard the different bands strike up, observed the staff; and, above all, have seen the pretty town girls go trip-trip-trip along the esplanade, deliberately fixing their innocent eyes on the distant sea, the grey cliffs, and the sky, and accidentally on the soldiers and himself.
‘I’ll raze out her image,’ he said. ‘She shall make a fool of me no more.’ And his resolve resulted in conduct which had elements of real greatness.
He went back to his father, whom he found in the mill-loft. ‘’Tis true, father, what you say,’ he observed: ‘my brains will turn to bilge-water if I think of her much longer. By the oath of a—navigator, I wish I could sigh less and laugh more! She’s gone—why can’t I let her go, and be happy? But how begin?’
‘Take it careless, my son,’ said the miller, ‘and lay yourself out to enjoy snacks and cordials.’
‘Ah—that’s a thought!’ said Bob.
‘Baccy is good for’t. So is sperrits. Though I don’t advise thee to drink neat.’
‘Baccy—I’d almost forgot it!’ said Captain Loveday.
He went to his room, hastily untied the package of tobacco that he had brought home, and began to make use of it in his own way, calling to David for a bottle of the old household mead that had lain in the cellar these eleven years. He was discovered by his father three-quarters of an hour later as a half-invisible object behind a cloud of smoke.
The miller drew a breath of relief. ‘Why, Bob,’ he said, ‘I thought the house was a-fire!’
‘I’m smoking rather fast to drown my reflections, father. ’Tis no use to chaw.’
To tempt his attenuated appetite the unhappy mate made David cook an omelet and bake a seed-cake, the latter so richly compounded that it opened to the knife like a freckled buttercup. With the same object he stuck night-lines into the banks of the mill-pond, and drew up next morning a family of fat eels, some of which were skinned and prepared for his breakfast. They were his favourite fish, but such had been his condition that, until the moment of making this effort, he had quite forgotten their existence at his father’s back-door.
In a few days Bob Loveday had considerably improved in tone and vigour. One other obvious remedy for his dejection was to indulge in the society of Miss Garland, love being so much more effectually got rid of by displacement than by attempted annihilation. But Loveday’s belief that he had offended her beyond forgiveness, and his ever-present sense of her as a woman who by education and antecedents was fitted to adorn a higher sphere than his own, effectually kept him from going near her for a long time, notwithstanding that they were inmates of one house. The reserve was, however, in some degree broken by the appearance one morning, later in the season, of the point of a saw through the partition which divided Anne’s room from the Loveday half of the house. Though she dined and supped with her mother and the Loveday family, Miss Garland had still continued to occupy her old apartments, because she found it more convenient there to pursue her hobbies of wool-work and of copying her father’s old pictures. The division wall had not as yet been broken down.
As the saw worked its way downwards under her astonished gaze Anne jumped up from her drawing; and presently the temporary canvasing and papering which had sealed up the old door of communication was cut completely through. The door burst open, and Bob stood revealed on the other side, with the saw in his hand.
‘I beg your ladyship’s pardon,’ he said, taking off the hat he had been working in, as his handsome face expanded into a smile. ‘I didn’t know this door opened into your private room.’
‘Indeed, Captain Loveday!’
‘I am pulling down the division on principle, as we are now one family. But I really thought the door opened into your passage.’
‘It don’t matter; I can get another room.’
‘Not at all. Father wouldn’t let me turn you out. I’ll close it up again.’
But Anne was so interested in the novelty of a new doorway that she walked through it, and found herself in a dark low passage which she had never seen before.
‘It leads to the mill,’ said Bob. ‘Would you like to go in and see it at work? But perhaps you have already.’
‘Only into the ground floor.’
‘Come all over it. I am practising as grinder, you know, to help my father.’
She followed him along the dark passage, in the side of which he opened a little trap, when she saw a great slimy cavern, where the long arms of the mill-wheel flung themselves slowly and distractedly round, and splashing water-drops caught the little light that strayed into the gloomy place, turning it into stars and flashes. A cold mist-laden puff of air came into their faces, and the roar from within made it necessary for Anne to shout as she said, ‘It is dismal! let us go on.’
Bob shut the trap, the roar ceased, and they went on to the inner part of the mill, where the air was warm and nutty, and pervaded by a fog of flour. Then they ascended the stairs, and saw the stones lumbering round and round, and the yellow corn running down through the hopper. They climbed yet further to the top stage, where the wheat lay in bins, and where long rays like feelers stretched in from the sun through the little window, got nearly lost among cobwebs and timber, and completed their course by marking the opposite wall with a glowing patch of gold.
In his earnestness as an exhibitor Bob opened the bolter, which was spinning rapidly round, the result being that a dense cloud of flour rolled out in their faces, reminding Anne that her complexion was probably much paler by this time than when she had entered the mill. She thanked her companion for his trouble, and said she would now go down. He followed her with the same deference as hitherto, and with a sudden and increasing sense that of all cures for his former unhappy passion this would have been the nicest, the easiest, and the most effectual, if he had only been fortunate enough to keep her upon easy terms. But Miss Garland showed no disposition to go further than accept his services as a guide; she descended to the open air, shook the flour from her like a bird, and went on into the garden amid the September sunshine, whose rays lay level across the blue haze which the earth gave forth. The gnats were dancing up and down in airy companies, the nasturtium flowers shone out in groups from the dark hedge over which they climbed, and the mellow smell of the decline of summer was exhaled by everything. Bob followed her as far as the gate, looked after her, thought of her as the same girl who had half encouraged him years ago, when she seemed so superior to him; though now they were almost equal she apparently thought him beneath her. It was with a new sense of pleasure that his mind flew to the fact that she was now an inmate of his father’s house.
His obsequious bearing was continued during the next week. In the busy hours of the day they seldom met, but they regularly encountered each other at meals, and these cheerful occasions began to have an interest for him quite irrespective of dishes and cups. When Anne entered and took her seat she was always loudly hailed by Miller Loveday as he whetted his knife; but from Bob she condescended to accept no such familiar greeting, and they often sat down together as if each had a blind eye in the direction of the other. Bob sometimes told serious and correct stories about sea-captains, pilots, boatswains, mates, able seamen, and other curious fauna of the marine world; but these were directly addressed to his father and Mrs. Loveday, Anne being included at the clinching-point by a glance only. He sometimes opened bottles of sweet cider for her, and then she thanked him; but even this did not lead to her encouraging his chat.
One day when Anne was paring an apple she was left at table with the young man. ‘I have made something for you,’ he said.
She looked all over the table; nothing was there save the ordinary remnants.
‘O I don’t mean that it is here; it is out by the bridge at the mill-head.’
He arose, and Anne followed with curiosity in her eyes, and with her firm little mouth pouted up to a puzzled shape. On reaching the mossy mill-head she found that he had fixed in the keen damp draught which always prevailed over the wheel an Æolian harp of large size. At present the strings were partly covered with a cloth. He lifted it, and the wires began to emit a weird harmony which mingled curiously with the plashing of the wheel.
‘I made it on purpose for you, Miss Garland,’ he said.
She thanked him very warmly, for she had never seen anything like such an instrument before, and it interested her. ‘It was very thoughtful of you to make it,’ she added. ‘How came you to think of such a thing?’
‘O I don’t know exactly,’ he replied, as if he did not care to be questioned on the point. ‘I have never made one in my life till now.’
Every night after this, during the mournful gales of autumn, the strange mixed music of water, wind, and strings met her ear, swelling and sinking with an almost supernatural cadence. The character of the instrument was far enough removed from anything she had hitherto seen of Bob’s hobbies; so that she marvelled pleasantly at the new depths of poetry this contrivance revealed as existent in that young seaman’s nature, and allowed her emotions to flow out yet a little further in the old direction, notwithstanding her late severe resolve to bar them back.
One breezy night, when the mill was kept going into the small hours, and the wind was exactly in the direction of the water-current, the music so mingled with her dreams as to wake her: it seemed to rhythmically set itself to the words, ‘Remember me! think of me!’ She was much impressed; the sounds were almost too touching; and she spoke to Bob the next morning on the subject.
‘How strange it is that you should have thought of fixing that harp where the water gushes!’ she gently observed. ‘It affects me almost painfully at night. You are poetical, Captain Bob. But it is too—too sad!’
‘I will take it away,’ said Captain Bob promptly. ‘It certainly is too sad; I thought so myself. I myself was kept awake by it one night.’
‘How came you to think of making such a peculiar thing?’
‘Well,’ said Bob, ‘it is hardly worth saying why. It is not a good place for such a queer noisy machine; and I’ll take it away.’
‘On second thoughts,’ said Anne, ‘I should like it to remain a little longer, because it sets me thinking.’