by Thomas Hardy
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.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said the miller, trying to feel quite satisfied. ‘And she will soon be here?’
‘Ay, she’s coming soon,’ said Bob. ‘She has gone to this aunt’s at Melchester to get her things packed, and suchlike, or she would have come with me. I am going to meet the coach at the King’s Arms, Casterbridge, on Sunday, at one o’clock. To show what a capital sort of wife she’ll be, I may tell you that she wanted to come by the Mercury, because ‘tis a little cheaper than the other. But I said, “For once in your life do it well, and come by the Royal Mail, and I’ll pay.” I can have the pony and trap to fetch her, I suppose, as ‘tis too far for her to walk?’
‘Of course you can, Bob, or anything else. And I’ll do all I can to give you a good wedding feast.’
CHAPTER XVI.
THEY MAKE READY FOR THE ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER
Preparations for Matilda’s welcome, and for the event which was to follow, at once occupied the attention of the mill. The miller and his man had but dim notions of housewifery on any large scale; so the great wedding cleaning was kindly supervised by Mrs. Garland, Bob being mostly away during the day with his brother, the trumpet-major, on various errands, one of which was to buy paint and varnish for the gig that Matilda was to be fetched in, which he had determined to decorate with his own hands.
By the widow’s direction the old familiar incrustation of shining dirt, imprinted along the back of the settle by the heads of countless jolly sitters, was scrubbed and scraped away; the brown circle round the nail whereon the miller hung his hat, stained by the brim in wet weather, was whitened over; the tawny smudges of bygone shoulders in the passage were removed without regard to a certain genial and historical value which they had acquired. The face of the clock, coated with verdigris as thick as a diachylon plaister, was rubbed till the figures emerged into day; while, inside the case of the same chronometer, the cobwebs that formed triangular hammocks, which the pendulum could hardly wade through, were cleared away at one swoop.
Mrs. Garland also assisted at the invasion of worm-eaten cupboards, where layers of ancient smells lingered on in the stagnant air, and recalled to the reflective nose the many good things that had been kept there. The upper floors were scrubbed with such abundance of water that the old-established death-watches, wood-lice, and flour-worms were all drowned, the suds trickling down into the room below in so lively and novel a manner as to convey the romantic notion that the miller lived in a cave with dripping stalactites.
They moved what had never been moved before — the oak coffer, containing the miller’s wardrobe — a tremendous weight, what with its locks, hinges, nails, dirt, framework, and the hard stratification of old jackets, waistcoats, and knee-breeches at the bottom, never disturbed since the miller’s wife died, and half pulverized by the moths, whose flattened skeletons lay amid the mass in thousands.
‘It fairly makes my back open and shut!’ said Loveday, as, in obedience to Mrs. Garland’s direction, he lifted one corner, the grinder and David assisting at the others. ‘All together: speak when ye be going to heave. Now!’
The pot covers and skimmers were brought to such a state that, on examining them, the beholder was not conscious of utensils, but of his own face in a condition of hideous elasticity. The broken clock-line was mended, the kettles rocked, the creeper nailed up, and a new handle put to the warming-pan. The large household lantern was cleaned out, after three years of uninterrupted accumulation, the operation yielding a conglomerate of candle-snuffs, candle-ends, remains of matches, lamp-black, and eleven ounces and a half of good grease — invaluable as dubbing for skitty boots and ointment for cart-wheels.
Everybody said that the mill residence had not been so thoroughly scoured for twenty years. The miller and David looked on with a sort of awe tempered by gratitude, tacitly admitting by their gaze that this was beyond what they had ever thought of. Mrs. Garland supervised all with disinterested benevolence. It would never have done, she said, for his future daughter-in-law to see the house in its original state. She would have taken a dislike to him, and perhaps to Bob likewise.
‘Why don’t ye come and live here with me, and then you would be able to see to it at all times?’ said the miller as she bustled about again. To which she answered that she was considering the matter, and might in good time. He had previously informed her that his plan was to put Bob and his wife in the part of the house that she, Mrs. Garland, occupied, as soon as she chose to enter his, which relieved her of any fear of being incommoded by Matilda.
The cooking for the wedding festivities was on a proportionate scale of thoroughness. They killed the four supernumerary chickens that had just begun to crow, and the little curly-tailed barrow pig, in preference to the sow; not having been put up fattening for more than five weeks it was excellent small meat, and therefore more delicate and likely to suit a town-bred lady’s taste than the large one, which, having reached the weight of fourteen score, might have been a little gross to a cultured palate. There were also provided a cold chine, stuffed veal, and two pigeon pies. Also thirty rings of black-pot, a dozen of white-pot, and ten knots of tender and well-washed chitterlings, cooked plain in case she should like a change.
As additional reserves there were sweetbreads, and five milts, sewed up at one side in the form of a chrysalis, and stuffed with thyme, sage, parsley, mint, groats, rice, milk, chopped egg, and other ingredients. They were afterwards roasted before a slow fire, and eaten hot.
The business of chopping so many herbs for the various stuffings was found to be aching work for women; and David, the miller, the grinder, and the grinder’s boy being fully occupied in their proper branches, and Bob being very busy painting the gig and touching up the harness, Loveday called in a friendly dragoon of John’s regiment who was passing by, and he, being a muscular man, willingly chopped all the afternoon for a quart of strong, judiciously administered, and all other victuals found, taking off his jacket and gloves, rolling up his shirt-sleeves and unfastening his collar in an honourable and energetic way.
All windfalls and maggot-cored codlins were excluded from the apple pies; and as there was no known dish large enough for the purpose, the puddings were stirred up in the milking-pail, and boiled in the three-legged bell-metal crock, of great weight and antiquity, which every travelling tinker for the previous thirty years had tapped with his stick, coveted, made a bid for, and often attempted to steal.
In the liquor line Loveday laid in an ample barrel of Casterbridge ‘strong beer.’ This renowned drink — now almost as much a thing of the past as Falstaff’s favourite beverage — was not only well calculated to win the hearts of soldiers blown dry and dusty by residence in tents on a hill-top, but of any wayfarer whatever in that land. It was of the most beautiful colour that the eye of an artist in beer could desire; full in body, yet brisk as a volcano; piquant, yet without a twang; luminous as an autumn sunset; free from streakiness of taste; but, finally, rather heady. The masses worshipped it, the minor gentry loved it more than wine, and by the most illustrious county families it was not despised. Anybody brought up for being drunk and disorderly in the streets of its natal borough, had only to prove that he was a stranger to the place and its liquor to be honourably dismissed by the magistrates, as one overtaken in a fault that no man could guard against who entered the town unawares.
In addition, Mr. Loveday also tapped a hogshead of fine cider th
at he had had mellowing in the house for several months, having bought it of an honest down-country man, who did not colour, for any special occasion like the present. It had been pressed from fruit judiciously chosen by an old hand — Horner and Cleeves apple for the body, a few Tom-Putts for colour, and just a dash of Old Five-corners for sparkle — a selection originally made to please the palate of a well-known temperate earl who was a regular cider-drinker, and lived to be eighty-eight.
On the morning of the Sunday appointed for her coming Captain Bob Loveday set out to meet his bride. He had been all the week engaged in painting the gig, assisted by his brother at odd times, and it now appeared of a gorgeous yellow, with blue streaks, and tassels at the corners, and red wheels outlined with a darker shade. He put in the pony at half-past eleven, Anne looking at him from the door as he packed himself into the vehicle and drove off. There may be young women who look out at young men driving to meet their brides as Anne looked at Captain Bob, and yet are quite indifferent to the circumstances; but they are not often met with.
So much dust had been raised on the highway by traffic resulting from the presence of the Court at the town further on, that brambles hanging from the fence, and giving a friendly scratch to the wanderer’s face, were dingy as church cobwebs; and the grass on the margin had assumed a paper-shaving hue. Bob’s father had wished him to take David, lest, from want of recent experience at the whip, he should meet with any mishap; but, picturing to himself the awkwardness of three in such circumstances, Bob would not hear of this; and nothing more serious happened to his driving than that the wheel-marks formed two serpentine lines along the road during the first mile or two, before he had got his hand in, and that the horse shied at a milestone, a piece of paper, a sleeping tramp, and a wheelbarrow, just to make use of the opportunity of being in bad hands.
He entered Casterbridge between twelve and one, and, putting up at the Old Greyhound, walked on to the Bow. Here, rather dusty on the ledges of his clothes, he stood and waited while the people in their best summer dresses poured out of the three churches round him. When they had all gone, and a smell of cinders and gravy had spread down the ancient high-street, and the pie-dishes from adjacent bakehouses had all travelled past, he saw the mail coach rise above the arch of Grey’s Bridge, a quarter of a mile distant, surmounted by swaying knobs, which proved to be the heads of the outside travellers.