XVIII. THE NIGHT AFTER THE ARRIVAL
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.
