XL. A CALL ON BUSINESS
Her suspense was interrupted by a very gentle tapping at the door, andthen the rustle of a hand over its surface, as if searching for the latchin the dark. The door opened a few inches, and the alabaster face ofUncle Benjy appeared in the slit.
'O, Squire Derriman, you frighten me!'
'All alone?' he asked in a whisper.
'My mother and Mr. Loveday are somewhere about the house.'
'That will do,' he said, coming forward. 'I be wherrited out of my life,and I have thought of you again--you yourself, dear Anne, and not themiller. If you will only take this and lock it up for a few days till Ican find another good place for it--if you only would!' And hebreathlessly deposited the tin box on the table.
'What, obliged to dig it up from the cellar?'
'Ay; my nephew hath a scent of the place--how, I don't know! but he and ayoung woman he's met with are searching everywhere. I worked like a wire-drawer to get it up and away while they were scraping in the next cellar.Now where could ye put it, dear? 'Tis only a few documents, and my will,and such like, you know. Poor soul o' me, I'm worn out with running andfright!'
'I'll put it here till I can think of a better place,' said Anne, liftingthe box. 'Dear me, how heavy it is!'
'Yes, yes,' said Uncle Benjy hastily; 'the box is iron, you see. However,take care of it, because I am going to make it worth your while. Ah, youare a good girl, Anne. I wish you was mine!'
Anne looked at Uncle Benjy. She had known for some time that shepossessed all the affection he had to bestow.
'Why do you wish that?' she said simply.
'Now don't ye argue with me. Where d'ye put the coffer?'
'Here,' said Anne, going to the window-seat, which rose as a flap,disclosing a boxed receptacle beneath, as in many old houses.
''Tis very well for the present,' he said dubiously, and they dropped thecoffer in, Anne locking down the seat, and giving him the key. 'Now Idon't want ye to be on my side for nothing,' he went on. 'I never didnow, did I? This is for you.' He handed her a little packet of paper,which Anne turned over and looked at curiously. 'I always meant to doit,' continued Uncle Benjy, gazing at the packet as it lay in her hand,and sighing. 'Come, open it, my dear; I always meant to do it!'
She opened it and found twenty new guineas snugly packed within.
'Yes, they are for you. I always meant to do it!' he said, sighingagain.
'But you owe me nothing!' returned Anne, holding them out.
'Don't say it!' cried Uncle Benjy, covering his eyes. 'Put 'em away. . . .Well, if you _don't_ want 'em--But put 'em away, dear Anne; they arefor you, because you have kept my counsel. Good-night t'ye. Yes, theyare for you.'
He went a few steps, and turning back added anxiously, 'You won't spend'em in clothes, or waste 'em in fairings, or ornaments of any kind, mydear girl?'
'I will not,' said Anne. 'I wish you would have them.'
'No, no,' said Uncle Benjy, rushing off to escape their shine. But hehad got no further than the passage when he returned again.
'And you won't lend 'em to anybody, or put 'em into the bank--for no bankis safe in these troublous times?. . . If I was you I'd keep them_exactly_ as they be, and not spend 'em on any account. Shall I lockthem into my box for ye?'
'Certainly,' said she; and the farmer rapidly unlocked the window-bench,opened the box, and locked them in.
''Tis much the best plan,' he said with great satisfaction as he returnedthe keys to his pocket. 'There they will always be safe, you see, andyou won't be exposed to temptation.'
When the old man had been gone a few minutes, the miller and his wifecame in, quite unconscious of all that had passed. Anne's anxiety aboutBob was again uppermost now, and she spoke but meagrely of old Derriman'svisit, and nothing of what he had left. She would fain have asked themif they knew where Bob was, but that she did not wish to inform them ofthe rupture. She was forced to admit to herself that she had somewhattried his patience, and that impulsive men had been known to do darkthings with themselves at such times.
They sat down to supper, the clock ticked rapidly on, and at length themiller said, 'Bob is later than usual. Where can he be?'
As they both looked at her, she could no longer keep the secret.
'It is my fault,' she cried; 'I have driven him away! What shall I do?'
The nature of the quarrel was at once guessed, and her two elders said nomore. Anne rose and went to the front door, where she listened for everysound with a palpitating heart. Then she went in; then she went out: andon one occasion she heard the miller say, 'I wonder what hath passedbetween Bob and Anne. I hope the chap will come home.'
Just about this time light footsteps were heard without, and Bob bouncedinto the passage. Anne, who stood back in the dark while he passed,followed him into the room, where her mother and the miller were on thepoint of retiring to bed, candle in hand.
'I have kept ye up, I fear,' began Bob cheerily, and apparently withoutthe faintest recollection of his tragic exit from the house. 'But thetruth on't is, I met with Fess Derriman at the "Duke of York" as I wentfrom here, and there we have been playing Put ever since, not noticinghow the time was going. I haven't had a good chat with the fellow foryears and years, and really he is an out and out good comrade--a regularhearty! Poor fellow, he's been very badly used. I never heard therights of the story till now; but it seems that old uncle of his treatshim shamefully. He has been hiding away his money, so that poor Fessmight not have a farthing, till at last the young man has turned, likeany other worm, and is now determined to ferret out what he has done withit. The poor young chap hadn't a farthing of ready money till I lent hima couple of guineas--a thing I never did more willingly in my life. Butthe man was very honourable. "No; no," says he, "don't let me depriveye." He's going to marry, and what may you think he is going to do itfor?'
'For love, I hope,' said Anne's mother.
'For money, I suppose, since he's so short,' said the miller.
'No,' said Bob, 'for _spite_. He has been badly served--deuced badlyserved--by a woman. I never heard of a more heartless case in my life.The poor chap wouldn't mention names, but it seems this young woman hastrifled with him in all manner of cruel ways--pushed him into the river,tried to steal his horse when he was called out to defend his country--inshort, served him rascally. So I gave him the two guineas and said, "Nowlet's drink to the hussy's downfall!"'
'O!' said Anne, having approached behind him.
Bob turned and saw her, and at the same moment Mr. and Mrs. Lovedaydiscreetly retired by the other door.
'Is it peace?' he asked tenderly.
'O yes,' she anxiously replied. 'I--didn't mean to make you think I hadno heart.' At this Bob inclined his countenance towards hers. 'No,' shesaid, smiling through two incipient tears as she drew back. 'You are toshow good behaviour for six months, and you must promise not to frightenme again by running off when I--show you how badly you have served me.'
'I am yours obedient--in anything,' cried Bob. 'But am I pardoned?'
Youth is foolish; and does a woman often let her reasoning in favour ofthe worthier stand in the way of her perverse desire for the less worthyat such times as these? She murmured some soft words, ending with 'Doyou repent?'
It would be superfluous to transcribe Bob's answer.
Footsteps were heard without.
'O begad; I forgot!' said Bob. 'He's waiting out there for a light.'
'Who?'
'My friend Derriman.'
'But, Bob, I have to explain.'
But Festus had by this time entered the lobby, and Anne, with a hasty'Get rid of him at once!' vanished upstairs.
Here she waited and waited, but Festus did not seem inclined to depart;and at last, foreboding some collision of interests from Bob's newfriendship for this man, she crept into a storeroom which was over theapartment into which Loveday and Festus had gone. By looking through aknot-hole in the floor i
t was easy to command a view of the room beneath,this being unceiled, with moulded beams and rafters.
Festus had sat down on the hollow window-bench, and was continuing thestatement of his wrongs. 'If he only knew what he was sitting upon,' shethought apprehensively, 'how easily he could tear up the flap, lock andall, with his strong arm, and seize upon poor Uncle Benjy's possessions!'But he did not appear to know, unless he were acting, which was justpossible. After a while he rose, and going to the table lifted thecandle to light his pipe. At the moment when the flame began diving intothe bowl the door noiselessly opened and a figure slipped across the roomto the window-bench, hastily unlocked it, withdrew the box, and beat aretreat. Anne in a moment recognized the ghostly intruder as FestusDerriman's uncle. Before he could get out of the room Festus set downthe candle and turned.
'What--Uncle Benjy--haw, haw! Here at this time of night?'
Uncle Benjy's eyes grew paralyzed, and his mouth opened and shut like afrog's in a drought, the action producing no sound.
'What have we got here--a tin box--the box of boxes? Why, I'll carry itfor 'ee, uncle!--I am going home.'
'N-no-no, thanky, Festus: it is n-n-not heavy at all, thanky,' gasped thesquireen.
'O but I must,' said Festus, pulling at the box.
'Don't let him have it, Bob!' screamed the excited Anne through the holein the floor.
'No, don't let him!' cried the uncle. ''Tis a plot--there's a woman atthe window waiting to help him!'
Anne's eyes flew to the window, and she saw Matilda's face pressedagainst the pane.
Bob, though he did not know whence Anne's command proceeded obeyed withalacrity, pulled the box from the two relatives, and placed it on thetable beside him.
'Now, look here, hearties; what's the meaning o' this?' he said.
'He's trying to rob me of all I possess!' cried the old man. 'My heart-strings seem as if they were going crack, crack, crack!'
At this instant the miller in his shirt-sleeves entered the room, havinggot thus far in his undressing when he heard the noise. Bob and Festusturned to him to explain; and when the latter had had his say Bob added,'Well, all I know is that this box'--here he stretched out his hand tolay it upon the lid for emphasis. But as nothing but thin air met hisfingers where the box had been, he turned, and found that the box wasgone, Uncle Benjy having vanished also.
Festus, with an imprecation, hastened to the door, but though the nightwas not dark Farmer Derriman and his burden were nowhere to be seen. Onthe bridge Festus joined a shadowy female form, and they went along theroad together, followed for some distance by Bob, lest they should meetwith and harm the old man. But the precaution was unnecessary: nowhereon the road was there any sign of Farmer Derriman, or of the box thatbelonged to him. When Bob re-entered the house Anne and Mrs. Loveday hadjoined the miller downstairs, and then for the first time he learnt whohad been the heroine of Festus's lamentable story, with many otherparticulars of that yeoman's history which he had never before known. Bobswore that he would not speak to the traitor again, and the familyretired.
The escape of old Mr. Derriman from the annoyances of his nephew not onlyheld good for that night, but for next day, and for ever. Just afterdawn on the following morning a labouring man, who was going to his work,saw the old farmer and landowner leaning over a rail in a mead near hishouse, apparently engaged in contemplating the water of a brook beforehim. Drawing near, the man spoke, but Uncle Benjy did not reply. Hishead was hanging strangely, his body being supported in its erectposition entirely by the rail that passed under each arm. Onafter-examination it was found that Uncle Benjy's poor withered heart hadcracked and stopped its beating from damages inflicted on it by theexcitements of his life, and of the previous night in particular. Theunconscious carcass was little more than a light empty husk, dry andfleshless as that of a dead heron found on a moor in January.
But the tin box was not discovered with or near him. It was searched forall the week, and all the month. The mill-pond was dragged, quarrieswere examined, woods were threaded, rewards were offered; but in vain.
At length one day in the spring, when the mill-house was about to becleaned throughout, the chimney-board of Anne's bedroom, concealing ayawning fire-place, had to be taken down. In the chasm behind it stoodthe missing deed-box of Farmer Derriman.
Many were the conjectures as to how it had got there. Then Anneremembered that on going to bed on the night of the collision betweenFestus and his uncle in the room below, she had seen mud on the carpet ofher room, and the miller remembered that he had seen footprints on theback staircase. The solution of the mystery seemed to be that the lateUncle Benjy, instead of running off from the house with his box, haddoubled on getting out of the front door, entered at the back, depositedhis box in Anne's chamber where it was found, and then leisurely pursuedhis way home at the heels of Festus, intending to tell Anne of his trickthe next day--an intention that was for ever frustrated by the stroke ofdeath.
Mr. Derriman's solicitor was a Casterbridge man, and Anne placed the boxin his hands. Uncle Benjy's will was discovered within; and by thistestament Anne's queer old friend appointed her sole executrix of hissaid will, and, more than that, gave and bequeathed to the same younglady all his real and personal estate, with the solitary exception offive small freehold houses in a back street in Budmouth, which weredevised to his nephew Festus, as a sufficient property to maintain himdecently, without affording any margin for extravagances. Oxwell Hall,with its muddy quadrangle, archways, mullioned windows, crackedbattlements, and weed-grown garden, passed with the rest into the handsof Anne.