Having entered into this solemn compact with his son, the elder Loveday's
next action was to go to Mrs. Garland, and ask her how the toning down of
the wedding had best be done. 'It is plain enough that to make merry
just now would be slighting Bob's feelings, as if we didn't care who was
not married, so long as we were,' he said. 'But then, what's to be done
about the victuals?'
'Give a dinner to the poor folk,' she suggested. 'We can get everything
used up that way.'
'That's true' said the miller. 'There's enough of 'em in these times to
carry off any extras whatsoever.'
'And it will save Bob's feelings wonderfully. And they won't know that
the dinner was got for another sort of wedding and another sort of
guests; so you'll have their good-will for nothing.'
The miller smiled at the subtlety of the view. 'That can hardly be
called fair,' he said. 'Still, I did mean some of it for them, for the
friends we meant to ask would not have cleared all.'
Upon the whole the idea pleased him well, particularly when he noticed
the forlorn look of his sailor son as he walked about the place, and
pictured the inevitably jarring effect of fiddles and tambourines upon
Bob's shattered nerves at such a crisis, even if the notes of the former
were dulled by the application of a mute, and Bob shut up in a distant
bedroom--a plan which had at first occurred to him. He therefore told
Bob that the surcharged larder was to be emptied by the charitable
process above alluded to, and hoped he would not mind making himself
useful in such a good and gloomy work. Bob readily fell in with the
scheme, and it was at once put in hand and the tables spread.
The alacrity with which the substituted wedding was carried out, seemed
to show that the worthy pair of neighbours would have joined themselves
into one long ago, had there previously occurred any domestic incident
dictating such a step as an apposite expedient, apart from their personal
wish to marry.
The appointed morning came, and the service quietly took place at the
cheerful hour of ten, in the face of a triangular congregation, of which
the base was the front pew, and the apex the west door. Mrs. Garland
dressed herself in the muslin shawl like Queen Charlotte's, that Bob had
brought home, and her best plum-coloured gown, beneath which peeped out
her shoes with red rosettes. Anne was present, but she considerately
toned herself down, so as not to too seriously damage her mother's
appearance. At moments during the ceremony she had a distressing sense
that she ought not to be born, and was glad to get home again.
The interest excited in the village, though real, was hardly enough to
bring a serious blush to the face of coyness. Neighbours' minds had
become so saturated by the abundance of showy military and regal incident
lately vouchsafed to them, that the wedding of middle-aged civilians was
of small account, excepting in so far that it solved the question whether
or not Mrs. Garland would consider herself too genteel to mate with a
grinder of corn.
In the evening, Loveday's heart was made glad by seeing the baked and
boiled in rapid process of consumption by the kitchenful of people
assembled for that purpose. Three-quarters of an hour were sufficient to
banish for ever his fears as to spoilt food. The provisions being the
cause of the assembly, and not its consequence, it had been determined to
get all that would not keep consumed on that day, even if highways and
hedges had to be searched for operators. And, in addition to the poor
and needy, every cottager's daughter known to the miller was invited, and
told to bring her lover from camp--an expedient which, for letting
daylight into the inside of full platters, was among the most happy ever
known.
While Mr. and Mrs. Loveday, Anne, and Bob were standing in the parlour,
discussing the progress of the entertainment in the next room, John, who
had not been down all day, entered the house and looked in upon them
through 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 a
tone which showed no great zeal for explanations.
'Well, come in, however,' continued the miller, as his son remained with
his hand on the door-post, surveying them reflectively.
'I cannot stay long,' said John, advancing. 'The Route is come, and we
are 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 by
the simple utterance. 'I wish you could have been here to-day, since
this is the case,' he added, looking at the horizon through the window.
Mrs. Loveday also expressed her regret, which seemed to remind the
trumpet-major of the event of the day, and he went to her and tried to
say something befitting the occasion. Anne had not said that she was
either sorry or glad, but John Loveday fancied that she had looked rather
relieved than otherwise when she heard his news. His conversation with
Bob on the down made Bob's manner, too, remarkably cool, notwithstanding
that he had after all followed his brother's advice, which it was as yet
too soon after the event for him to rightly value. John did not know why
the sailor had come back, never supposing that it was because he had
thought better of going, and said to him privately, 'You didn't overtake
her?'
'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 dissatisfied
with John and the event that he had precipitated, which the elder brother
only too promptly perceived; and it made his stay that evening of short
duration. Before leaving he said with some hesitation to his father,
including Anne and her mother by his glance, 'Do you think to come up and
see us off?'
The miller answered for them all, and said that of course they would
come. '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, remember
that 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 he
scarcely 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 of
the August evening, leaving Anne still in doubt as to the meaning of his
private meeting with Miss Johnson.
John Loveday had been going to tell them that on the last night, by an
especial privilege, it would be in his power to come and stay with them
until eleven o'clock, but at the moment of leaving he abandoned the
intention. Anne's attitude had chilled him, and made him anxious to be
off. 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 was
quite dark; where he watched the lights in the different windows till one
appeared in Anne's bedroom, and she herself came forward to shut the
casement, with the candle in her hand. The light shone out upon the
broad and deep mill-head, illuminating to a distinct individuality every
moth and gnat that entered the quivering chain of radiance stretching
across the water towards him, and every bubble or atom of froth that
floated into its width. She stood for some time looking out, little
thinking what the darkness concealed on the other side of that wide
stream; till at length she closed the casement, drew the curtains, and
retreated into the room. Presently the light went out, upon which John
Loveday returned to camp and lay down in his tent.
The next morning was dull and windy, and the trumpets of the --th sounded
Reveille for the last time on Overcombe Down. Knowing that the Dragoons
were going away, Anne had slept heedfully, and was at once awakened by
the smart notes. She looked out of the window, to find that the miller
was already astir, his white form being visible at the end of his garden,
where he stood motionless, watching the preparations. Anne also looked
on as well as she could through the dim grey gloom, and soon she saw the
blue smoke from the cooks' fires creeping fitfully along the ground,
instead of rising in vertical columns, as it had done during the fine
weather season. Then the men began to carry their bedding to the
waggons, and others to throw all refuse into the trenches, till the down
was 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, looking
out at the camp the while.
When the soldiers had breakfasted, she saw them selling and giving away
their superfluous crockery to the natives who had clustered round; and
then they pulled down and cleared away the temporary kitchens which they
had constructed when they came. A tapping of tent-pegs and wriggling of
picket-posts followed, and soon the cones of white canvas, now almost
become a component part of the landscape, fell to the ground. At this
moment the miller came indoors and asked at the foot of the stairs if
anybody was going up the hill with him.
Anne felt that, in spite of the cloud hanging over John in her mind, it
would ill become the present moment not to see him off, and she went
downstairs to her mother, who was already there, though Bob was nowhere
to be seen. Each took an arm of the miller, and thus climbed to the top
of the hill. By this time the men and horses were at the place of
assembly, and, shortly after the mill-party reached level ground, the
troops slowly began to move forward. When the trumpet-major, half buried
in his uniform, arms, and horse-furniture, drew near to the spot where
the Lovedays were waiting to see him pass, his father turned anxiously to
Anne and said, 'You will shake hands with John?'
Anne faintly replied 'Yes,' and allowed the miller to take her forward on
his arm to the trackway, so as to be close to the flank of the
approaching column. It came up, many people on each side grasping the
hands of the troopers in bidding them farewell; and as soon as John
Loveday saw the members of his father's household, he stretched down his
hand across his right pistol for the same performance. The miller gave
his, then Mrs. Loveday gave hers, and then the hand of the trumpet-major
was extended towards Anne. But as the horse did not absolutely stop, it
was a somewhat awkward performance for a young woman to undertake, and,
more on that account than on any other, Anne drew back, and the gallant
trooper passed by without receiving her adieu. Anne's heart reproached
her for a moment; and then she thought that, after all, he was not going
off to immediate battle, and that she would in all probability see him
again at no distant date, when she hoped that the mystery of his conduct
would be explained. Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice at her
elbow: '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 had
heard, and said, 'Who?'
Anne went forward to the miller to avoid replying, and Festus caught her
no more.
'Has anybody been hanging about Overcombe Mill except Loveday's son the
soldier?' 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!'