‘Poor Matilda!’ murmured Bob.
‘There—I was afraid ’twould hurt thy feelings,’ said the miller, with self-reproach: ‘making preparations for thy wedding, and using them for my own!’
‘No,’ said Bob heroically; ‘it shall not. It will be a great comfort in my sorrow to feel that the splendid grub, and the ale, and your stunning new suit of clothes, and the great table-cloths you’ve bought, will be just as useful now as if I had married myself. Poor Matilda! But you won’t expect me to join in—you hardly can. I can sheer off that day very easily, you know.’
‘Nonsense, Bob!’ said the miller reproachfully.
‘I couldn’t stand it—I should break down.’
‘Deuce take me if I would have asked her, then, if I had known ’twas going to drive thee out of the house! Now, come, Bob, I’ll find a way of arranging it and sobering it down, so that it shall be as melancholy as you can require—in short, just like a funeral, if thou’lt promise to stay?’
‘Very well,’ said the afflicted one. ‘On that condition I’ll stay.’
XXI. ‘UPON THE HILL HE TURNED’
Having entered into this solemn compact with his son, the elder Loveday’s next action was to go to Mrs. Garland, and ask her how the toning down of the wedding had best be done. ‘It is plain enough that to make merry just now would be slighting Bob’s feelings, as if we didn’t care who was not married, so long as we were,’ he said. ‘But then, what’s to be done about the victuals?’
‘Give a dinner to the poor folk,’ she suggested. ‘We can get everything used up that way.’