The remaining fortnight of the month of September passed away, with a
general decline from the summer's excitements. The royal family left the
watering-place the first week in October, the German Legion with their
artillery about the same time. The dragoons still remained at the
barracks just out of the town, and John Loveday brought to Anne every
newspaper that he could lay hands on, especially such as contained any
fragment of shipping news. This threw them much together; and at these
times John was often awkward and confused, on account of the unwonted
stress of concealing his great love for her.
Her interests had grandly developed from the limits of Overcombe and the
town life hard by, to an extensiveness truly European. During the whole
month of October, however, not a single grain of information reached her,
or anybody else, concerning Nelson and his blockading squadron off Cadiz.
There were the customary bad jokes about Buonaparte, especially when it
was found that the whole French army had turned its back upon Boulogne
and set out for the Rhine. Then came accounts of his march through
Germany and into Austria; but not a word about the Victory.
At the beginning of autumn John brought news which fearfully depressed
her. The Austrian General Mack had capitulated with his whole army. Then
were revived the old misgivings as to invasion. 'Instead of having to
cope with him weary with waiting, we shall have to encounter This Man
fresh from the fields of victory,' ran the newspaper article.
But the week which had led off with such a dreary piping was to end in
another key. On the very day when Mack's army was piling arms at the
feet of its conqueror, a blow had been struck by Bob Loveday and his
comrades which eternally shattered the enemy's force by sea. Four days
after the receipt of the Austrian news Corporal Tullidge ran into the
miller's house to inform him that on the previous Monday, at eleven in
the morning, the Pickle schooner, Lieutenant Lapenotiere, had arrived at
Falmouth with despatches from the fleet; that the stage-coaches on the
highway through Wessex to London were chalked with the words 'Great
Victory!' 'Glorious Triumph!' and so on; and that all the country people
were wild to know particulars.
On Friday afternoon John arrived with authentic news of the battle off
Cape Trafalgar, and the death of Nelson. Captain Hardy was alive, though
his escape had been narrow enough, his shoe-buckle having been carried
away by a shot. It was feared that the Victory had been the scene of the
heaviest slaughter among all the ships engaged, but as yet no returns of
killed and wounded had been issued, beyond a rough list of the numbers in
some of the ships.
The suspense of the little household in Overcombe Mill was great in the
extreme. John came thither daily for more than a week; but no further
particulars reached England till the end of that time, and then only the
meagre intelligence that there had been a gale immediately after the
battle, and that many of the prizes had been lost. Anne said little to
all these things, and preserved a superstratum of calmness on her
countenance; but some inner voice seemed to whisper to her that Bob was
no more. Miller Loveday drove to Pos'ham several times to learn if the
Captain's sisters had received any more definite tidings than these
flying reports; but that family had heard nothing which could in any way
relieve the miller's anxiety. When at last, at the end of November,
there appeared a final and revised list of killed and wounded as issued
by Admiral Collingwood, it was a useless sheet to the Lovedays. To their
great pain it contained no names but those of officers, the friends of
ordinary seamen and marines being in those good old days left to discover
their losses as best they might.
Anne's conviction of her loss increased with the darkening of the early
winter time. Bob was not a cautious man who would avoid needless
exposure, and a hundred and fifty of the Victory's crew had been disabled
or slain. Anybody who had looked into her room at this time would have
seen that her favourite reading was the office for the Burial of the Dead
at Sea, beginning 'We therefore commit his body to the deep.' In these
first days of December several of the victorious fleet came into port;
but not the Victory. Many supposed that that noble ship, disabled by the
battle, had gone to the bottom in the subsequent tempestuous weather; and
the belief was persevered in till it was told in the town and port that
she had been seen passing up the Channel. Two days later the Victory
arrived at Portsmouth.
Then letters from survivors began to appear in the public prints which
John so regularly brought to Anne; but though he watched the mails with
unceasing vigilance there was never a letter from Bob. It sometimes
crossed John's mind that his brother might still be alive and well, and
that in his wish to abide by his expressed intention of giving up Anne
and home life he was deliberately lax in writing. If so, Bob was
carrying out the idea too thoughtlessly by half, as could be seen by
watching the effects of suspense upon the fair face of the victim, and
the anxiety of the rest of the family.
It was a clear day in December. The first slight snow of the season had
been sifted over the earth, and one side of the apple-tree branches in
the miller's garden was touched with white, though a few leaves were
still lingering on the tops of the younger trees. A short sailor of the
Royal Navy, who was not Bob, nor anything like him, crossed the mill
court and came to the door. The miller hastened out and brought him into
the room, where John, Mrs. Loveday, and Anne Garland were all present.
'I'm from aboard the Victory,' said the sailor. 'My name's Jim Cornick.
And your lad is alive and well.'
They breathed rather than spoke their thankfulness and relief, the
miller's eyes being moist as he turned aside to calm himself; while Anne,
having first jumped up wildly from her seat, sank back again under the
almost insupportable joy that trembled through her limbs to her utmost
finger.
'I've come from Spithead to Pos'ham,' the sailor continued, 'and now I am
going on to father at Budmouth.'
'Ah!--I know your father,' cried the trumpet-major, 'old James Cornick.'
It was the man who had brought Anne in his lerret from Portland Bill.
'And Bob hasn't got a scratch?' said the miller.
'Not a scratch,' said Cornick.
Loveday then bustled off to draw the visitor something to drink. Anne
Garland, with a glowing blush on her face, had gone to the back part of
the room, where she was the very embodiment of sweet content as she
slightly swayed herself without speaking. A little tide of happiness
seemed to ebb and flow through her in listening to the sailor's words,
moving her figure with it. The seaman and John went on conversing.
'Bob had a good deal to do with barricading the hawse-holes afore we were
in action, and the Adm'l and Cap'n both were very much pleased at how
'twas done. When the Adm'l went up the quarter-deck ladder, Cap'n Hardy
said a word or two to Bob, but what it was I don't know, for I was
quartered at a gun some ways off. However, Bob saw the Adm'l stagger
when 'a was wownded, and was one of the men who carried him to the
cockpit. After that he and some other lads jumped aboard the French
ship, and I believe they was in her when she struck her flag. What 'a
did next I can't say, for the wind had dropped, and the smoke was like a
cloud. But 'a got a good deal talked about; and they say there's
promotion in store for'n.'
At this point in the story Jim Cornick stopped to drink, and a low
unconscious humming came from Anne in her distant corner; the faint
melody continued more or less when the conversation between the sailor
and the Lovedays was renewed.
'We heard afore that the Victory was near knocked to pieces,' said the
miller.
'Knocked to pieces? You'd say so if so be you could see her! Gad, her
sides be battered like an old penny piece; the shot be still sticking in
her wales, and her sails be like so many clap-nets: we have run all the
way home under jury topmasts; and as for her decks, you may swab wi' hot
water, and you may swab wi' cold, but there's the blood-stains, and there
they'll bide. . . . The Cap'n had a narrow escape, like many o' the
rest--a shot shaved his ankle like a razor. You should have seen that
man's face in the het o' battle, his features were as if they'd been cast
in steel.'
'We rather expected a letter from Bob before this.'
'Well,' said Jim Cornick, with a smile of toleration, 'you must make
allowances. The truth o't is, he's engaged just now at Portsmouth, like
a good many of the rest from our ship. . . . 'Tis a very nice young
woman that he's a courting of, and I make no doubt that she'll be an
excellent wife for him.'
'Ah!' said Mrs. Loveday, in a warning tone.
'Courting--wife?' said the miller.
They instinctively looked towards Anne. Anne had started as if shaken by
an invisible hand, and a thick mist of doubt seemed to obscure the
intelligence of her eyes. This was but for two or three moments. Very
pale, she arose and went right up to the seaman. John gently tried to
intercept her, but she passed him by.
'Do you speak of Robert Loveday as courting a wife?' she asked, without
the least betrayal of emotion.
'I didn't see you, miss,' replied Cornick, turning. 'Yes, your brother
hev' his eye on a wife, and he deserves one. I hope you don't mind?'
'Not in the least,' she said, with a stage laugh. 'I am interested,
naturally. And what is she?'
'A very nice young master-baker's daughter, honey. A very wise choice of
the young man's.'
'Is she fair or dark?'
'Her hair is rather light.'
'I like light hair; and her name?'
'Her name is Caroline. But can it be that my story hurts ye? If so--'
'Yes, yes,' said John, interposing anxiously. 'We don't care for more
just at this moment.'
'We _do_ care for more!' said Anne vehemently. 'Tell it all, sailor.
That is a very pretty name, Caroline. When are they going to be
married?'
'I don't know as how the day is settled,' answered Jim, even now scarcely
conscious of the devastation he was causing in one fair breast. 'But
from the rate the courting is scudding along at, I should say it won't be
long first.'
'If you see him when you go back, give him my best wishes,' she lightly
said, as she moved away. 'And,' she added, with solemn bitterness, 'say
that I am glad to hear he is making such good use of the first days of
his escape from the Valley of the Shadow of Death!' She went away,
expressing indifference by audibly singing in the distance--
'Shall we go dance the round, the round, the round,
Shall we go dance the round?'
'Your sister is lively at the news,' observed Jim Cornick.
'Yes,' murmured John gloomily, as he gnawed his lower lip and kept his
eyes fixed on the fire.
'Well,' continued the man from the Victory, 'I won't say that your
brother's intended ha'n't got some ballast, which is very lucky for'n, as
he might have picked up with a girl without a single copper nail. To be
sure there was a time we had when we got into port! It was open house
for us all!' And after mentally regarding the scene for a few seconds
Jim emptied his cup and rose to go.
The miller was saying some last words to him outside the house, Anne's
voice had hardly ceased singing upstairs, John was standing by the
fireplace, and Mrs. Loveday was crossing the room to join her daughter,
whose manner had given her some uneasiness, when a noise came from above
the ceiling, as of some heavy body falling. Mrs. Loveday rushed to the
staircase, saying, 'Ah, I feared something!' and she was followed by
John.
When they entered Anne's room, which they both did almost at one moment,
they found her lying insensible upon the floor. The trumpet-major, his
lips tightly closed, lifted her in his arms, and laid her upon the bed;
after which he went back to the door to give room to her mother, who was
bending over the girl with some hartshorn.
Presently Mrs. Loveday looked up and said to him, 'She is only in a
faint, John, and her colour is coming back. Now leave her to me; I will
be downstairs in a few minutes, and tell you how she is.'
John left the room. When he gained the lower apartment his father was
standing by the chimney-piece, the sailor having gone. The trumpet-major
went up to the fire, and, grasping the edge of the high chimney-shelf,
stood silent.
'Did I hear a noise when I went out?' asked the elder, in a tone of
misgiving.
'Yes, you did,' said John. 'It was she, but her mother says she is
better now. Father,' he added impetuously, 'Bob is a worthless
blockhead! If there had been any good in him he would have been drowned
years ago!'
'John, John--not too fast,' said the miller. 'That's a hard thing to say
of your brother, and you ought to be ashamed of it.'
'Well, he tries me more than I can bear. Good God! what can a man be
made of to go on as he does? Why didn't he come home; or if he couldn't
get leave why didn't he write? 'Tis scandalous of him to serve a woman
like that!'
'Gently, gently. The chap hev done his duty as a sailor; and though
there might have been something between him and Anne, her mother, in
talking it over with me, has said many times that she couldn't think of
their marrying till Bob had settled down in business with me. Folks that
gain victories must have a little liberty allowed 'em. Look at the
Admiral himself, for that matter.'
John continued looking at the red coals, till hearing Mrs. Loveday's foot
on the staircase, he went to meet her.
'She is better,' said Mrs. Loveday; 'but she won't come down again to-
day.'
Could John have heard what the poor girl was moaning to herself at that
moment as she lay writhing on the bed, he would have doubted her mother's
assurance. 'If he had been dead I could have borne it, but this I cannot
bear!'