The Trumpet-Major (Barnes & Noble Digital Library)

THE TRUMPET-MAJOR

THOMAS HARDY

This 2011 edition published by Barnes & Noble, Inc.

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ISBN: 978-1-4114-6406-3

CONTENTS

I. WHAT WAS SEEN FROM THE WINDOW OVERLOOKING THE TOWN

II. IN WHICH SOMEBODY KNOCKS AND COMES IN

III. IN WHICH THE MILL BECOMES AN IMPORTANT CENTER OF OPERATIONS

IV. WHO WERE PRESENT AT THE MILLER'S LITTLE ENTERTAINMENT

V. THE SONG AND THE STRANGER

VI. OLD MR. DERRIMAN OF OVERCOMBE HALL

VII. HOW THEY TALKED IN THE GREEN PASTURES

VIII. ANNE MAKES A CIRCUIT OF THE CAMP

IX. ANNE IS KINDLY FETCHED BY THE TRUMPET-MAJOR

X. THE MATCH-MAKING VIRTUES OF A DOUBLE GARDEN

XI. OUR PEOPLE ARE AFFECTED BY THE PRESENCE OF ROYALTY

XII. HOW EVERYBODY, GREAT AND SMALL, CLIMBED TO THE TOP OF THE DOWNS

XIII. THE CONVERSATION IN THE CROWD

XIV. LATER IN THE EVENING OF THE SAME DAY

XV. CAPTAIN BOB LOVEDAY, OF THE MERCHANT SERVICE

XVI. THEY MAKE READY FOR THE ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER

XVII. CONTAINING TWO FAINTING FITS AND A BEWILDERMENT

XVIII. THE NIGHT AFTER THE ARRIVAL

XIX. MISS JOHNSON'S BEHAVIOR CAUSES NO LITTLE SURPRISE

XX. HOW THEY LESSENED THE EFFECT OF THE CALAMITY

XXI. THE DEPARTURE OF THE DRAGOONS

XXII. THE TWO HOUSEHOLDS UNITED

XXIII. MILITARY PREPARATIONS ON AN EXTENDED SCALE

XXIV. A LETTER, A VISITOR, AND A TIN BOX

XXV. FESTUS SHOWS HIS LOVE

XXVI. THE ALARM

XXVII. DANGER TO ANNE

XXVIII. ANNE JOINS THE YEOMANRY CAVALRY

XXIX. A DISSEMBLER

XXX. AT THE THEATER ROYAL

XXXI. MIDNIGHT VISITORS

XXXII. DELIVERANCE

XXXIII. A DISCOVERY TURNS THE SCALE

XXXIV. A SPECK ON THE SEA

XXXV. A SAILOR ENTERS

XXXVI. DERRIMAN SEES CHANCES

XXXVII. REACTION

XXXVIII. A DELICATE SITUATION

XXXIX. BOB LOVEDAY STRUTS UP AND DOWN

XL. A CALL ON BUSINESS

XLI. FAREWELL

CHAPTER I

WHAT WAS SEEN FROM THE WINDOW OVERLOOKING THE TOWN

IN the days of high-waisted and muslin-gowned women, when the vast amount of soldiering going on in the country was a cause of much trembling to the sex, there lived in a village near the Wessex coast two ladies of good report, though unfortunately of limited means. The elder was a Mrs. Martha Garland, a landscape-painter's widow, and the other was her only daughter Anne.

Anne was fair, very fair, in a poet's sense of the word; but in complexion she was of that particular tint between blonde and brunette which is inconveniently left without a name. Her eyes were honest and inquiring, her mouth cleanly cut and yet not classical, the middle point of her upper lip scarcely descending so far as it should have done by rights, so that at the merest pleasant thought, not to mention a smile, portions of two or three white teeth were uncovered whether she would or not. Some people said that this was very attractive. She was graceful and slender, and though but little above five feet in height could draw herself up to look tall. In her manner, in her comings and goings, in her I'll do this, or I'll do that, she combined dignity with sweetness as no other girl could do; and any impressionable stranger youths who passed by were led to yearn for a windfall of speech from her, and to see at the same time that they would not get it. In short, beneath all that was charming and simple in this young woman there lurked a real firmness, unperceived at first, as the speck of color lurks in the heart of a milk-white parsley flower.

She wore a white handkerchief to cover her white neck, and a cap on her head with a pink ribbon round it, tied in a bow at the front. She had a great variety of these cap-ribbons, the young men being fond of sending them to her as presents until they fell definitely in love with a special sweetheart elsewhere, when they left off doing so. Between the border of her cap and her forehead were ranged a row of round brown curls, like swallows' nests under eaves.

She lived with her widowed mother in a portion of an ancient building formerly a manor-house, but now a mill, which, being too large for his own requirements, the miller had found it convenient to divide and appropriate in part to these highly respectable tenants. In this dwelling Mrs. Garland's and Anne's ears were soothed morning, noon, and night by the music of the mill, the wheels and cogs of which, being of wood, produced notes that might have borne in their minds a remote resemblance to the tones of the stopped diapason, the organ pipes of that stop being of the same material. Occasionally, when the miller was bolting, there was added to these continuous sounds the cheerful clicking of the hopper, which did not deprive them of rest except when it was kept going all night; and over and above all this they had the pleasure of knowing that there crept in through every crevice, door, and window of their dwelling, however tightly closed, a subtle mist of superfine flour from the grinding-room, quite invisible, but making its presence known in the course of time by giving a pallid and ghostly look to the best furniture. The miller frequently apologized to his tenants for the intrusion of this insidious dry fog; but the widow was of a friendly and thankful nature, and she said that she did not mind it at all, being as it was, not nasty dirt, but the blessed staff of life.

By good humor of this sort, and in other ways, Mrs. Garland acknowledged her friendship for her neighbor, with whom Anne and herself associated to an extent which she never could have anticipated when, tempted by the lowness of the rent, they first removed thither, after her husband's death, from a larger house at the other end of the village. Those who have lived in remote places where there is what is called no society, will comprehend the gradual leveling of distinctions that went on in this case at some sacrifice of gentility on the part of one household. The widow was sometimes sorry to find with what readiness Anne caught up some dialect word or accent from the miller and his friends; but he was so good and true-hearted a man, and she so easy-minded, unambitious a woman, that she would not make life a solitude for superfine reasons. More than all, she had good ground for thinking that the miller secretly admired her, and this added a piquancy to the situation.

On a fine summer morning, when the leaves were warm under the sun, and the more industrious bees abroad, diving into every blue and red cup that could possibly be considered a flower, Anne was sitting at the back window of her mother's portion of the house, measuring out lengths of worsted for a fringe rug that she was making, which lay, about three-quarters finished, beside her. The work, though chromatically brilliant, was tedious; a hearth-rug was a thing which nobody worked at from morning to night; it was taken up and put down; it was in the chair, on the floor, across the handrail, under the bed, kicked here, kicked there, rolled away in the closet, brought out again, and so on, more capriciously perhaps than any other home-made article. Nobody was expected to finish a rug within a calculable period, and the wools of the beginning became faded and historical before the end was reached. A sense of this inherent nature of worsted work rather than idleness led Anne to look rather frequently from the open casement.

Immediately before her was the large smooth mill-pond, overfull, and intruding into the hedge and into the road. The water, with its floating leaves and spots of froth, was stealing away, like Time, under the dark arch, to tumble over the great slimy wheel within. On the other side of the mill-pond was an open place called the Cross, because it was three-quarters of one, two lanes and a cattle-drive meeting there. It was the general rendezvous and arena of the surrounding village. Behind this a steep slope rose high into the sky, merging in a wide and open down, now littered with sheep newly shorn. The upland by its height completely sheltered the mill and village from north winds, making summers of springs, reducing winters to autumn temperatures, and permitting myrtles to flourish in the open air.

The heaviness of noon pervaded the scene, and under its influence the sheep had ceased to feed. Nobody was standing at the village Cross, the few inhabitants being indoors at their dinner. No human being was on the down, and no human eye or interest but Anne's seemed to be concerned with it. The bees still worked on, and the butterflies did not rest from roving, their smallness seeming to shield them from the stagnating effect that this turning moment of day had on larger creatures. Otherwise all was still.

The girl glanced at the down and the sheep for no particular reason; simply that the steep margin of turf and daisies rising above the roofs, chimneys, apple-trees and church tower of the hamlet around her, bounded the view from her position, and it was necessary to look somewhere when she raised her head. While thus engaged in working and stopping, her attention was attracted by the sudden rising and running away of the sheep squatted on the down; and there succeeded sounds of a heavy tramping over the hard sod which the sheep had quitted, the tramp being accompanied by a metallic clanking. Turning her eyes further she beheld two cavalry soldiers on bulky gray chargers, armed and accoutered throughout, ascending the down at a point to the left where the incline was comparatively easy. The burnished chains, buckles, and plates of their trappings shone like little looking-glasses, and the blue, red, and white about them was unsubdued by weather or wear.

The two troopers rode proudly on, as if nothing less than crowns and empires ever concerned their magnificent minds. They reached that part of the down which lay just in front of her, where they came to a halt. In another minute there appeared behind them a group containing some half-dozen more of the same sort. These came on, halted, and dismounted likewise.

Two of the soldiers then walked some distance onward together, when one stood still, the other advancing further, and stretching a white line or tape between them. Two more of the men marched to another outlying point, where they made marks in the ground. Thus they walked about and took distances, obviously according to some preconcerted scheme.

At the end of this systematic proceeding one solitary trooper—a commissioned officer, if his uniform could be judged rightly at that distance—rode up and down, went over the ground, looked at what the others had done, and seemed to think that it was good. And then the girl heard yet louder tramps and clankings, and she beheld rising from where the others had risen a whole column of cavalry in marching order. At a distance behind there came a cloud of dust enveloping more and more troops, their arms and accouterments reflecting the sun through the haze in faint flashes, stars, and streaks of light. The whole body approached slowly toward the plateau at the top of the down.

Anne threw down her work, and letting her eyes remain on the nearing masses of cavalry, the worsteds getting entangled as they would, said, Mother, mother; come here! Here's such a fine sight. What does it mean? What can they be going to do up there?

The mother thus invoked ran upstairs, entered the room, and came forward to the window. She was a woman with a sanguine mouth and eye, unheroic manner, and pleasant general appearance; a little more tarnished as to surface, but not much worse in contour than the girl herself.

Widow Garland's thoughts were those of the period. Can it be the French? she said, arranging herself for the extremest form of consternation. Can that arch enemy of mankind have landed at last? It should be stated that at this time there were two arch enemies of mankind, Satan as usual, and Bonaparte, who had sprung up and eclipsed his elder rival altogether. Mrs. Garland alluded, of course, to the junior gentleman.

It can not be he, said Anne. Ah! there's Simon Burden, the man who watches at the beacon. He'll know!

She waved her hand to an aged form of the same color as the road, who had just appeared beyond the mill-pond, and who, though active, was bowed to that degree which almost reproaches a feeling observer for standing upright. The arrival of the soldiery had drawn him out from his drop of drink at the Three Mariners as it had attracted Anne. At her call he crossed the mill-bridge, and came toward the window that framed in the two women.

Anne inquired of him what it all meant, but Simon Burden, without answering, continued to move on with parted gums, staring at the cavalry on his own private account with the concern that people often show about temporal phenomena when such matters can affect them but a short time longer. You'll walk into the mill-pond! said Anne. What are they doing? You were a soldier many years ago, and ought to know.

Don't ask me, Mis'ess Anne, said the military relic, depositing his body against the wall one limb at a time. I were only in the foot, ye know, and never had a clear understanding of horses. Ay, I be a old man, and of no judgment now. Some additional pressure, however, caused him to search further in his worm-eaten magazine of ideas, and he found that he did know in a dim, irresponsible way. The soldiers must have come there to camp; those men they had seen first were the markers; they had come on before the rest to measure out the ground. He who had accompanied them was the quartermaster. And so you see they have got all the lines marked out by the time the regiment have come up, he added. And then they will—well-a-deary! who'd ha' supposed that Overcombe would see such a day as this!

And then they will—

Then—Ah, it's gone from me again! said Simon. Oh, and then they will raise their tents, you know, and picket their horses. That was it; so it was.

By this time the column of horse had ascended into full view, and they formed a lively spectacle as they rode along the high ground in marching order, backed by the pale blue sky, and lit by the southerly sun. Their uniform was bright and attractive; they wore white buckskin pantaloons, three-quarter boots, scarlet shakos set off with lace, mustaches waxed to a needle point; and above all, those richly ornamented blue jackets mantled with the historic pelisse—that fascination to women, and incumbrance to the wearers themselves.

'Tis the York Hussars, said Simon Burden, brightening like a dying ember fanned. Foreigners to a man, and enrolled long since my time. But as good hearty comrades, they say, as you'll find in the king's service.

Here are more and different ones, said Mrs. Garland.

Other troops had, during the last few minutes, been ascending the down at a remoter point, and now drew near. These were of different weight and build from the others; lighter men, in helmet hats with white plumes.

I don't know which I like best, said Anne. These, I think, after all.

Simon, who had been looking hard at the latter, now said that they were the —th Dragoons.

All Englishmen they, said the old man. They lay at Weymouth Barracks a few years ago.

They did. I remember it, said Mrs. Garland.

And lots of the chaps about here listed at the time, said Simon. I can call to mind that there was—ah, 'tis gone from me again! However, all that's of little account now.

The dragoons passed in front of the lookers-on as the others had done, and then gay plumes, which had hung lazily during the ascent, swung to northward as they reached the top, showing that on the summit a fresh breeze blew. But look across there, said Anne. There had entered upon the down from another direction several battalions of foot, in white kerseymere breeches and cloth gaiters. They seemed to be weary from a long march, the original black of their gaiters and boots being whity-brown with dust. Presently came regimental wagons, and the private canteen carts which followed at the end of a convoy.

The space in front of the mill-pond was now occupied by nearly all the inhabitants of the village, who had turned out in alarm, and remained for pleasure, their eyes lighted up with interest in what they saw; for trappings and regimentals, war-horses and men, in towns an attraction, were here almost a sublimity.

The troops filed to their lines, dismounted, and in quick time took off their accouterments, rolled up their sheep-skins, picketed and unbitted their horses, and made ready to erect the tents as soon as they could be taken from the wagons and brought forward. When this was done, at a given signal the canvases flew up from the sod; and thenceforth every man had a place in which to lay his head.

Though nobody seemed to be looking on but the few at the window and in the village street, there were, as a matter of fact, many eyes converging upon that military arrival in its high and conspicuous position, not to mention the glances of birds and other wild creatures. Men in distant gardens, women in orchards and at cottage doors, shepherds on remote hills, turnip-hoers in blue-green inclosures miles away, captains with spyglasses out at sea, were regarding the picture keenly. Those three or four thousand men of one machine-like movement, some of them swash-bucklers by nature, others doubtless, of a quiet, shop-keeping disposition who had inadvertently got into uniform—all of them had arrived from nobody knew where, and hence were matter of great curiosity. They seemd to the mere eye to belong to a different order of beings from those who inhabited the valleys below. Apparently unconscious and careless of what all the world was doing elsewhere, they remained picturesquely engrossed in the business of making themselves a habitation on the isolated spot which they had chosen.

Mrs. Garland was of a festive and sanguine turn of mind, a woman soon set up and soon set down, and the coming of the regiments quite excited her. She thought there was reason for putting on her best cap, thought that perhaps there was not; that she would hurry on the dinner and go out in the afternoon; then that she would, after all, do nothing unusual, nor show any silly excitements whatever, since they were unbecoming in a mother and a widow. Thus circumscribing her intentions till she was toned down to an ordinary person of forty, Mrs. Garland accompanied her daughter downstairs to dine, saying, Presently we will call on Miller Loveday, and hear what he thinks of it all.

CHAPTER II

IN WHICH SOMEBODY KNOCKS AND COMES IN

MILLER LOVEDAY was the representative of an ancient family of corn-grinders whose history is lost in the mists of antiquity. His ancestral line was contemporaneous with that of De Ros, Howard, and De la Zouche; but owing to some trifling deficiency in the possessions of the house of Loveday the individual names and intermarriages of its members were not recorded during the Middle Ages, and thus their private lives in any given century were uncertain. But it was known that the family had formed matrimonial alliances with farmers not so very small, and once with a gentleman tanner, who had for many years purchased after their death the horses of the most aristocratic persons in the county—fiery steeds that earlier in their career had been valued at many hundred guineas. It was also ascertained that Mr. Loveday's great-grandparents had been eight in number, and his great-great-grandparents sixteen; everyone of whom reached to years of discretion: at every stage backward his sires and gammers thus doubled and doubled till they became a vast body of Gothic ladies and gentlemen of the rank known as ceorls or villeins, full of importance to the country at large, and ramifying throughout the unwritten history of England. His immediate father had greatly improved the value of their residence by building a new chimney and setting up an additional pair of millstones.

Overcombe Mill presented at one end the appearance of a hard-worked house slipping into the river, and at the other of an idle genteel place, half-cloaked with creepers at this time of the year, and having no visible connection with flour. It had hips instead of gables, giving it a round-shouldered look, four chimneys with no smoke coming out of them, two zigzag cracks in the wall, several open windows, with a looking-glass here and there inside showing its warped back to the passerby, snowy dimity curtains waving in the draught; two mill doors, one above the other, the upper enabling a person to step out upon nothing at a height of ten feet from the ground; a gaping arch vomiting the river, and a lean, long-nosed fellow looking out from the mill door-way, who was the hired grinder, except when a bulging fifteen-stone man occupied the same place, namely, the miller himself.

Behind the mill door, and invisible to the mere wayfarer who did not visit the family, were chalked addition and substraction sums, many of them originally done wrong, and the figures half rubbed out and corrected, noughts being turned into nines, and ones into twos. These were the miller's private calculations. There were also chalked in the same place rows and rows of strokes like open palings, representing the calculations of the grinder, who in his youthful ciphering studies had not gone so far as Arabic figures.

In the court in front were two worn-out millstones, made useful again by being let in level with the ground. Here people stood to smoke and consider things in muddy weather; and cats slept on the clean surfaces when it was hot. In the large stubbard-tree at the corner of the garden was erected a pole of larch fir, which the miller had bought with others at a sale of small timber in Lammer's Wood one Christmas week. It rose from the upper boughs of the tree to about the height of a fisherman's mast, and on the top was a vane in the form of a sailor with his arm stretched out. When the sun shone upon this figure it could be seen that the greater part of his countenance was gone, and the paint washed from his body so far as to reveal that he had been a soldier in red before he became a sailor in blue. The image had, in fact, been John, one of our coming characters, and was then turned into Robert, another of them. This revolving piece of statuary could not, however, be relied on as a vane, owing to the neighboring hill, which formed variable currents in the wind.

The leafy and quieter wing of the mill-house was the part occupied by Mrs. Garland and her daughter, who made up in summer time for the narrowness of their quarters by overflowing considerably into the garden on stools and chairs. The parlor or dining-room had a stone floor, a fact which the widow sought, to disguise by double carpeting, lest the standing of Anne and herself should be lowered in the public eye by the use of the room in its primitive state. Here now the midday meal went lightly and mincingly on, as it does where there is no greedy carnivorous man to keep the dishes about, and was hanging on the close when somebody entered the passage as far as the chink of the parlor door, and tapped. This proceeding was probably adopted to kindly avoid giving trouble to Susan, the neighbor's pink daughter, who helped at Mrs. Garland's in the mornings, but was at that moment particularly occupied in standing on the water-butt and gazing at the soldiers, with an inhaling position of the jawbone and circular eyes.

There was a flutter in the little dining-room—the sensitiveness of habitual solitude makes hearts beat for preternaturally small reasons—and a guessing as to who the visitor might be was hurriedly made. It was some military gentleman from the camp, perhaps? No, that was impossible. It was the parson? No, he would not come at dinner time. It was the well-informed man who traveled with drapery and the best Birmingham ear-rings? Not at all; his time was not till Thursday at three. Before they could think further the visitor moved forward another step, and the diners got a glimpse of him through the same friendly chink that had afforded him a view of the Garland dinner-table.

O! it is only Loveday!

This approximation to nobody was the miller above mentioned, a hale man of fifty-five or sixty—hale all through, as many were in those days, and not merely veneered with purple by exhilarating victuals and drinks, though the latter were not at all despised by him. His face was indeed rather pale than otherwise, for he had just come from the mill. It was capable of immense changes of expression; mobility was its essence, a roll of flesh forming a buttress to his nose on each side, and a deep ravine lying between his lower lip and the tumulus represented by his chin. These fleshy lumps moved stealthily, as if of their own accord, whenever his fancy was tickled.

His eyes having lighted on the tablecloth, plates, and viands, he found himself in a position which had a sensible awkwardness for a modest man who always liked to enter only at seasonable times the presence of a girl of such pleasantly soft ways as Anne Garland, she who could make apples seem like peaches, and throw over her shillings the glamour of guineas when she paid him for flour.

Dinner is over, neighbor Loveday; please come in, said the widow, seeing his case, and wondering why he called at that unusual hour. The miller said something about coming in presently, but Anne, who always liked his news, pressed him to stay, with a tender motion of her lip as it played on the verge of a solicitous smile without quite lapsing into one—her habitual manner when speaking.

Loveday took off his low-crowned hat and advanced as if he had thought that this might be the end of it. He had not come about pigs or fowls this time, he said. Seeing their door open as he passed, he determined to step in and tell them some news. You have been looking out, like the rest o' us, no doubt, Mrs. Garland, at the mampus of soldiers that have come upon the down?

She said pleasantly that they had both been doing so.

Well, said Loveday, one of the horse regiments is the —th Dragoons, my son John's regiment, you know.

The announcement, though it interested them, did not create such an effect as the father of John had seemed to anticipate; but Anne, who liked to say pleasant things, replied, The dragoons looked nicer than the foot or the German cavalry either.

They are a handsome body of men, said the miller, in a disinterested voice. Faith! I didn't know they were coming, though it may be in the newspaper all the time. But old Derriman keeps it so long that we never know things till they be in everybody's mouth.

This Derriman was a squireen living near, who was chiefly distinguished in the present warlike time by having a nephew in the yeomanry.

We are told that the yeomanry went along the turnpike road yesterday, said Anne, following out his track of thought; and they say that they were a pretty sight, and quite soldierly.

Ah! well—they be not regulars, said Miller Loveday, keeping back harsher criticism as uncalled for. But inflamed by the arrival of the dragoons, which had been the exciting cause of his call, his mind would not go to the yeomanry. John has not been home these five years, he said.

And what rank does he hold now? said the widow.

He's trumpet-major, ma'am; and a good musician.

The miller, who was a good father, went on to explain that John had seen some service too. He had enlisted when the regiment was lying at Weymouth, more than eleven years before, which put his father out of temper with him, as he had wished him to follow on at the mill. But as the lad had enlisted seriously, and without a drop of drink in him, and as he had often said that he would be a soldier, the miller had thought that he would let Jack take his chance in the profession of his choice.