Her suspense was interrupted by a very gentle tapping at the door, and then the rustle of a 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.
'O, Squire Derriman, you frighten me!'
'All alone?' he asked in a whisper.
'My mother and Mr. Loveday are somewhere about the house.'
'That will do,' he said, coming forward. 'I be wherrited out of my life, and I have thought of you again--you yourself, dear Anne, and not the miller. If you will 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 dig it up from the cellar?'
'Ay; my nephew hath a scent of the place--how, I don't know! but he and a young woman he's met with are 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 ye put it, dear. 'Tis only a few documents, and my will, and such like, you know. Poor soul o' 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 am going to make it worth your while. Ah, you are a good girl, Anne. I wish you 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 ye argue with me. Where d'ye 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.
''Tis very well for the present,' he said dubiously, and they dropped the coffer in, Anne locking down the seat, and giving him the key. 'Now I don't want ye 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 always 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 always meant to do it!'
She opened it and found twenty new guineas snugly packed within.
'Yes, they are for you. I always 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 'em away. . . . Well, if you DON'T want 'em--But put 'em away, dear Anne; they are for you, because you have kept my counsel.
Good-night t'ye. Yes, they are for you.'
He went a few steps, and turning back added anxiously, 'You won't spend 'em in clothes, or waste 'em 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 had got no further than the passage when he returned again.
'And you won't lend 'em to anybody, or put 'em into the bank--for no bank is safe in these troublous times?. . . If I was you I'd keep them EXACTLY as they be, and not spend 'em on any account. Shall I lock them into my box for ye?'
'Certainly,' said she; and the farmer rapidly unlocked the window-bench, opened the box, and locked them in.
''Tis 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 Derriman's visit, and nothing of what he had left.
She would fain have asked 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 is 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 hath passed between Bob and Anne. I hope the chap 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 while 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 ye up, I fear,' began Bob cheerily, and apparently without the faintest recollection of his tragic exit from the house.
'But the truth on't 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 haven't had a good chat with the fellow for years and years, and really he is an out and out good comrade--a regular hearty. Poor fellow, he's been very badly used. I never heard the rights of the story till now; but it seems that old uncle of his treats him shamefully. He has 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--a thing I never did more willingly in my life. But the man was very honourable. "No; no," says he, "don't let me deprive ye.. He's going to marry, and what may you think he is going to do it for?'
'For love, I hope,' said Anne's mother.
'For money, I suppose, since he's so short,' said the miller.
