 40. A call on business. Her suspense was interrupted by a very gentle tapping at the door, and then the rustle of the hand over its surface, as if searching for the latch in the dark. The door opened a few inches, and the alabaster face of Uncle Benjy appeared in the slit. "'Oh, Squire Derrimon, you frighten me!' "'All alone,' he asked him in a whisper. "'My mother and Mr. Loveday are somewhere about the house.' "'That'll do,' he said, coming forward. "'I be worried out of my life, and I have thought of you again. You yourself, dear Anne, and not the miller. If you'll only take this and lock it up for a few days till I can find another good place for it. If you only would!' And he breathlessly deposited the tin box on the table. "'What, obliged to did it get up from the cellar?' "'I, my nephew, have a scent of the place. How I don't know. But he and a young woman he's met, worth R, is searching everywhere. I worked like a wire-drawer to get it up and away while they were scraping in the next cellar. "'Now, where could he put it, dear? There's only a few documents, and my will, and such like, you know. Paul's soloing me. I'm worn out with running and fright.' "'I'll put it here till I can think of a better place,' said Anne, lifting the box. "'Dear me, how heavy it is!' "'Yes, yes,' said Uncle Benjy hastily. "'The box is iron, you see. However, take care of it, because I'm going to make it worth your while.' "'Ah, you're a good girl, Anne. I wish she was mine.' Anne looked at Uncle Benjy. She had known for some time that she possessed all the affection he had to bestow. "'Why do you wish that?' she said simply. "'Now, don't you argue with me. Where do you put the coffer?' "'Here,' said Anne, going to the window-seat, which rose as a flap, disclosing a boxed receptacle beneath, as in many old houses. "'It is very well for the present,' he said dubiously, and they dropped the coffer in, and locking down the seat and giving him the key. "'Now, I don't want you to be on my side for nothing,' he went on. "'I never did, now, did I. This is for you.' He handed her a little packet of paper which Anne turned over and looked at curiously. "'I was meant to do it,' continued Uncle Benjy, gazing at the packet as it lay in her hand and sighing. "'Come, open it, my dear. I was meant to do it.' She opened it, and found twenty new guineas snugly packed within. "'Yes, they are for you. I was meant to do it,' he said, sighing again. "'But you owe me nothing,' returned Anne, holding them out. "'Don't say it,' cried Uncle Benjy, covering his eyes. "'Put them away. What if you don't want them? But put them away, dear Anne. They're for you, because you've kept my counsel. "'Good night to you. Yes, they're for you.' He went a few steps, and turning back, added anxiously. "'You won't spend them in clothes or waste them in fairings or ornaments of any kind, my dear girl?' "'I will not,' said Anne. I wish you would have them.' "'No, no,' said Uncle Benjy, rushing off to escape their shine. But he got no further than the passage when he returned again. "'And you won't lend them to anybody or put them into the bank, for no bank is safe in these troublesome times. "'If I was used, I'd keep them exactly as they be, and not spend them on any account. "'Shall I lock them into my box for you?' "'Certainly,' said she, and the farmer rapidly unlocked the window-bench, opened the box, and locked them in. "'It is much the best plan,' he said, with great satisfaction, as he returned the keys to his pocket. "'There they will always be safe, you see, and you won't be exposed to temptation.' When the old man had been gone a few minutes, the miller and his wife came in, quite unconscious of all that had passed. Anne's anxiety about Bob was again uppermost now, and she spoke but meagrely of old Edheriman's visit, and nothing of what he had left. She would faint of ask them if they knew where Bob was, but that she did not wish to inform them of the rupture. She was forced to admit to herself that she had somewhat tried his patience, and that impulsive men had been known to do dark things with themselves at such times. They sat down to supper, the clock ticked rapidly on, and at length the miller said, "'Bob's later than usual. Where can he be?' As they both looked at her, she could no longer keep the secret. "'It is my fault,' she cried. "'I have driven him away. What shall I do?' The nature of the quarrel was at once guessed, and her two elders said no more. Anne rose and went to the front door, where she listened for every sound with a palpitating heart. Then she went in, then she went out, and on one occasion she heard the miller say, "'I wonder what has passed between Bob and Anne? I hope the chat will come home.' Just about this time light footsteps were heard without, and Bob bounced into the passage. Anne, who stood back in the dark when he passed, followed him into the room, where her mother and the miller were on the point of retiring to bed, candle in hand. "'I have kept you up, I fear,' began Bob cheerily, and apparently without the faintest recollection of his tragic exit from the house. But the truth on it is, I met with Fess Derriman at the Duke of York as I went from here, and there we have been playing put ever since, not noticing how the time was going. "'I have not a good chat with the fellow for years and years. Really, he is an out-and-out good comrade, a regular arty.' Poor fellow, he's been being very badly used. I never heard the rites of the story till now, but it seems that old uncle of his treats him shamefully. He's been hiding away his money, so that poor Fess might not have a farthing, till at last the young man has turned like any other worm, and is now determined to ferret out what he has done with it. The poor young chap hadn't a farthing of ready money till I lent him a couple of guineas. I think I never did more willingly in my life. But the man was very honourable. No, no, says he. Don't let me deprive you. He's going to marry. And what may you think he's going to do it for?' "'For love, I hope,' said man's mother. "'For money, I suppose, since he's so short,' said the miller. "'No,' said Bob, for spite. "'He's been badly served, accused badly served, by a woman. I never heard of a more heartless case in my life.' The poor chap won't mention names, but it seems this young woman has trifled with him in all manner of cruel ways, pushed him into the river, tried to steal his horse when he was called out to defend his country. In short, served him rascally. So I gave him the two guineas, and said, "'Now let's drink to the Aussies' downfall.' "'Oh!' said Anne, having approached behind him. Bob turned and saw her, and at the same moment Mr. and Mrs. Loveday discreetly retired by the other door. "'Is it peace?' he asked tenderly. "'Oh, yes,' she anxiously replied. "'I didn't mean to make you think I had no heart.' At this Bob inclined his countenance towards hers. "'No,' she said, smiling through two incipient tears as she drew back. "'You ought to show good behaviour for six months, and you must promise not to frighten me again by running off when I show you how badly you have served me.' "'I am yours obedient in anything,' cried Bob. "'But am I pardoned?' Youth is foolish, and as a woman often let her reasoning in favour of the worthier stand in the way of her perverse desire for the less worthy at such times as these.' She murmured some soft words, ending with, "'Do you repent?' "'It would be superfluous to transcribe Bob's answer.' Footsteps were heard without. "'What we can't I forgot,' said Bob. "'He's waiting out there for a light.' "'Who?' "'My friend Derriman.' "'But Bob, I have to explain.' "'But Festus had by this time entered the lobby, and Anne, with a hasty, get rid of him at once.' Vanished upstairs. Here she waited and waited, but Festus did not seem inclined to depart, and at last, foreboding some collision of interests from Bob's new friendship for this man, she crept into a storeroom which was over the apartment into which Loveday and Festus had gone. By looking through a knot hole in the floor, it was easy to command a view of the room beneath, this being unsealed with moulded beams and rafters. Festus had sat down on the hollow window-bench and was continuing the statement of his wrongs. He only knew what he was sitting upon, she thought apprehensively, how easily he could tear up the flap lock and all with his strong arm and seize upon poor old Uncle Bench's possessions. But he did not appear to know, unless he were acting, which was just possible. After a while he rose and, going to the table, lifted the candle to light his pipe. At the moment when the flame began diving into the bowl, the door noiselessly opened and a figure slipped across the room to the window-bench, hastily unlocked it, withdrew the box, and beat a retreat. And in a moment recognized the ghostly intruder as Festus' dareman's uncle. Before he could get out of the room, Festus set down the candle and turned. What, Uncle Bench, ha-ha, here of this time of night? Uncle Bench's eyes grew paralysed and his mouth opened and shut like a fog's in a drought, the action producing no sound. What have we got here? A tin box? The box of boxes. Why, I'll carry it for you, Uncle. I'm going home. No, no, no, thank ye, Festus. It's not heavy at all, thank ye. Gasp for the squireen. Oh, but I must! said Festus, pulling at the box. Don't let him have it, Bob! screamed at the excited Anne through the hole in the floor. No, don't let him! cried the uncle. There's a plot! There's a woman at the window waiting to help him. Anne's eyes flew to the window and she saw Matilda's face pressed against the pane. Bob, though he did not know whence Anne's command proceeded, obeyed with alacrity, pulled the box from the two relatives and placed it on the table beside him. Now, look here, Arties, what's the meaning of this? he said. He's trying to rob me of all I possess! cried the old man. My heartstrings seem as if they were going crack, crack, crack! At this instant the miller in his shirt-sleeves entered the room, having got thus far in his undressing when he heard the noise. Bob and Festus turned to him to explain, and when the latter had had his say, Bob added, Well, all I know is that this box—here he stretched out his hand to lay it upon the lid for emphasis—but as nothing but thin air met his fingers where the box had been, he turned and found that the box was gone, Uncle Benjy having vanished also. Festus, with an implication hastened to the door, but though the night was not dark, Farmer Derriman and his burden were nowhere to be seen. On the bridge Festus joined a shadowy female form, and they went along the road together, followed for some distance by Bob lest they should meet with and harm the old man. But the precaution was unnecessary. Nowhere on the road was there any sign of Farmer Derriman or of the box that belonged to him. When Bob re-entered the house, Anne, a Mrs. Loveday, had joined the miller downstairs, and then for the first time he learned who had been the herring of Festus's lamentable story, with many other particulars of that human's history which he had never before known. Bob swore that he would not speak to the traitor again, and the family retired. The escape of old Mr. Derriman from the annoyances of his nephew not only held good for that night, but for next day and for ever. Just after dawn on the following morning, a labouring man who had gone to his work saw the old Farmer and land-owner leaning over a rail and a mead near his house, apparently engaged in contemplating the water of a brook before him. Drawing near, the man spoke, but Uncle Benjy did not reply. His head was hanging strangely, his body being supported in its erect position entirely by the rail that passed under each arm. And after examination it was found that Uncle Benjy's poor, withered heart had cracked and stopped its beating from damages inflicted on it by the excitements of his life and of the previous night in particular. The unconscious carcass was little more than a light, empty husk, dry and fleshless as that of a dead heron found on a moor in January. But the tin box was not discovered with or near him. He was searched for all the week and all the month. The mill-pond was dragged, quarries were examined, woods were threaded, rewards were offered. But in vain. At length, one day, in the spring, when the mill-house was about to be cleaned throughout, the chimney-board of Anne's bedroom concealing a yawning fireplace had to be taken down. In the chasm behind stood the missing deed-box of Farmer Derriman. Many were the conjectures as to how it had got there. Then Anne remembered that on going to bed on the night of the collision between Festus and his uncle in the room below, she had seen mud on the carpet of her room, and the miller remembered that he had seen footprints on the back staircase. The solution of the mystery seemed to be that the late Uncle Benji, instead of running off from the house with his box, had doubled on getting out of the front door, entered at the back, deposited his box in Anne's chamber where it was found, and then allegedly pursued his way home at the heels of Festus, intending to tell Anne of his trick the next day. An intention that was for ever frustrated by the stroke of death. Mr. Derriman's solicitor was a castor-bridge man, and Anne placed the box in his hands. Uncle Benji's will was discovered within. And by this testament Anne's queer old friend appointed her sole executrix of his said will, and more than that gave him bequeathed to the same young lady all his real and personal estate, with the solitary exception of five small freehold houses in a back street in Budmouth, which were devised to his nephew Festus, as a sufficient property to maintain him decently, without affording any margin for extravagances. Oxwell Hall, with his muddy quadrangle, archways, mullioned windows, cracked battlements, and weed-grown garden, passed with the rest into the hands of Anne. End of Chapter 40, Recording by Simon Evers Chapter 41 of The Trumpet Major. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Trumpet Major by Thomas Hardy Chapter 41, John marches into the night During this exciting time, John Loveday seldom or never appeared at the mill. With the recall of Bob, in which he had been sole agent, his mission seemed to be complete. One midday before Anne had made any change in her manner of living, on account of her unexpected acquisition, Lieutenant Bob came in rather suddenly. He had been to Budmouth and announced to the arrested senses of the family that the nth dragoons were ordered to join Sir Arthur Wellesley in the peninsula. These tidings produced a great impression on the household. John had been so long in the neighborhood, either at camp or I barracks, that they had almost forgotten the possibility of his being sent away, and they now began to reflect upon the singular infrequency of his calls since his brother's return. There was not much time, however, for reflection, if they wished to make the most of John's farewell visit, which was to be paid the same evening, the departure of the regiment being fixed for next day. A hurried, valedictory supper was prepared during the afternoon, and shortly afterwards, John arrived. He seemed to be more thoughtful and a trifle paler than of old, but beyond these traces, which might have been due to the natural wear and tear of time, he showed no signs of gloom. On his way through the town that morning, a curious little incident had occurred to him. He was walking past one of the churches when a wedding party came forth, the bride and bridegroom, being Matilda and Festus Derriman. At sight of the trumpet major, the yeoman had glared triumphantly, but Matilda, on her part, had winked at him slyly as much as to say. But what she meant, Heaven's knows, the trumpet major did not trouble himself to think and passed on without returning the mark of confidence with which she had favored him. Soon after John's arrival at the mill, several of his friends dropped in for the same purpose of bidding adieu. They were mostly the men who had been entertained there on the occasion of the regiment's advent on the down when Anne and her mother were coaxed in to grace the party by their superior presence. And their well-trained, gallant manners were such as to make them interesting visitors now as at all times. For it was a period when romance had not so greatly faded out of military life, as it has done in these days of short service, heterogeneous mixing, and transient campaigns. When the esprit décor was strong and long experience stamped noteworthy professional characteristics, even on rank and file, while the miller's visitors had the additional advantage of being picked men. They could not stay so long tonight as on that earlier and more cheerful occasion and the final adieu's were spoken at an early hour. It was no mere playing at departure as when they had gone to Exenbury barracks and there was a warm and prolonged shaking of hands all round. You'll wish the poor fellows goodbye, said Bob to Anne, who had not come forward for that purpose like the rest. They are going away and would like to have your good word. She then shyly advanced and every man felt that he must make some pretty speech as he shook her by the hand. Goodbye, may you remember us as long as it makes ye happy and forget us as soon as it makes ye sad, said Sergeant Brett. Good night, health, wealth, and long life to ye, said Sergeant Major Wills, taking her hand from Brett. I trust and meet ye again as the wife of a worthy man, said Trumpeter Buck. We'll drink your health throughout the campaign and so goodbye to ye, said Saddler Sergeant Jones, raising her hand to his lips. Three others followed with similar remarks to each of which Anne blushingly replied as well as she could, wishing them a prosperous voyage, easy conquest, and a speedy return. But alas for that, battles and skirmishes, advances and retreats, fevers and fatigues told hard on Anne's gallant friends in the coming time. Of the seven upon whom these wishes were bestowed, five, including the trumpet major, were dead men within the few following years, and their bones left to molder in the land of their campaigns. John lingered behind. When the others were outside expressing a final farewell to his father, Bob and Mrs. Loveday, he came to Anne who remained within. But I thought ye were going to look in again before leaving, she said gently. No, I find I cannot. Goodbye. John, said Anne, holding his right hand in both hers. I must tell ye something, ye were wise in not taking me at my word that day. I was greatly mistaken about myself. Gratitude is not love, though I wanted to make it so for the time. You don't call me thoughtless for what I did? My dear Anne, cried John, with more gaiety than truthfulness, don't let yourself be troubled. What happens is for the best. Soldiers love here today and there tomorrow. Who knows that you won't hear of my attentions to some Spanish maid before a month has gone by. Tis the way of us, ye know, a soldier's heart is not worth a week's purchase. Goodbye. Goodbye. Anne felt the expediency of his manner, received the affection as real, and smiled her reply, not knowing that the idea was for evermore. Then, with a tear in his eye, he went out of the door, where he bade farewell to the miller, Mrs. Loveday and Bob, who said at parting, It's all right, Jack, my dear fellow. After a coaxing that would have been enough to win three ordinary English women, five French, and ten mulattres, she has today agreed to bestow her hand upon me at the end of six months. Goodbye, Jack. Goodbye. The candle held by his father shed its waving light upon John's face and uniform, as with a farewell smile he turned on the doorstone, backed by the black night. And in another moment he had plunged into the darkness, the ring of his smart step dying away upon the bridge, as he joined his companions in arms, and went off to blow his trumpet, till silenced forever upon one of the bloody battlefields of Spain. End of Chapter 41. Recording by Aaron Elliott, St. Louis, Missouri. End of The Trumpet Major by Thomas Hardy.