XXI. 'UPON THE HILL HE TURNED'
Having entered into this solemn compact with his son, the elder Loveday'snext action was to go to Mrs. Garland, and ask her how the toning down ofthe wedding had best be done. 'It is plain enough that to make merryjust now would be slighting Bob's feelings, as if we didn't care who wasnot married, so long as we were,' he said. 'But then, what's to be doneabout the victuals?'
'Give a dinner to the poor folk,' she suggested. 'We can get everythingused up that way.'
'That's true' said the miller. 'There's enough of 'em in these times tocarry off any extras whatsoever.'
'And it will save Bob's feelings wonderfully. And they won't know thatthe dinner was got for another sort of wedding and another sort ofguests; so you'll have their good-will for nothing.'
The miller smiled at the subtlety of the view. 'That can hardly becalled fair,' he said. 'Still, I did mean some of it for them, for thefriends we meant to ask would not have cleared all.'
Upon the whole the idea pleased him well, particularly when he noticedthe forlorn look of his sailor son as he walked about the place, andpictured the inevitably jarring effect of fiddles and tambourines uponBob's shattered nerves at such a crisis, even if the notes of the formerwere dulled by the application of a mute, and Bob shut up in a distantbedroom--a plan which had at first occurred to him. He therefore toldBob that the surcharged larder was to be emptied by the charitableprocess above alluded to, and hoped he would not mind making himselfuseful in such a good and gloomy work. Bob readily fell in with thescheme, and it was at once put in hand and the tables spread.
The alacrity with which the substituted wedding was carried out, seemedto show that the worthy pair of neighbours would have joined themselvesinto one long ago, had there previously occurred any domestic incidentdictating such a step as an apposite expedient, apart from their personalwish to marry.
The appointed morning came, and the service quietly took place at thecheerful hour of ten, in the face of a triangular congregation, of whichthe base was the front pew, and the apex the west door. Mrs. Garlanddressed herself in the muslin shawl like Queen Charlotte's, that Bob hadbrought home, and her best plum-coloured gown, beneath which peeped outher shoes with red rosettes. Anne was present, but she consideratelytoned herself down, so as not to too seriously damage her mother'sappearance. At moments during the ceremony she had a distressing sensethat she ought not to be born, and was glad to get home again.
The interest excited in the village, though real, was hardly enough tobring a serious blush to the face of coyness. Neighbours' minds hadbecome so saturated by the abundance of showy military and regal incidentlately vouchsafed to them, that the wedding of middle-aged civilians wasof small account, excepting in so far that it solved the question whetheror not Mrs. Garland would consider herself too genteel to mate with agrinder of corn.
In the evening, Loveday's heart was made glad by seeing the baked andboiled in rapid process of consumption by the kitchenful of peopleassembled for that purpose. Three-quarters of an hour were sufficient tobanish for ever his fears as to spoilt food. The provisions being thecause of the assembly, and not its consequence, it had been determined toget all that would not keep consumed on that day, even if highways andhedges had to be searched for operators. And, in addition to the poorand needy, every cottager's daughter known to the miller was invited, andtold to bring her lover from camp--an expedient which, for lettingdaylight into the inside of full platters, was among the most happy everknown.
While Mr. and Mrs. Loveday, Anne, and Bob were standing in the parlour,discussing the progress of the entertainment in the next room, John, whohad not been down all day, entered the house and looked in upon themthrough 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 atone which showed no great zeal for explanations.
'Well, come in, however,' continued the miller, as his son remained withhis hand on the door-post, surveying them reflectively.
'I cannot stay long,' said John, advancing. 'The Route is come, and weare 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 bythe simple utterance. 'I wish you could have been here to-day, sincethis is the case,' he added, looking at the horizon through the window.
Mrs. Loveday also expressed her regret, which seemed to remind thetrumpet-major of the event of the day, and he went to her and tried tosay something befitting the occasion. Anne had not said that she waseither sorry or glad, but John Loveday fancied that she had looked ratherrelieved than otherwise when she heard his news. His conversation withBob on the down made Bob's manner, too, remarkably cool, notwithstandingthat he had after all followed his brother's advice, which it was as yettoo soon after the event for him to rightly value. John did not know whythe sailor had come back, never supposing that it was because he hadthought better of going, and said to him privately, 'You didn't overtakeher?'
'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 dissatisfiedwith John and the event that he had precipitated, which the elder brotheronly too promptly perceived; and it made his stay that evening of shortduration. Before leaving he said with some hesitation to his father,including Anne and her mother by his glance, 'Do you think to come up andsee us off?'
The miller answered for them all, and said that of course they wouldcome. '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, rememberthat 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 hescarcely 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 ofthe August evening, leaving Anne still in doubt as to the meaning of hisprivate meeting with Miss Johnson.
John Loveday had been going to tell them that on the last night, by anespecial privilege, it would be in his power to come and stay with themuntil eleven o'clock, but at the moment of leaving he abandoned theintention. Anne's attitude had chilled him, and made him anxious to beoff. 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 wasquite dark; where he watched the lights in the different windows till oneappeared in Anne's bedroom, and she herself came forward to shut thecasement, with the candle in her hand. The light shone out upon thebroad and deep mill-head, illuminating to a distinct individuality everymoth and gnat that entered the quivering chain of radiance stretchingacross the water towards him, and every bubble or atom of froth thatfloated into its width. She stood for some time looking out, littlethinking what the darkness concealed on the other side of that widestream; till at length she closed the casement, drew the curtains, andretreated into the room. Presently the light went out, upon which JohnLoveday returned to camp and lay down in his tent.
The next morning was dull and windy, and the trumpets of the --th soundedReveille for the last time on Overcombe Down. Knowing that the Dragoonswere going away, Anne had slept heedfully, and was at once awakened bythe smart notes. She looked out of the window, to find that the millerwas already astir, his white form being visible at the end of his garden,where he stood motionless, watching the preparations. Ann
e also lookedon as well as she could through the dim grey gloom, and soon she saw theblue smoke from the cooks' fires creeping fitfully along the ground,instead of rising in vertical columns, as it had done during the fineweather season. Then the men began to carry their bedding to thewaggons, and others to throw all refuse into the trenches, till the downwas 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, lookingout at the camp the while.
When the soldiers had breakfasted, she saw them selling and giving awaytheir superfluous crockery to the natives who had clustered round; andthen they pulled down and cleared away the temporary kitchens which theyhad constructed when they came. A tapping of tent-pegs and wriggling ofpicket-posts followed, and soon the cones of white canvas, now almostbecome a component part of the landscape, fell to the ground. At thismoment the miller came indoors and asked at the foot of the stairs ifanybody was going up the hill with him.
Anne felt that, in spite of the cloud hanging over John in her mind, itwould ill become the present moment not to see him off, and she wentdownstairs to her mother, who was already there, though Bob was nowhereto be seen. Each took an arm of the miller, and thus climbed to the topof the hill. By this time the men and horses were at the place ofassembly, and, shortly after the mill-party reached level ground, thetroops slowly began to move forward. When the trumpet-major, half buriedin his uniform, arms, and horse-furniture, drew near to the spot wherethe Lovedays were waiting to see him pass, his father turned anxiously toAnne and said, 'You will shake hands with John?'
Anne faintly replied 'Yes,' and allowed the miller to take her forward onhis arm to the trackway, so as to be close to the flank of theapproaching column. It came up, many people on each side grasping thehands of the troopers in bidding them farewell; and as soon as JohnLoveday saw the members of his father's household, he stretched down hishand across his right pistol for the same performance. The miller gavehis, then Mrs. Loveday gave hers, and then the hand of the trumpet-majorwas extended towards Anne. But as the horse did not absolutely stop, itwas a somewhat awkward performance for a young woman to undertake, and,more on that account than on any other, Anne drew back, and the gallanttrooper passed by without receiving her adieu. Anne's heart reproachedher for a moment; and then she thought that, after all, he was not goingoff to immediate battle, and that she would in all probability see himagain at no distant date, when she hoped that the mystery of his conductwould be explained. Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice at herelbow: '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 hadheard, and said, 'Who?'
Anne went forward to the miller to avoid replying, and Festus caught herno more.
'Has anybody been hanging about Overcombe Mill except Loveday's son thesoldier?' 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!'