by Thomas Hardy
Bob stood perplexed; and then a suspicion crossed his mind that John, from brotherly goodness, might be feigning a satisfaction with recent events which he did not feel. Bob now made a noise with the shutters, at which the trumpet-major rose and went out, Bob at once following him.
‘Jack,’ said the sailor ingenuously, ‘I’m terribly sorry that I’ve done wrong.’
‘How?’ asked his brother.
‘In courting our little Anne. Well, you see, John, she was in the same house with me, and somehow or other I made myself her beau. But I have been thinking that perhaps you had the first claim on her, and if so, Jack, I’ll make way for ‘ee. I — I don’t care for her much, you know — not so very much, and can give her up very well. It is nothing serious between us at all. Yes, John, you try to get her; I can look elsewhere.’ Bob never knew how much he loved Anne till he found himself making this speech of renunciation.
‘O Bob, you are mistaken!’ said the trumpet-major, who was not deceived. ‘When I first saw her I admired her, and I admire her now, and like her. I like her so well that I shall be glad to see you marry her.’
‘But,’ replied Bob, with hesitation, ‘I thought I saw you looking very sad, as if you were in love; I saw you take out a letter, in short. That’s what it was disturbed me and made me come to you.’
‘O, I see your mistake!’ said John, laughing forcedly.
At this minute Mrs. Loveday and the miller, who were taking a twilight walk in the garden, strolled round near to where the brothers stood. She talked volubly on events in Budmouth, as most people did at this time. ‘And they tell me that the theatre has been painted up afresh,’ she was saying, ‘and that the actors have come for the season, with the most lovely actresses that ever were seen.’
When they had passed by John continued, ‘I am in love, Bob; but — not with Anne.’
‘Ah! who is it then?’ said the mate hopefully.
‘One of the actresses at the theatre,’ John replied, with a concoctive look at the vanishing forms of Mr. and Mrs. Loveday. ‘She is a very lovely woman, you know. But we won’t say anything more about it — it dashes a man so.’
‘O, one of the actresses!’ said Bob, with open mouth.
‘But don’t you say anything about it!’ continued the trumpet-major heartily. ‘I don’t want it known.’
‘No, no — I won’t, of course. May I not know her name?’
‘No, not now, Bob. I cannot tell ‘ee,’ John answered, and with truth, for Loveday did not know the name of any actress in the world.
When his brother had gone, Captain Bob hastened off in a state of great animation to Anne, whom he found on the top of a neighbouring hillock which the daylight had scarcely as yet deserted.
‘You have been a long time coming, sir,’ said she, in sprightly tones of reproach.
‘Yes, dearest; and you’ll be glad to hear why. I’ve found out the whole mystery — yes — why he’s queer, and everything.’
Anne looked startled.
‘He’s up to the gunnel in love! We must try to help him on in it, or I fear he’ll go melancholy-mad like.’
‘We help him?’ she asked faintly.
‘He’s lost his heart to one of the play-actresses at Budmouth, and I think she slights him.’
‘O, I am so glad!’ she exclaimed.
‘Glad that his venture don’t prosper?’
‘O no; glad he’s so sensible. How long is it since that alarm of the French?’
‘Six weeks, honey. Why do you ask?’
‘Men can forget in six weeks, can’t they, Bob?’
The impression that John had really kissed her still remained.
‘Well, some men might,’ observed Bob judicially. ‘I couldn’t. Perhaps John might. I couldn’t forget you in twenty times as long. Do you know, Anne, I half thought it was you John cared about; and it was a weight off my heart when he said he didn’t.’
‘Did he say he didn’t?’
‘Yes. He assured me himself that the only person in the hold of his heart was this lovely play-actress, and nobody else.’
‘How I should like to see her!’
‘Yes. So should I.’
‘I would rather it had been one of our own neighbours’ girls, whose birth and breeding we know of; but still, if that is his taste, I hope it will end well for him. How very quick he has been! I certainly wish we could see her.’
‘I don’t know so much as her name. He is very close, and wouldn’t tell a thing about her.’
‘Couldn’t we get him to go to the theatre with us? and then we could watch him, and easily find out the right one. Then we would learn if she is a good young woman; and if she is, could we not ask her here, and so make it smoother for him? He has been very gay lately; that means budding love: and sometimes between his gaieties he has had melancholy moments; that means there’s difficulty.’
Bob thought her plan a good one, and resolved to put it in practice on the first available evening. Anne was very curious as to whether John did really cherish a new passion, the story having quite surprised her. Possibly it was true; six weeks had passed since John had shown a single symptom of the old attachment, and what could not that space of time effect in the heart of a soldier whose very profession it was to leave girls behind him?
After this John Loveday did not come to see them for nearly a month, a neglect which was set down by Bob as an additional proof that his brother’s affections were no longer exclusively centred in his old home. When at last he did arrive, and the theatre-going was mentioned to him, the flush of consciousness which Anne expected to see upon his face was unaccountably absent.
‘Yes, Bob; I should very well like to go to the theatre,’ he replied heartily. ‘Who is going besides?’
‘Only Anne,’ Bob told him, and then it seemed to occur to the trumpet-major that something had been expected of him. He rose and said privately to Bob with some confusion, ‘O yes, of course we’ll go. As I am connected with one of the — in short I can get you in for nothing, you know. At least let me manage everything.’
‘Yes, yes. I wonder you didn’t propose to take us before, Jack, and let us have a good look at her.’
‘I ought to have. You shall go on a King’s night. You won’t want me to point her out, Bob; I have my reasons at present for asking it?’
‘We’ll be content with guessing,’ said his brother.
When the gallant John was gone, Anne observed, ‘Bob, how he is changed! I watched him. He showed no feeling, even when you burst upon him suddenly with the subject nearest his heart.’
‘It must be because his suit don’t fay,’ said Captain Bob.
CHAPTER XXX.
AT THE THEATRE ROYAL
In two or three days a message arrived asking them to attend at the theatre on the coming evening, with the added request that they would dress in their gayest clothes, to do justice to the places taken. Accordingly, in the course of the afternoon they drove off, Bob having clothed himself in a splendid suit, recently purchased as an attempt to bring himself nearer to Anne’s style when they appeared in public together. As finished off by this dashing and really fashionable attire, he was the perfection of a beau in the dog-days; pantaloons and boots of the newest make; yards and yards of muslin wound round his neck, forming a sort of asylum for the lower part of his face; two fancy waistcoats, and coat-buttons like circular shaving glasses. The absurd extreme of female fashion, which was to wear muslin dresses in January, was at this time equalled by that of the men, who wore clothes enough in August to melt them. Nobody would have guessed from Bob’s presentation now that he had ever been aloft on a dark night in the Atlantic, or knew the hundred ingenuities that could be performed with a rope’s end and a marline-spike as well as his mother tongue.
It was a day of days. Anne wore her celebrated celestial blue pelisse, her Leghorn hat, and her muslin dress with the waist under the arms; the latter being decorated with excellent Honiton lace bought of the woman who travelled
from that place to Overcombe and its neighbourhood with a basketful of her own manufacture, and a cushion on which she worked by the wayside. John met the lovers at the inn outside the town, and after stabling the horse they entered the town together, the trumpet-major informing them that the watering-place had never been so full before, that the Court, the Prince of Wales, and everybody of consequence was there, and that an attic could scarcely be got for money. The King had gone for a cruise in his yacht, and they would be in time to see him land.
Then drums and fifes were heard, and in a minute or two they saw Sergeant Stanner advancing along the street with a firm countenance, fiery poll, and rigid staring eyes, in front of his recruiting-party. The sergeant’s sword was drawn, and at intervals of two or three inches along its shining blade were impaled fluttering one-pound notes, to express the lavish bounty that was offered. He gave a stern, suppressed nod of friendship to our people, and passed by. Next they came up to a waggon, bowered over with leaves and flowers, so that the men inside could hardly be seen.
‘Come to see the King, hip-hip hurrah!’ cried a voice within, and turning they saw through the leaves the nose and face of Cripplestraw. The waggon contained all Derriman’s workpeople.
‘Is your master here?’ said John.
‘No, trumpet-major, sir. But young maister is coming to fetch us at nine o’clock, in case we should be too blind to drive home.’
‘O! where is he now?’
‘Never mind,’ said Anne impatiently, at which the trumpet-major obediently moved on.
By the time they reached the pier it was six o’clock; the royal yacht was returning; a fact announced by the ships in the harbour firing a salute. The King came ashore with his hat in his hand, and returned the salutations of the well-dressed crowd in his old indiscriminate fashion. While this cheering and waving of handkerchiefs was going on Anne stood between the two brothers, who protectingly joined their hands behind her back, as if she were a delicate piece of statuary that a push might damage. Soon the King had passed, and receiving the military salutes of the piquet, joined the Queen and princesses at Gloucester Lodge, the homely house of red brick in which he unostentatiously resided.
As there was yet some little time before the theatre would open, they strayed upon the velvet sands, and listened to the songs of the sailors, one of whom extemporized for the occasion: —
‘Portland Road the King aboard, the King aboard!
Portland Road the King aboard,
We weighed and sailed from Portland Road!’
When they had looked on awhile at the combats at single-stick which were in progress hard by, and seen the sum of five guineas handed over to the modest gentleman who had broken most heads, they returned to Gloucester Lodge, whence the King and other members of his family now reappeared, and drove, at a slow trot, round to the theatre in carriages drawn by the Hanoverian white horses that were so well known in the town at this date.
When Anne and Bob entered the theatre they found that John had taken excellent places, and concluded that he had got them for nothing through the influence of the lady of his choice. As a matter of fact he had paid full prices for those two seats, like any other outsider, and even then had a difficulty in getting them, it being a King’s night. When they were settled he himself retired to an obscure part of the pit, from which the stage was scarcely visible.
‘We can see beautifully,’ said Bob, in an aristocratic voice, as he took a delicate pinch of snuff, and drew out the magnificent pocket-handkerchief brought home from the East for such occasions. ‘But I am afraid poor John can’t see at all.’
‘But we can see him,’ replied Anne, ‘and notice by his face which of them it is he is so charmed with. The light of that corner candle falls right upon his cheek.’
By this time the King had appeared in his place, which was overhung by a canopy of crimson satin fringed with gold. About twenty places were occupied by the royal family and suite; and beyond them was a crowd of powdered and glittering personages of fashion, completely filling the centre of the little building; though the King so frequently patronized the local stage during these years that the crush was not inconvenient.
The curtain rose and the play began. To-night it was one of Colman’s, who at this time enjoyed great popularity, and Mr. Bannister supported the leading character. Anne, with her hand privately clasped in Bob’s, and looking as if she did not know it, partly watched the piece and partly the face of the impressionable John who had so soon transferred his affections elsewhere. She had not long to wait. When a certain one of the subordinate ladies of the comedy entered on the stage the trumpet-major in his corner not only looked conscious, but started and gazed with parted lips.
‘This must be the one,’ whispered Anne quickly. ‘See, he is agitated!’
She turned to Bob, but at the same moment his hand convulsively closed upon hers as he, too, strangely fixed his eyes upon the newly-entered lady.
‘What is it?’
Anne looked from one to the other without regarding the stage at all. Her answer came in the voice of the actress who now spoke for the first time. The accents were those of Miss Matilda Johnson.
One thought rushed into both their minds on the instant, and Bob was the first to utter it.
‘What — is she the woman of his choice after all?’
‘If so, it is a dreadful thing!’ murmured Anne.
But, as may be imagined, the unfortunate John was as much surprised by this rencounter as the other two. Until this moment he had been in utter ignorance of the theatrical company and all that pertained to it. Moreover, much as he knew of Miss Johnson, he was not aware that she had ever been trained in her youth as an actress, and that after lapsing into straits and difficulties for a couple of years she had been so fortunate as to again procure an engagement here.
The trumpet-major, though not prominently seated, had been seen by Matilda already, who had observed still more plainly her old betrothed and Anne in the other part of the house. John was not concerned on his own account at being face to face with her, but at the extraordinary suspicion that this conjuncture must revive in the minds of his best beloved friends. After some moments of pained reflection he tapped his knee.
‘Gad, I won’t explain; it shall go as it is!’ he said. ‘Let them think her mine. Better that than the truth, after all.’
Had personal prominence in the scene been at this moment proportioned to intentness of feeling, the whole audience, regal and otherwise, would have faded into an indistinct mist of background, leaving as the sole emergent and telling figures Bob and Anne at one point, the trumpet-major on the left hand, and Matilda at the opposite corner of the stage. But fortunately the deadlock of awkward suspense into which all four had fallen was terminated by an accident. A messenger entered the King’s box with despatches. There was an instant pause in the performance. The despatch-box being opened the King read for a few moments with great interest, the eyes of the whole house, including those of Anne Garland, being anxiously fixed upon his face; for terrible events fell as unexpectedly as thunderbolts at this critical time of our history. The King at length beckoned to Lord — -, who was immediately behind him, the play was again stopped, and the contents of the despatch were publicly communicated to the audience.
Sir Robert Calder, cruising off Finisterre, had come in sight of Villeneuve, and made the signal for action, which, though checked by the weather, had resulted in the capture of two Spanish line-of-battle ships, and the retreat of Villeneuve into Ferrol.
The news was received with truly national feeling, if noise might be taken as an index of patriotism. ‘Rule Britannia’ was called for and sung by the whole house. But the importance of the event was far from being recognized at this time; and Bob Loveday, as he sat there and heard it, had very little conception how it would bear upon his destiny.
This parenthetic excitement diverted for a few minutes the eyes of Bob and Anne from the trumpet-major; and when the play proceeded, and the
y looked back to his corner, he was gone.
‘He’s just slipped round to talk to her behind the scenes,’ said Bob knowingly. ‘Shall we go too, and tease him for a sly dog?’
‘No, I would rather not.’
‘Shall we go home, then?’
‘Not unless her presence is too much for you?’
‘O — not at all. We’ll stay here. Ah, there she is again.’
They sat on, and listened to Matilda’s speeches which she delivered with such delightful coolness that they soon began to considerably interest one of the party.
‘Well, what a nerve the young woman has!’ he said at last in tones of admiration, and gazing at Miss Johnson with all his might. ‘After all, Jack’s taste is not so bad. She’s really deuced clever.’
‘Bob, I’ll go home if you wish to,’ said Anne quickly.
‘O no — let us see how she fleets herself off that bit of a scrape she’s playing at now. Well, what a hand she is at it, to be sure!’
Anne said no more, but waited on, supremely uncomfortable, and almost tearful. She began to feel that she did not like life particularly well; it was too complicated: she saw nothing of the scene, and only longed to get away, and to get Bob away with her. At last the curtain fell on the final act, and then began the farce of ‘No Song no Supper.’ Matilda did not appear in this piece, and Anne again inquired if they should go home. This time Bob agreed, and taking her under his care with redoubled affection, to make up for the species of coma which had seized upon his heart for a time, he quietly accompanied her out of the house.