Christmas had passed. Dreary winter with dark evenings had given place
to more dreary winter with light evenings. Rapid thaws had ended in
rain, rain in wind, wind in dust. Showery days had come--the season of
pink dawns and white sunsets; and people hoped that the March weather was
over.
The chief incident that concerned the household at the mill was that the
miller, following the example of all his neighbours, had become a
volunteer, and duly appeared twice a week in a red, long-tailed military
coat, pipe-clayed breeches, black cloth gaiters, a heel-balled helmet-
hat, with a tuft of green wool, and epaulettes of the same colour and
material. Bob still remained neutral. Not being able to decide whether
to enrol himself as a sea-fencible, a local militia-man, or a volunteer,
he simply went on dancing attendance upon Anne. Mrs. Loveday had become
awake to the fact that the pair of young people stood in a curious
attitude towards each other; but as they were never seen with their heads
together, and scarcely ever sat even in the same room, she could not be
sure what their movements meant.
Strangely enough (or perhaps naturally enough), since entering the
Loveday family herself, she had gradually grown to think less favourably
of Anne doing the same thing, and reverted to her original idea of
encouraging Festus; this more particularly because he had of late shown
such perseverance in haunting the precincts of the mill, presumably with
the intention of lighting upon the young girl. But the weather had kept
her mostly indoors.
One afternoon it was raining in torrents. Such leaves as there were on
trees at this time of year--those of the laurel and other
evergreens--staggered beneath the hard blows of the drops which fell upon
them, and afterwards could be seen trickling down the stems beneath and
silently entering the ground. The surface of the mill-pond leapt up in a
thousand spirts under the same downfall, and clucked like a hen in the
rat-holes along the banks as it undulated under the wind. The only dry
spot visible from the front windows of the mill-house was the inside of a
small shed, on the opposite side of the courtyard. While Mrs. Loveday
was noticing the threads of rain descending across its interior shade,
Festus Derriman walked up and entered it for shelter, which, owing to the
lumber within, it but scantily afforded to a man who would have been a
match for one of Frederick William's Patagonians.
It was an excellent opportunity for helping on her scheme. Anne was in
the back room, and by asking him in till the rain was over she would
bring him face to face with her daughter, whom, as the days went on, she
increasingly wished to marry other than a Loveday, now that the romance
of her own alliance with the millet had in some respects worn off. She
was better provided for than before; she was not unhappy; but the plain
fact was that she had married beneath her. She beckoned to Festus
through the window-pane; he instantly complied with her signal, having in
fact placed himself there on purpose to be noticed; for he knew that Miss
Garland would not be out-of-doors on such a day.
'Good afternoon, Mrs. Loveday,' said Festus on entering. 'There now--if
I didn't think that's how it would be!' His voice had suddenly warmed to
anger, for he had seen a door close in the back part of the room, a lithe
figure having previously slipped through.
Mrs. Loveday turned, observed that Anne was gone, and said, 'What is it?'
as if she did not know.
'O, nothing, nothing!' said Festus crossly. 'You know well enough what
it is, ma'am; only you make pretence otherwise. But I'll bring her to
book yet. You shall drop your haughty airs, my charmer! She little
thinks I have kept an account of 'em all.'
'But you must treat her politely, sir,' said Mrs. Loveday, secretly
pleased at these signs of uncontrollable affection.
'Don't tell me of politeness or generosity, ma'am! She is more than a
match for me. She regularly gets over me. I have passed by this house
five-and-fifty times since last Martinmas, and this is all my reward
for't!'
'But you will stay till the rain is over, sir?'
'No. I don't mind rain. I'm off again. She's got somebody else in her
eye!' And the yeoman went out, slamming the door.
Meanwhile the slippery object of his hopes had gone along the dark
passage, passed the trap which opened on the wheel, and through the door
into the mill, where she was met by Bob, who looked up from the flour-
shoot inquiringly and said, 'You want me, Miss Garland?'
'O no,' said she. 'I only want to be allowed to stand here a few
minutes.'
He looked at her to know if she meant it, and finding that she did,
returned to his post. When the mill had rumbled on a little longer he
came back.
'Bob,' she said, when she saw him move, 'remember that you are at work,
and have no time to stand close to me.'
He bowed and went to his original post again, Anne watching from the
window till Festus should leave. The mill rumbled on as before, and at
last Bob came to her for the third time. 'Now, Bob--' she began.
'On my honour, 'tis only to ask a question. Will you walk with me to
church next Sunday afternoon?'
'Perhaps I will,' she said. But at this moment the yeoman left the
house, and Anne, to escape further parley, returned to the dwelling by
the way she had come.
Sunday afternoon arrived, and the family was standing at the door waiting
for the church bells to begin. From that side of the house they could
see southward across a paddock to the rising ground further ahead, where
there grew a large elm-tree, beneath whose boughs footpaths crossed in
different directions, like meridians at the pole. The tree was old, and
in summer the grass beneath it was quite trodden away by the feet of the
many trysters and idlers who haunted the spot. The tree formed a
conspicuous object in the surrounding landscape.
While they looked, a foot soldier in red uniform and white breeches came
along one of the paths, and stopping beneath the elm, took from his
pocket a paper, which he proceeded to nail up by the four corners to the
trunk. He drew back, looked at it, and went on his way. Bob got his
glass from indoors and levelled it at the placard, but after looking for
a long time he could make out nothing but a lion and a unicorn at the
top. Anne, who was ready for church, moved away from the door, though it
was yet early, and showed her intention of going by way of the elm. The
paper had been so impressively nailed up that she was curious to read it
even at this theological time. Bob took the opportunity of following,
and reminded her of her promise.
'Then walk behind me not at all close,' she said.
'Yes,' he replied, immediately dropping behind.
The ludicrous humility of his manner led her to add playfully over her
shoulder, 'It serves you right, you know.'
'I deserve anything, but I must take the liberty to say that I hope my
behaviour about Matil--, in forgetting you awhile, will not make ye wish
to keep me _always_ behind?'
She replied confidentially, 'Why I am so earnest not to be seen with you
is that I may appear to people to be independent of you. Knowing what I
do of your weaknesses I can do no otherwise. You must be schooled into--'
'O, Anne,' sighed Bob, 'you hit me hard--too hard! If ever I do win you
I am sure I shall have fairly earned you.'
'You are not what you once seemed to be,' she returned softly. 'I don't
quite like to let myself love you.' The last words were not very
audible, and as Bob was behind he caught nothing of them, nor did he see
how sentimental she had become all of a sudden. They walked the rest of
the way in silence, and coming to the tree read as follows:--