On reflection he remembered that since Miss Johnson’s departure his appetite had decreased amazingly. He had eaten in meat no more than fourteen or fifteen ounces a day, but one-third of a quartern pudding on an average, in vegetables only a small heap of potatoes and half a York cabbage, and no gravy whatever; which, considering the usual appetite of a seaman for fresh food at the end of a long voyage, was no small index of the depression of his mind. Then he had waked once every night, and on one occasion twice. While dressing each morning since the gloomy day he had not whistled more than seven bars of a hornpipe without stopping and falling into thought of a most painful kind; and he had told none but absolutely true stories of foreign parts to the neighbouring villagers when they saluted and clustered about him, as usual, for anything he chose to pour forth—except that story of the whale whose eye was about as large as the round pond in Derriman’s ewe-lease—which was like tempting fate to set a seal for ever upon his tongue as a traveller. All this enervation, mental and physical, had been produced by Matilda’s departure.
He also considered what he had lost of the rational amusements of manhood during these unfortunate days. He might have gone to the neighbouring fashionable resort every afternoon, stood before Gloucester Lodge till the King and Queen came out, held his hat in his hand, and enjoyed their Majesties’ smiles at his homage all for nothing—watched the picket-mounting, heard the different bands strike up, observed the staff; and, above all, have seen the pretty town girls go trip-trip-trip along the esplanade, deliberately fixing their innocent eyes on the distant sea, the grey cliffs, and the sky, and accidentally on the soldiers and himself.
‘I’ll raze out her image,’ he said. ‘She shall make a fool of me no more.’ And his resolve resulted in conduct which had elements of real greatness.
He went back to his father, whom he found in the mill-loft. ‘’Tis true, father, what you say,’ he observed: ‘my brains will turn to bilge-water if I think of her much longer. By the oath of a—navigator, I wish I could sigh less and laugh more! She’s gone—why can’t I let her go, and be happy? But how begin?’
‘Take it careless, my son,’ said the miller, ‘and lay yourself out to enjoy snacks and cordials.’
‘Ah—that’s a thought!’ said Bob.
‘Baccy is good for’t. So is sperrits. Though I don’t advise thee to drink neat.’
‘Baccy—I’d almost forgot it!’ said Captain Loveday.
He went to his room, hastily untied the package of tobacco that he had brought home, and began to make use of it in his own way, calling to David for a bottle of the old household mead that had lain in the cellar these eleven years. He was discovered by his father three-quarters of an hour later as a half-invisible object behind a cloud of smoke.
The miller drew a breath of relief. ‘Why, Bob,’ he said, ‘I thought the house was a-fire!’