The Trumpet-Major

  VI. OLD MR. DERRIMAN OF OXWELL HALL

  At this time in the history of Overcombe one solitary newspaperoccasionally found its way into the village. It was lent by thepostmaster at Budmouth (who, in some mysterious way, got it for nothingthrough his connexion with the mail) to Mr. Derriman at the Hall, by whomit was handed on to Mrs. Garland when it was not more than a fortnightold. Whoever remembers anything about the old farmer-squire will, ofcourse, know well enough that this delightful privilege of readinghistory in long columns was not accorded to the Widow Garland fornothing. It was by such ingenuous means that he paid her for herdaughter's occasional services in reading aloud to him and making out hisaccounts, in which matters the farmer, whose guineas were reported totouch five figures--some said more--was not expert.

  Mrs. Martha Garland, as a respectable widow, occupied a twilight rankbetween the benighted villagers and the well-informed gentry, and kindlymade herself useful to the former as letter-writer and reader, andgeneral translator from the printing tongue. It was not withoutsatisfaction that she stood at her door of an evening, newspaper in hand,with three or four cottagers standing round, and poured down their openthroats any paragraph that she might choose to select from the stirringones of the period. When she had done with the sheet Mrs. Garland passedit on to the miller, the miller to the grinder, and the grinder to thegrinder's boy, in whose hands it became subdivided into half pages,quarter pages, and irregular triangles, and ended its career as a papercap, a flagon bung, or a wrapper for his bread and cheese.

  Notwithstanding his compact with Mrs. Garland, old Mr. Derriman kept thepaper so long, and was so chary of wasting his man's time on a merelyintellectual errand, that unless she sent for the journal it seldomreached her hands. Anne was always her messenger. The arrival of thesoldiers led Mrs. Garland to despatch her daughter for it the day afterthe party; and away she went in her hat and pelisse, in a direction atright angles to that of the encampment on the hill.

  Walking across the fields for the distance of a mile or two, she came outupon the high-road by a wicket-gate. On the other side of the way wasthe entrance to what at first sight looked like a neglected meadow, thegate being a rotten one, without a bottom rail, and broken-down palingslying on each side. The dry hard mud of the opening was marked withseveral horse and cow tracks, that had been half obliterated by fiftyscore sheep tracks, surcharged with the tracks of a man and a dog. Beyondthis geological record appeared a carriage-road, nearly grown over withgrass, which Anne followed. It descended by a gentle slope, dived underdark-rinded elm and chestnut trees, and conducted her on till the hiss ofa waterfall and the sound of the sea became audible, when it took a bendround a swamp of fresh watercress and brooklime that had once been a fishpond. Here the grey, weather-worn front of a building edged from behindthe trees. It was Oxwell Hall, once the seat of a family now extinct,and of late years used as a farmhouse.

  Benjamin Derriman, who owned the crumbling place, had originally beenonly the occupier and tenant-farmer of the fields around. His wife hadbrought him a small fortune, and during the growth of their only sonthere had been a partition of the Oxwell estate, giving the farmer, now awidower, the opportunity of acquiring the building and a small portion ofthe land attached on exceptionally low terms. But two years after thepurchase the boy died, and Derriman's existence was paralyzed forthwith.It was said that since that event he had devised the house and fields toa distant female relative, to keep them out of the hands of his detestednephew; but this was not certainly known.

  The hall was as interesting as mansions in a state of declension usuallyare, as the excellent county history showed. That popular work in foliocontained an old plate dedicated to the last scion of the originalowners, from which drawing it appeared that in 1750, the date ofpublication, the windows were covered with little scratches like blackflashes of lightning; that a horn of hard smoke came out of each of thetwelve chimneys; that a lady and a lap-dog stood on the lawn in astrenuously walking position; and a substantial cloud and nine flyingbirds of no known species hung over the trees to the north-east.

  The rambling and neglected dwelling had all the romantic excellencies andpractical drawbacks which such mildewed places share in common withcaves, mountains, wildernesses, glens, and other homes of poesy thatpeople of taste wish to live and die in. Mustard and cress could havebeen raised on the inner plaster of the dewy walls at any height notexceeding three feet from the floor; and mushrooms of the most refinedand thin-stemmed kinds grew up through the chinks of the larder paving.As for the outside, Nature, in the ample time that had been given her,had so mingled her filings and effacements with the marks of human wearand tear upon the house, that it was often hard to say in which of thetwo or if in both, any particular obliteration had its origin. Thekeenness was gone from the mouldings of the doorways, but whether wornout by the rubbing past of innumerable people's shoulders, and the movingof their heavy furniture, or by Time in a grander and more abstract form,did not appear. The iron stanchions inside the window-panes were eatenaway to the size of wires at the bottom where they entered the stone, thecondensed breathings of generations having settled there in pools andrusted them. The panes themselves had either lost their shine altogetheror become iridescent as a peacock's tail. In the middle of the porch wasa vertical sun-dial, whose gnomon swayed loosely about when the windblew, and cast its shadow hither and thither, as much as to say, 'Here'syour fine model dial; here's any time for any man; I am an old dial; andshiftiness is the best policy.'

  Anne passed under the arched gateway which screened the main front; overit was the porter's lodge, reached by a spiral staircase. Across thearchway was fixed a row of wooden hurdles, one of which Anne opened andclosed behind her. Their necessity was apparent as soon as she gotinside. The quadrangle of the ancient pile was a bed of mud and manure,inhabited by calves, geese, ducks, and sow pigs surprisingly large, withyoung ones surprisingly small. In the groined porch some heifers wereamusing themselves by stretching up their necks and licking the carvedstone capitals that supported the vaulting. Anne went on to a second andopen door, across which was another hurdle to keep the live stock fromabsolute community with the inmates. There being no knocker, she knockedby means of a short stick which was laid against the post for thatpurpose; but nobody attending, she entered the passage, and tried aninner door.

  A slight noise was heard inside, the door opened about an inch, and astrip of decayed face, including the eye and some forehead wrinkles,appeared within the crevice.

  'Please I have come for the paper,' said Anne.

  'O, is it you, dear Anne?' whined the inmate, opening the door a littlefurther. 'I could hardly get to the door to open it, I am so weak.'

  The speaker was a wizened old gentleman, in a coat the colour of hisfarmyard, breeches of the same hue, unbuttoned at the knees, revealing abit of leg above his stocking and a dazzlingly white shirt-frill tocompensate for this untidiness below. The edge of his skull round hiseye-sockets was visible through the skin, and he had a mouth whosecorners made towards the back of his head on the slightest provocation.He walked with great apparent difficulty back into the room, Annefollowing him.

  'Well, you can have the paper if you want it; but you never give me muchtime to see what's in en! Here's the paper.' He held it out, but beforeshe could take it he drew it back again, saying, 'I have not had my shareo' the paper by a good deal, what with my weak sight, and people comingso soon for en. I am a poor put-upon soul; but my "Duty of Man" will beleft to me when the newspaper is gone.' And he sank into his chair withan air of exhaustion.

  Anne said that she did not wish to take the paper if he had not done withit, and that she was really later in the week than usual, owing to thesoldiers.

  'Soldiers, yes--rot the soldiers! And now hedges will be broke, andhens' nests robbed, and sucking-pigs stole, and I don't know what all.Who's to pay for't, sure? I reckon that because the soldiers be come youdon't mean to be kind enough to read to me what I ha
dn't time to readmyself.'

  She would read if he wished, she said; she was in no hurry. And sittingherself down she unfolded the paper.

  '"Dinner at Carlton House"?'

  'No, faith. 'Tis nothing to I.'

  '"Defence of the country"?'

  'Ye may read that if ye will. I hope there will be no billeting in thisparish, or any wild work of that sort; for what would a poor old lamigerlike myself do with soldiers in his house, and nothing to feed 'em with?'

  Anne began reading, and continued at her task nearly ten minutes, whenshe was interrupted by the appearance in the quadrangular slough withoutof a large figure in the uniform of the yeomanry cavalry.

  'What do you see out there?' said the farmer with a start, as she pausedand slowly blushed.

  'A soldier--one of the yeomanry,' said Anne, not quite at her ease.

  'Scrounch it all--'tis my nephew!' exclaimed the old man, his faceturning to a phosphoric pallor, and his body twitching with innumerablealarms as he formed upon his face a gasping smile of joy, with which towelcome the new-coming relative. 'Read on, prithee, Miss Garland.'

  Before she had read far the visitor straddled over the door-hurdle intothe passage and entered the room.

  'Well, nunc, how do you feel?' said the giant, shaking hands with thefarmer in the manner of one violently ringing a hand-bell. 'Glad to seeyou.'

  'Bad and weakish, Festus,' replied the other, his person respondingpassively to the rapid vibrations imparted. 'O, be tender, please--alittle softer, there's a dear nephew! My arm is no more than a cobweb.'

  'Ah, poor soul!'

  'Yes, I am not much more than a skeleton, and can't bear rough usage.'

  'Sorry to hear that; but I'll bear your affliction in mind. Why, you areall in a tremble, Uncle Benjy!'

  ''Tis because I am so gratified,' said the old man. 'I always get all ina tremble when I am taken by surprise by a beloved relation.'

  'Ah, that's it!' said the yeoman, bringing his hand down on the back ofhis uncle's chair with a loud smack, at which Uncle Benjy nervouslysprang three inches from his seat and dropped into it again. 'Ask yourpardon for frightening ye, uncle. 'Tis how we do in the army, and Iforgot your nerves. You have scarcely expected to see me, I dare say,but here I am.'

  'I am glad to see ye. You are not going to stay long, perhaps?'

  'Quite the contrary. I am going to stay ever so long!'

  'O I see! I am so glad, dear Festus. Ever so long, did ye say?'

  'Yes, _ever_ so long,' said the young gentleman, sitting on the slope ofthe bureau and stretching out his legs as props. 'I am going to makethis quite my own home whenever I am off duty, as long as we stay out.And after that, when the campaign is over in the autumn, I shall comehere, and live with you like your own son, and help manage your land andyour farm, you know, and make you a comfortable old man.'

  'Ah! How you do please me!' said the farmer, with a horrified smile, andgrasping the arms of his chair to sustain himself.

  'Yes; I have been meaning to come a long time, as I knew you'd like tohave me, Uncle Benjy; and 'tisn't in my heart to refuse you.'

  'You always was kind that way!'

  'Yes; I always was. But I ought to tell you at once, not to disappointyou, that I shan't be here always--all day, that is, because of mymilitary duties as a cavalry man.'

  'O, not always? That's a pity!' exclaimed the farmer with a cheerfuleye.

  'I knew you'd say so. And I shan't be able to sleep here at nightsometimes, for the same reason.'

  'Not sleep here o' nights?' said the old gentleman, still more relieved.'You ought to sleep here--you certainly ought; in short, you must. Butyou can't!'

  'Not while we are with the colours. But directly that's over--the verynext day--I'll stay here all day, and all night too, to oblige you, sinceyou ask me so very kindly.'

  'Th-thank ye, that will be very nice!' said Uncle Benjy.

  'Yes, I knew 'twould relieve ye.' And he kindly stroked his uncle'shead, the old man expressing his enjoyment at the affectionate token by adeath's-head grimace. 'I should have called to see you the other nightwhen I passed through here,' Festus continued; 'but it was so late that Icouldn't come so far out of my way. You won't think it unkind?'

  'Not at all, if you _couldn't_. I never shall think it unkind if youreally _can't_ come, you know, Festy.' There was a few minutes' pause,and as the nephew said nothing Uncle Benjy went on: 'I wish I had alittle present for ye. But as ill-luck would have it we have lost a dealof stock this year, and I have had to pay away so much.'

  'Poor old man--I know you have. Shall I lend you a seven-shilling piece,Uncle Benjy?'

  'Ha, ha!--you must have your joke; well, I'll think o' that. And so theyexpect Buonaparty to choose this very part of the coast for his landing,hey? And that the yeomanry be to stand in front as the forlorn hope?'

  'Who says so?' asked the florid son of Mars, losing a little redness.

  'The newspaper-man.'

  'O, there's nothing in that,' said Festus bravely. 'The gover'mentthought it possible at one time; but they don't know.'

  Festus turned himself as he talked, and now said abruptly: 'Ah, who'sthis? Why, 'tis our little Anne!' He had not noticed her till thismoment, the young woman having at his entry kept her face over thenewspaper, and then got away to the back part of the room. 'And are youand your mother always going to stay down there in the mill-housewatching the little fishes, Miss Anne?'

  She said that it was uncertain, in a tone of truthful precision which thequestion was hardly worth, looking forcedly at him as she spoke. But sheblushed fitfully, in her arms and hands as much as in her face. Not thatshe was overpowered by the great boots, formidable spurs, and otherfierce appliances of his person, as he imagined; simply she had not beenprepared to meet him there.

  'I hope you will, I am sure, for my own good,' said he, letting his eyeslinger on the round of her cheek.

  Anne became a little more dignified, and her look showed reserve. Butthe yeoman on perceiving this went on talking to her in so civil a waythat he irresistibly amused her, though she tried to conceal all feeling.At a brighter remark of his than usual her mouth moved, her upper lipplaying uncertainly over her white teeth; it would stay still--no, itwould withdraw a little way in a smile; then it would flutter down again;and so it wavered like a butterfly in a tender desire to be pleased andsmiling, and yet to be also sedate and composed; to show him that she didnot want compliments, and yet that she was not so cold as to wish torepress any genuine feeling he might be anxious to utter.

  'Shall you want any more reading, Mr. Derriman?' said she, interruptingthe younger man in his remarks. 'If not, I'll go homeward.'

  'Don't let me hinder you longer,' said Festus. 'I'm off in a minute ortwo, when your man has cleaned my boots.'

  'Ye don't hinder us, nephew. She must have the paper: 'tis the day forher to have 'n. She might read a little more, as I have had so littleprofit out o' en hitherto. Well, why don't ye speak? Will ye, or won'tye, my dear?'

  'Not to two,' she said.

  'Ho, ho! damn it, I must go then, I suppose,' said Festus, laughing; andunable to get a further glance from her he left the room and clanked intothe back yard, where he saw a man; holding up his hand he cried, 'AnthonyCripplestraw!'

  Cripplestraw came up in a trot, moved a lock of his hair and replaced it,and said, 'Yes, Maister Derriman.' He was old Mr. Derriman's odd hand inthe yard and garden, and like his employer had no great pretensions tomanly beauty, owing to a limpness of backbone and speciality of mouth,which opened on one side only, giving him a triangular smile.

  'Well, Cripplestraw, how is it to-day?' said Festus, withsocially-superior heartiness.

  'Middlin', considering, Maister Derriman. And how's yerself?'

  'Fairish. Well, now, see and clean these military boots of mine. I'llcock my foot up on this bench. This pigsty of my uncle's is not fit fora soldier to come into.'

  'Yes, Maister Derriman
, I will. No, 'tis not fit, Maister Derriman.'

  'What stock has uncle lost this year, Cripplestraw?'

  'Well, let's see, sir. I can call to mind that we've lost threechickens, a tom-pigeon, and a weakly sucking-pig, one of a fare of ten. Ican't think of no more, Maister Derriman.'

  'H'm, not a large quantity of cattle. The old rascal!'

  'No, 'tis not a large quantity. Old what did you say, sir?'

  'O nothing. He's within there.' Festus flung his forehead in thedirection of a right line towards the inner apartment. 'He's a regularsniche one.'

  'Hee, hee; fie, fie, Master Derriman!' said Cripplestraw, shaking hishead in delighted censure. 'Gentlefolks shouldn't talk so. And anofficer, Mr. Derriman! 'Tis the duty of all cavalry gentlemen to bear inmind that their blood is a knowed thing in the country, and not to speakill o't.'

  'He's close-fisted.'

  'Well, maister, he is--I own he is a little. 'Tis the nater of some oldvenerable gentlemen to be so. We'll hope he'll treat ye well in yerfortune, sir.'

  'Hope he will. Do people talk about me here, Cripplestraw?' asked theyeoman, as the other continued busy with his boots.

  'Well, yes, sir; they do off and on, you know. They says you be as finea piece of calvery flesh and bones as was ever growed on fallow-ground;in short, all owns that you be a fine fellow, sir. I wish I wasn't nomore afraid of the French than you be; but being in the Locals, MaisterDerriman, I assure ye I dream of having to defend my country every night;and I don't like the dream at all.'

  'You should take it careless, Cripplestraw, as I do; and 'twould sooncome natural to you not to mind it at all. Well, a fine fellow is noteverything, you know. O no. There's as good as I in the army, and evenbetter.'

  'And they say that when you fall this summer, you'll die like a man.'

  'When I fall?'

  'Yes, sure, Maister Derriman. Poor soul o' thee! I shan't forget 'ee asyou lie mouldering in yer soldier's grave.'

  'Hey?' said the warrior uneasily. 'What makes 'em think I am going tofall?'

  'Well, sir, by all accounts the yeomanry will be put in front.'

  'Front! That's what my uncle has been saying.'

  'Yes, and by all accounts 'tis true. And naterelly they'll be mowed downlike grass; and you among 'em, poor young galliant officer!'

  'Look here, Cripplestraw. This is a reg'lar foolish report. How canyeomanry be put in front? Nobody's put in front. We yeomanry havenothing to do with Buonaparte's landing. We shall be away in a safeplace, guarding the possessions and jewels. Now, can you see,Cripplestraw, any way at all that the yeomanry can be put in front? Doyou think they really can?'

  'Well, maister, I am afraid I do,' said the cheering Cripplestraw. 'AndI know a great warrior like you is only too glad o' the chance. 'Twillbe a great thing for ye, death and glory! In short, I hope from my heartyou will be, and I say so very often to folk--in fact, I pray at nightfor't.'

  'O! cuss you! you needn't pray about it.'

  'No, Maister Derriman, I won't.'

  'Of course my sword will do its duty. That's enough. And now be offwith ye.'

  Festus gloomily returned to his uncle's room and found that Anne was justleaving. He was inclined to follow her at once, but as she gave him noopportunity for doing this he went to the window, and remained tappinghis fingers against the shutter while she crossed the yard.

  'Well, nephy, you are not gone yet?' said the farmer, looking dubiouslyat Festus from under one eyelid. 'You see how I am. Not by any meansbetter, you see; so I can't entertain 'ee as well as I would.'

  'You can't, nunc, you can't. I don't think you are worse--if I do, dashmy wig. But you'll have plenty of opportunities to make me welcome whenyou are better. If you are not so brisk inwardly as you was, why not trychange of air? This is a dull, damp hole.'

  ''Tis, Festus; and I am thinking of moving.'

  'Ah, where to?' said Festus, with surprise and interest.

  'Up into the garret in the north corner. There is no fireplace in theroom; but I shan't want that, poor soul o' me.'

  ''Tis not moving far.'

  ''Tis not. But I have not a soul belonging to me within ten mile; andyou know very well that I couldn't afford to go to lodgings that I had topay for.'

  'I know it--I know it, Uncle Benjy! Well, don't be disturbed. I'll comeand manage for you as soon as ever this Boney alarm is over; but when aman's country calls he must obey, if he is a man.'

  'A splendid spirit!' said Uncle Benjy, with much admiration on thesurface of his countenance. 'I never had it. How could it have got intothe boy?'

  'From my mother's side, perhaps.'

  'Perhaps so. Well, take care of yourself, nephy,' said the farmer,waving his hand impressively. 'Take care! In these warlike times yourspirit may carry ye into the arms of the enemy; and you are the last ofthe family. You should think of this, and not let your bravery carry yeaway.'

  'Don't be disturbed, uncle; I'll control myself,' said Festus, betrayedinto self-complacency against his will. 'At least I'll do what I can,but nature will out sometimes. Well, I'm off.' He began humming'Brighton Camp,' and, promising to come again soon, retired withassurance, each yard of his retreat adding private joyousness to hisuncle's form.

  When the bulky young man had disappeared through the porter's lodge,Uncle Benjy showed preternatural activity for one in his invalid state,jumping up quickly without his stick, at the same time opening andshutting his mouth quite silently like a thirsty frog, which was his wayof expressing mirth. He ran upstairs as quick as an old squirrel, andwent to a dormer window which commanded a view of the grounds beyond thegate, and the footpath that stretched across them to the village.

  'Yes, yes!' he said in a suppressed scream, dancing up and down, 'he'safter her: she've hit en!' For there appeared upon the path the figureof Anne Garland, and, hastening on at some little distance behind her,the swaggering shape of Festus. She became conscious of his approach,and moved more quickly. He moved more quickly still, and overtook her.She turned as if in answer to a call from him, and he walked on besideher, till they were out of sight. The old man then played upon animaginary fiddle for about half a minute; and, suddenly discontinuingthese signs of pleasure, went downstairs again.