The Trumpet-Major

  XXXVII. REACTION

  There was no letter from Bob, though December had passed, and the newyear was two weeks old. His movements were, however, pretty accuratelyregistered in the papers, which John still brought, but which Anne nolonger read. During the second week in December the Victory sailed forSheerness, and on the 9th of the following January the public funeral ofLord Nelson took place in St. Paul's.

  Then there came a meagre line addressed to the family in general. Bob'snew Portsmouth attachment was not mentioned, but he told them he had beenone of the eight-and-forty seamen who walked two-and-two in the funeralprocession, and that Captain Hardy had borne the banner of emblems on thesame occasion. The crew was soon to be paid off at Chatham, when hethought of returning to Portsmouth for a few days to see a valued friend.After that he should come home.

  But the spring advanced without bringing him, and John watched AnneGarland's desolation with augmenting desire to do something towardsconsoling her. The old feelings, so religiously held in check, werestimulated to rebelliousness, though they did not show themselves in anydirect manner as yet.

  The miller, in the meantime, who seldom interfered in such matters, wasobserved to look meaningly at Anne and the trumpet-major from day to day;and by-and-by he spoke privately to John.

  His words were short and to the point: Anne was very melancholy; she hadthought too much of Bob. Now 'twas plain that they had lost him for manyyears to come. Well; he had always felt that of the two he would ratherJohn married her. Now John might settle down there, and succeed whereBob had failed. 'So if you could get her, my sonny, to think less of himand more of thyself, it would be a good thing for all.'

  An inward excitement had risen in John; but he suppressed it and saidfirmly--

  'Fairness to Bob before everything!'

  'He hev forgot her, and there's an end on't.'

  'She's not forgot him.'

  'Well, well; think it over.'

  This discourse was the cause of his penning a letter to his brother. Hebegged for a distinct statement whether, as John at first supposed, Bob'sverbal renunciation of Anne on the quay had been only a momentaryebullition of friendship, which it would be cruel to take literally; orwhether, as seemed now, it had passed from a hasty resolve to a standingpurpose, persevered in for his own pleasure, with not a care for theresult on poor Anne.

  John waited anxiously for the answer, but no answer came; and the silenceseemed even more significant than a letter of assurance could have beenof his absolution from further support to a claim which Bob himself hadso clearly renounced. Thus it happened that paternal pressure, brotherlyindifference, and his own released impulse operated in one delightfuldirection, and the trumpet-major once more approached Anne as in the oldtime.

  But it was not till she had been left to herself for a full five months,and the blue-bells and ragged-robins of the following year were againmaking themselves common to the rambling eye, that he directly addressedher. She was tying up a group of tall flowering plants in the garden:she knew that he was behind her, but she did not turn. She had subsidedinto a placid dignity which enabled her when watched to perform anylittle action with seeming composure--very different from the flutter ofher inexperienced days.

  'Are you never going to turn round?' he at length asked good-humouredly.

  She then did turn, and looked at him for a moment without speaking; acertain suspicion looming in her eyes, as if suggested by his perceptiblewant of ease.

  'How like summer it is getting to feel, is it not?' she said.

  John admitted that it was getting to feel like summer: and, bending hisgaze upon her with an earnestness which no longer left any doubt of hissubject, went on to ask--

  'Have you ever in these last weeks thought of how it used to be betweenus?'

  She replied quickly, 'O, John, you shouldn't begin that again. I amalmost another woman now!'

  'Well, that's all the more reason why I should, isn't it?'

  Anne looked thoughtfully to the other end of the garden, faintly shakingher head; 'I don't quite see it like that,' she returned.

  'You feel yourself quite free, don't you?'

  '_Quite_ free!' she said instantly, and with proud distinctness; her eyesfell, and she repeated more slowly, 'Quite free.' Then her thoughtsseemed to fly from herself to him. 'But you are not?'

  'I am not?'

  'Miss Johnson!'

  'O--that woman! You know as well as I that was all make-up, and that Inever for a moment thought of her.'

  'I had an idea you were acting; but I wasn't sure.'

  'Well, that's nothing now. Anne, I want to relieve your life; to cheeryou in some way; to make some amends for my brother's bad conduct. Ifyou cannot love me, liking will be well enough. I have thought overevery side of it so many times--for months have I been thinking itover--and I am at last sure that I do right to put it to you in this way.That I don't wrong Bob I am quite convinced. As far as he is concernedwe be both free. Had I not been sure of that I would never have spoken.Father wants me to take on the mill, and it will please him if you cangive me one little hope; it will make the house go on altogether betterif you can think o' me.'

  'You are generous and good, John,' she said, as a big round tear bowledhelter-skelter down her face and hat-strings.

  'I am not that; I fear I am quite the opposite,' he said, without lookingat her. 'It would be all gain to me-- But you have not answered myquestion.'

  She lifted her eyes. 'John, I cannot!' she said, with a cheerless smile.'Positively I cannot. Will you make me a promise?'

  'What is it?'

  'I want you to promise first-- Yes, it is dreadfully unreasonable,' sheadded, in a mild distress. 'But do promise!'

  John by this time seemed to have a feeling that it was all up with himfor the present. 'I promise,' he said listlessly.

  'It is that you won't speak to me about this for _ever_ so long,' shereturned, with emphatic kindliness.

  'Very good,' he replied; 'very good. Dear Anne, you don't think I havebeen unmanly or unfair in starting this anew?'

  Anne looked into his face without a smile. 'You have been perfectlynatural,' she murmured. 'And so I think have I.'

  John, mournfully: 'You will not avoid me for this, or be afraid of me? Iwill not break my word. I will not worry you any more.'

  'Thank you, John. You need not have said worry; it isn't that.'

  'Well, I am very blind and stupid. I have been hurting your heart allthe time without knowing it. It is my fate, I suppose. Men who lovewomen the very best always blunder and give more pain than those who lovethem less.'

  Anne laid one of her hands on the other as she softly replied, lookingdown at them, 'No one loves me as well as you, John; nobody in the worldis so worthy to be loved; and yet I cannot anyhow love you rightly.' Andlifting her eyes, 'But I do so feel for you that I will try as hard as Ican to think about you.'

  'Well, that is something,' he said, smiling. 'You say I must not speakabout it again for ever so long; how long?'

  'Now that's not fair,' Anne retorted, going down the garden, and leavinghim alone.

  About a week passed. Then one afternoon the miller walked up to Anneindoors, a weighty topic being expressed in his tread.

  'I was so glad, my honey,' he began, with a knowing smile, 'to see thatfrom the mill-window last week.' He flung a nod in the direction of thegarden.

  Anne innocently inquired what it could be.

  'Jack and you in the garden together,' he continued laying his handgently on her shoulder and stroking it. 'It would so please me, my dearlittle girl, if you could get to like him better than that weathercock,Master Bob.'

  Anne shook her head; not in forcible negation, but to imply a kind ofneutrality.

  'Can't you? Come now,' said the miller.

  She threw back her head with a little laugh of grievance. 'How you allbeset me!' she expostulated. 'It makes me feel very wicked in notobeying you, and being faithful--f
aithful to--' But she could not trustthat side of the subject to words. 'Why would it please you so much?'she asked.

  'John is as steady and staunch a fellow as ever blowed a trumpet. I'vealways thought you might do better with him than with Bob. Now I've aplan for taking him into the mill, and letting him have a comfortabletime o't after his long knocking about; but so much depends upon you thatI must bide a bit till I see what your pleasure is about the poor fellow.Mind, my dear, I don't want to force ye; I only just ask ye.'

  Anne meditatively regarded the miller from under her shady eyelids, thefingers of one hand playing a silent tattoo on her bosom. 'I don't knowwhat to say to you,' she answered brusquely, and went away.

  But these discourses were not without their effect upon the extremelyconscientious mind of Anne. They were, moreover, much helped by anincident which took place one evening in the autumn of this year, whenJohn came to tea. Anne was sitting on a low stool in front of the fire,her hands clasped across her knee. John Loveday had just seated himselfon a chair close behind her, and Mrs. Loveday was in the act of fillingthe teapot from the kettle which hung in the chimney exactly above Anne.The kettle slipped forward suddenly, whereupon John jumped from the chairand put his own two hands over Anne's just in time to shield them, andthe precious knee she clasped, from the jet of scalding water which haddirected itself upon that point. The accidental overflow was instantlychecked by Mrs. Loveday; but what had come was received by the devotedtrumpet-major on the back of his hands.

  Anne, who had hardly been aware that he was behind her, started up like aperson awakened from a trance. 'What have you done to yourself, poorJohn, to keep it off me!' she cried, looking at his hands.

  John reddened emotionally at her words, 'It is a bit of a scald, that'sall,' he replied, drawing a finger across the back of one hand, andbringing off the skin by the touch.

  'You are scalded painfully, and I not at all!' She gazed into his kindface as she had never gazed there before, and when Mrs. Loveday came backwith oil and other liniments for the wound Anne would let nobody dress itbut herself. It seemed as if her coyness had all gone, and when she haddone all that lay in her power she still sat by him. At his departureshe said what she had never said to him in her life before: 'Come againsoon!'

  In short, that impulsive act of devotion, the last of a series of thesame tenor, had been the added drop which finally turned the wheel.John's character deeply impressed her. His determined steadfastness tohis lode star won her admiration, the more especially as that star washerself. She began to wonder more and more how she could have sopersistently held out against his advances before Bob came home to renewgirlish memories which had by that time got considerably weakened. Couldshe not, after all, please the miller, and try to listen to John? By sodoing she would make a worthy man happy, the only sacrifice being atworst that of her unworthy self, whose future was no longer valuable. 'Asfor Bob, the woman is to be pitied who loves him,' she reflectedindignantly, and persuaded herself that, whoever the woman might be, shewas not Anne Garland.

  After this there was something of recklessness and something ofpleasantry in the young girl's manner of making herself an example of thetriumph of pride and common sense over memory and sentiment. Herattitude had been epitomized in her defiant singing at the time shelearnt that Bob was not leal and true. John, as was inevitable, cameagain almost immediately, drawn thither by the sun of her first smile onhim, and the words which had accompanied it. And now instead of goingoff to her little pursuits upstairs, downstairs, across the room, in thecorner, or to any place except where he happened to be, as had been hercustom hitherto, she remained seated near him, returning interestinganswers to his general remarks, and at every opportunity letting him knowthat at last he had found favour in her eyes.

  The day was fine, and they went out of doors, where Anne endeavoured toseat herself on the sloping stone of the window-sill.

  'How good you have become lately,' said John, standing over her andsmiling in the sunlight which blazed against the wall. 'I fancy you havestayed at home this afternoon on my account.'

  'Perhaps I have,' she said gaily--

  '"Do whatever we may for him, dame, we cannot do too much! For he's one that has guarded our land."

  'And he has done more than that: he has saved me from a dreadfulscalding. The back of your hand will not be well for a long time, John,will it?'

  He held out his hand to regard its condition, and the next natural thingwas to take hers. There was a glow upon his face when he did it: hisstar was at last on a fair way towards the zenith after its long andweary declination. The least penetrating eye could have perceived thatAnne had resolved to let him woo, possibly in her temerity to let himwin. Whatever silent sorrow might be locked up in her, it was by thistime thrust a long way down from the light.

  'I want you to go somewhere with me if you will,' he said, still holdingher hand.

  'Yes? Where is it?'

  He pointed to a distant hill-side which, hitherto green, had within thelast few days begun to show scratches of white on its face. 'Up there,'he said.

  'I see little figures of men moving about. What are they doing?'

  'Cutting out a huge picture of the king on horseback in the earth of thehill. The king's head is to be as big as our mill-pond and his body asbig as this garden; he and the horse will cover more than an acre. Whenshall we go?'

  'Whenever you please,' said she.

  'John!' cried Mrs. Loveday from the front door. 'Here's a friend comefor you.'

  John went round, and found his trusty lieutenant, Trumpeter Buck, waitingfor him. A letter had come to the barracks for John in his absence, andthe trumpeter, who was going for a walk, had brought it along with him.Buck then entered the mill to discuss, if possible, a mug of last year'smead with the miller; and John proceeded to read his letter, Anne beingstill round the corner where he had left her. When he had read a fewwords he turned as pale as a sheet, but he did not move, and perused thewriting to the end.

  Afterwards he laid his elbow against the wall, and put his palm to hishead, thinking with painful intentness. Then he took himself vigorouslyin hand, as it were, and gradually became natural again. When he partedfrom Anne to go home with Buck she noticed nothing different in him.

  In barracks that evening he read the letter again. It was from Bob; andthe agitating contents were these:--

  'DEAR JOHN,--I have drifted off from writing till the present time because I have not been clear about my feelings; but I have discovered them at last, and can say beyond doubt that I mean to be faithful to my dearest Anne after all. The fact is, John, I've got into a bit of a scrape, and I've a secret to tell you about it (which must go no further on any account). On landing last autumn I fell in with a young woman, and we got rather warm as folks do; in short, we liked one another well enough for a while. But I have got into shoal water with her, and have found her to be a terrible take-in. Nothing in her at all--no sense, no niceness, all tantrums and empty noise, John, though she seemed monstrous clever at first. So my heart comes back to its old anchorage. I hope my return to faithfulness will make no difference to you. But as you showed by your looks at our parting that you should not accept my offer to give her up--made in too much haste, as I have since found--I feel that you won't mind that I have returned to the path of honour. I dare not write to Anne as yet, and please do not let her know a word about the other young woman, or there will be the devil to pay. I shall come home and make all things right, please God. In the meantime I should take it as a kindness, John, if you would keep a brotherly eye upon Anne, and guide her mind back to me. I shall die of sorrow if anybody sets her against me, for my hopes are getting bound up in her again quite strong. Hoping you are jovial, as times go, I am,--Your affectionate brother,

  ROBERT.'

  When the cold daylight fell upon John's face, as he dressed himself nextmorning, the incipient yesterday's wr
inkle in his forehead had becomepermanently graven there. He had resolved, for the sake of that onlybrother whom he had nursed as a baby, instructed as a child, andprotected and loved always, to pause in his procedure for the present,and at least do nothing to hinder Bob's restoration to favour, if agenuine, even though temporarily smothered, love for Anne should stillhold possession of him. But having arranged to take her to see theexcavated figure of the king, he started for Overcombe during the day, asif nothing had occurred to check the smooth course of his love.