Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (319 page)

When they had all had a thimbleful round, and the superfluous neighbours had reluctantly departed, one by one, the inmates gave their minds to the supper, which David had begun to serve up.

‘What be you rolling back the tablecloth for, David?’ said the miller.

‘Maister Bob have put down one of the under sheets by mistake, and I thought you might not like it, sir, as there’s ladies present!’

‘Faith, ‘twas the first thing that came to hand,’ said Robert.  ‘It seemed a tablecloth to me.’

‘Never mind — don’t pull off the things now he’s laid ‘em down — let it bide,’ said the miller.  ‘But where’s Widow Garland and Maidy Anne?’

‘They were here but a minute ago,’ said David.  ‘Depend upon it they have slinked off ‘cause they be shy.’

The miller at once went round to ask them to come back and sup with him; and while he was gone David told Bob in confidence what an excellent place he had for an old man.

‘Yes, Cap’n Bob, as I suppose I must call ye; I’ve worked for yer father these eight-and-thirty years, and we have always got on very well together.  Trusts me with all the keys, lends me his sleeve-waistcoat, and leaves the house entirely to me.  Widow Garland next door, too, is just the same with me, and treats me as if I was her own child.’

‘She must have married young to make you that, David.’

‘Yes, yes — I’m years older than she.  ‘Tis only my common way of speaking.’

Mrs. Garland would not come in to supper, and the meal proceeded without her, Bob recommending to his father the dish he had cooked, in the manner of a householder to a stranger just come.  The miller was anxious to know more about his son’s plans for the future, but would not for the present interrupt his eating, looking up from his own plate to appreciate Bob’s travelled way of putting English victuals out of sight, as he would have looked at a mill on improved principles.

David had only just got the table clear, and set the plates in a row under the bakehouse table for the cats to lick, when the door was hastily opened, and Mrs. Garland came in, looking concerned.

‘I have been waiting to hear the plates removed to tell you how frightened we are at something we hear at the back-door.  It seems like robbers muttering; but when I look out there’s nobody there!’

‘This must be seen to,’ said the miller, rising promptly.  ‘David, light the middle-sized lantern.  I’ll go and search the garden.’

‘And I’ll go too,’ said his son, taking up a cudgel.  ‘Lucky I’ve come home just in time!’

They went out stealthily, followed by the widow and Anne, who had been afraid to stay alone in the house under the circumstances.  No sooner were they beyond the door when, sure enough, there was the muttering almost close at hand, and low upon the ground, as from persons lying down in hiding.

‘Bless my heart!’ said Bob, striking his head as though it were some enemy’s: ‘why, ‘tis my luggage.  I’d quite forgot it!’

‘What!’ asked his father.

‘My luggage.  Really, if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Garland it would have stayed there all night, and they, poor things! would have been starved.  I’ve got all sorts of articles for ye.  You go inside, and I’ll bring ‘em in.  ‘Tis parrots that you hear a muttering, Mrs. Garland.  You needn’t be afraid any more.’

‘Parrots?’ said the miller.  ‘Well, I’m glad ‘tis no worse.  But how couldst forget so, Bob?’

The packages were taken in by David and Bob, and the first unfastened were three, wrapped in cloths, which being stripped off revealed three cages, with a gorgeous parrot in each.

‘This one is for you, father, to hang up outside the door, and amuse us,’ said Bob.  ‘He’ll talk very well, but he’s sleepy to-night.  This other one I brought along for any neighbour that would like to have him.  His colours are not so bright; but ‘tis a good bird.  If you would like to have him you are welcome to him,’ he said, turning to Anne, who had been tempted forward by the birds.  ‘You have hardly spoken yet, Miss Anne, but I recollect you very well.  How much taller you have got, to be sure!’

Anne said she was much obliged, but did not know what she could do with such a present.  Mrs. Garland accepted it for her, and the sailor went on — ’Now this other bird I hardly know what to do with; but I dare say he’ll come in for something or other.’

‘He is by far the prettiest,’ said the widow.  ‘I would rather have it than the other, if you don’t mind.’

‘Yes,’ said Bob, with embarrassment.  ‘But the fact is, that bird will hardly do for ye, ma’am.  He’s a hard swearer, to tell the truth; and I am afraid he’s too old to be broken of it.’

‘How dreadful!’ said Mrs. Garland.

‘We could keep him in the mill,’ suggested the miller.  ‘It won’t matter about the grinder hearing him, for he can’t learn to cuss worse than he do already!’

‘The grinder shall have him, then,’ said Bob.  ‘The one I have given you, ma’am, has no harm in him at all.  You might take him to church o’ Sundays as far as that goes.’

The sailor now untied a small wooden box about a foot square, perforated with holes.  ‘Here are two marmosets,’ he continued.  ‘You can’t see them to-night; but they are beauties — the tufted sort.’

‘What’s a marmoset?’ said the miller.

‘O, a little kind of monkey.  They bite strangers rather hard, but you’ll soon get used to ‘em.’

‘They are wrapped up in something, I declare,’ said Mrs. Garland, peeping in through a chink.

‘Yes, that’s my flannel shirt,’ said Bob apologetically.  ‘They suffer terribly from cold in this climate, poor things! and I had nothing better to give them.  Well, now, in this next box I’ve got things of different sorts.’

The latter was a regular seaman’s chest, and out of it he produced shells of many sizes and colours, carved ivories, queer little caskets, gorgeous feathers, and several silk handkerchiefs, which articles were spread out upon all the available tables and chairs till the house began to look like a bazaar.

‘What a lovely shawl!’ exclaimed Widow Garland, in her interest forestalling the regular exhibition by looking into the box at what was coming.

‘O yes,’ said the mate, pulling out a couple of the most bewitching shawls that eyes ever saw.  ‘One of these I am going to give to that young lady I am shortly to be married to, you know, Mrs. Garland.  Has father told you about it?  Matilda Johnson, of Southampton, that’s her name.’

‘Yes, we know all about it,’ said the widow.

‘Well, I shall give one of these shawls to her — because, of course, I ought to.’

‘Of course,’ said she.

‘But the other one I’ve got no use for at all; and,’ he continued, looking round, ‘will you have it, Miss Anne?  You refused the parrot, and you ought not to refuse this.’

‘Thank you,’ said Anne calmly, but much distressed; ‘but really I don’t want it, and couldn’t take it.’

‘But do have it!’ said Bob in hurt tones, Mrs. Garland being all the while on tenter-hooks lest Anne should persist in her absurd refusal.

‘Why, there’s another reason why you ought to!’ said he, his face lighting up with recollections.  ‘It never came into my head till this moment that I used to be your beau in a humble sort of way.  Faith, so I did, and we used to meet at places sometimes, didn’t we — that is, when you were not too proud; and once I gave you, or somebody else, a bit of my hair in fun.’

‘It was somebody else,’ said Anne quickly.

‘Ah, perhaps it was,’ said Bob innocently.  ‘But it was you I used to meet, or try to, I am sure.  Well, I’ve never thought of that boyish time for years till this minute!  I am sure you ought to accept some one gift, dear, out of compliment to those old times!’

Anne drew back and shook her head, for she would not trust her voice.

‘Well, Mrs. Garland, then you shall have it,’ said Bob, tossing the shawl to that ready receiver.  ‘If you don’t, upon my life I will throw it out to the first beggar I see.  Now, here’s a parcel of cap ribbons of the splendidest sort I could get.  Have these — do, Anne!’

‘Yes, do,’ said Mrs. Garland.

‘I promised them to Matilda,’ continued Bob; ‘but I am sure she won’t want ‘em, as she has got some of her own: and I would as soon see them upon your head, my dear, as upon hers.’

‘I think you had better keep them for your bride if you have promised them to her,’ said Mrs. Garland mildly.

‘It wasn’t exactly a promise.  I just said, “Til, there’s some cap ribbons in my box, if you would like to have them.”  But she’s got enough things already for any bride in creation.  Anne, now you shall have ‘em — upon my soul you shall — or I’ll fling them down the mill-tail!’

Anne had meant to be perfectly firm in refusing everything, for reasons obvious even to that poor waif, the meanest capacity; but when it came to this point she was absolutely compelled to give in, and reluctantly received the cap ribbons in her arms, blushing fitfully, and with her lip trembling in a motion which she tried to exhibit as a smile.

‘What would Tilly say if she knew!’ said the miller slily.

‘Yes, indeed — and it is wrong of him!’ Anne instantly cried, tears running down her face as she threw the parcel of ribbons on the floor.  ‘You’d better bestow your gifts where you bestow your l — l — love, Mr. Loveday — that’s what I say!’  And Anne turned her back and went away.

‘I’ll take them for her,’ said Mrs. Garland, quickly picking up the parcel.

‘Now that’s a pity,’ said Bob, looking regretfully after Anne.  ‘I didn’t remember that she was a quick-tempered sort of girl at all.  Tell her, Mrs. Garland, that I ask her pardon.  But of course I didn’t know she was too proud to accept a little present — how should I?  Upon my life if it wasn’t for Matilda I’d — Well, that can’t be, of course.’

‘What’s this?’ said Mrs. Garland, touching with her foot a large package that had been laid down by Bob unseen.

‘That’s a bit of baccy for myself,’ said Robert meekly.

The examination of presents at last ended, and the two families parted for the night.  When they were alone, Mrs. Garland said to Anne, ‘What a close girl you are!  I am sure I never knew that Bob Loveday and you had walked together: you must have been mere children.’

‘O yes — so we were,’ said Anne, now quite recovered.  ‘It was when we first came here, about a year after father died.  We did not walk together in any regular way.  You know I have never thought the Lovedays high enough for me.  It was only just — nothing at all, and I had almost forgotten it.’

It is to be hoped that somebody’s sins were forgiven her that night before she went to bed.

When Bob and his father were left alone, the miller said, ‘Well, Robert, about this young woman of thine — Matilda what’s her name?’

‘Yes, father — Matilda Johnson.  I was just going to tell ye about her.’

The miller nodded, and sipped his mug.

‘Well, she is an excellent body,’ continued Bob; ‘that can truly be said — a real charmer, you know — a nice good comely young woman, a miracle of genteel breeding, you know, and all that.  She can throw her hair into the nicest curls, and she’s got splendid gowns and headclothes.  In short, you might call her a land mermaid.  She’ll make such a first-rate wife as there never was.’

‘No doubt she will,’ said the miller; ‘for I have never known thee wanting in sense in a jineral way.’  He turned his cup round on its axis till the handle had travelled a complete circle.  ‘How long did you say in your letter that you had known her?’

‘A fortnight.’

‘Not
very
long.’

‘It don’t sound long, ‘tis true; and ‘twas really longer — ’twas fifteen days and a quarter.  But hang it, father, I could see in the twinkling of an eye that the girl would do.  I know a woman well enough when I see her — I ought to, indeed, having been so much about the world.  Now, for instance, there’s Widow Garland and her daughter.  The girl is a nice little thing; but the old woman — O no!’  Bob shook his head.

‘What of her?’ said his father, slightly shifting in his chair.

‘Well, she’s, she’s — I mean, I should never have chose her, you know.  She’s of a nice disposition, and young for a widow with a grown-up daughter; but if all the men had been like me she would never have had a husband.  I like her in some respects; but she’s a style of beauty I don’t care for.’

‘O, if ‘tis only looks you are thinking of,’ said the miller, much relieved, ‘there’s nothing to be said, of course.  Though there’s many a duchess worse-looking, if it comes to argument, as you would find, my son,’ he added, with a sense of having been mollified too soon.

The mate’s thoughts were elsewhere by this time.

‘As to my marrying Matilda, thinks I, here’s one of the very genteelest sort, and I may as well do the job at once.  So I chose her.  She’s a dear girl; there’s nobody like her, search where you will.’

‘How many did you choose her out from?’ inquired his father.

‘Well, she was the only young woman I happened to know in Southampton, that’s true.  But what of that?  It would have been all the same if I had known a hundred.’

‘Her father is in business near the docks, I suppose?’

‘Well, no.  In short, I didn’t see her father.’

‘Her mother?’

‘Her mother?  No, I didn’t.  I think her mother is dead; but she has got a very rich aunt living at Melchester.  I didn’t see her aunt, because there wasn’t time to go; but of course we shall know her when we are married.’