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The Romantic Adventures Of A
Milkmaid
By
Francis Hodgson Burnett
Contents
It was half-past four o'clock (by the testimon=
y of
the land-surveyor, my authority for the particulars of this story, a gentle=
man
with the faintest curve of humour on his lips); it was half-past four o'clo=
ck on
a May morning in the eighteen forties.&nbs=
p;
A dense white fog hung over the Valley of the Exe, ending against the
hills on either side.
But though nothing in the vale could be seen f=
rom
higher ground, notes of differing kinds gave pretty clear indications that
bustling life was going on there.
This audible presence and visual absence of an active scene had a
peculiar effect above the fog level.
Nature had laid a white hand over the creatures ensconced within the
vale, as a hand might be laid over a nest of chirping birds.
The noises that ascended through the pallid
coverlid were perturbed lowings, mingled with human voices in sharps and fl=
ats,
and the bark of a dog. These,
followed by the slamming of a gate, explained as well as eyesight could have
done, to any inhabitant of the district, that Dairyman Tucker's under-milker
was driving the cows from the meads into the stalls. When a rougher accent joined in th=
e vociferations
of man and beast, it would have been realized that the dairy-farmer himself=
had
come out to meet the cows, pail in hand, and white pinafore on; and when,
moreover, some women's voices joined in the chorus, that the cows were stal=
led
and proceedings about to commence.
A hush followed, the atmosphere being so stagn=
ant
that the milk could be heard buzzing into the pails, together with occasion=
al
words of the milkmaids and men.
'Don't ye bide about long upon the road,
Margery. You can be back agai=
n by
skimming-time.'
The rough voice of Dairyman Tucker was the veh=
icle
of this remark. The barton-gate slammed again, and in two or three minutes =
a something
became visible, rising out of the fog in that quarter.
The shape revealed itself as that of a woman
having a young and agile gait. The
colours and other details of her dress were then disclosed--a bright pink
cotton frock (because winter was over); a small woollen shawl of shepherd's
plaid (because summer was not come); a white handkerchief tied over her
head-gear, because it was so foggy, so damp, and so early; and a straw bonn=
et
and ribbons peeping from under the handkerchief, because it was likely to b=
e a sunny
May day.
Her face was of the hereditary type among fami=
lies
down in these parts: sweet in
expression, perfect in hue, and somewhat irregular in feature. Her eyes were of a liquid brown. On her arm she carried a withy bas=
ket,
in which lay several butter-rolls in a nest of wet cabbage-leaves. She was the 'Margery' who had been=
told
not to 'bide about long upon the road.'
She went on her way across the fields, sometim=
es
above the fog, sometimes below it, not much perplexed by its presence except
when the track was so indefinite that it ceased to be a guide to the next s=
tile. The dampness was such that innumer=
able
earthworms lay in couples across the path till, startled even by her light
tread, they withdrew suddenly into their holes. She kept clear of all trees. Why w=
as
that? There was no danger of
lightning on such a morning as this.
But though the roads were dry the fog had gathered in the boughs,
causing them to set up such a dripping as would go clean through the protec=
ting
handkerchief like bullets, and spoil the ribbons beneath. The beech and ash were particularly
shunned, for they dripped more maliciously than any. It was an instance of woman's keen
appreciativeness of nature's moods and peculiarities: a man crossing those fields might =
hardly
have perceived that the trees dripped at all.
In less than an hour she had traversed a dista=
nce
of four miles, and arrived at a latticed cottage in a secluded spot. An elderly woman, scarce awake, an=
swered
her knocking. Margery deliver=
ed up
the butter, and said, 'How is granny this morning? I can't stay to go up to her, but =
tell
her I have returned what we owed her.'
Her grandmother was no worse than usual: and receiving back the empty baske=
t the
girl proceeded to carry out some intention which had not been included in h=
er
orders. Instead of returning =
to the
light labours of skimming-time, she hastened on, her direction being toward=
s a
little neighbouring town. Bef=
ore,
however, Margery had proceeded far, she met the postman, laden to the neck =
with
letter- bags, of which he had not yet deposited one.
'Are the shops open yet, Samuel?' she said.
'O no,' replied that stooping pedestrian, not
waiting to stand upright. 'Th=
ey
won't be open yet this hour, except the saddler and ironmonger and little
tacker-haired machine-man for the farm folk. They downs their shutters at
half-past six, then the baker's at half- past seven, then the draper's at
eight.'
'O, the draper's at eight.' It was plain that Margery had want=
ed the
draper's.
The postman turned up a side-path, and the you=
ng
girl, as though deciding within herself that if she could not go shopping at
once she might as well get back for the skimming, retraced her steps.
The public road home from this point was easy =
but
devious. By far the nearest w=
ay was
by getting over a fence, and crossing the private grounds of a picturesque =
old
country-house, whose chimneys were just visible through the trees. As the house had been shut up for =
many months,
the girl decided to take the straight cut.=
She pushed her way through the laurel bushes, sheltering her bonnet =
with
the shawl as an additional safeguard, scrambled over an inner boundary, wen=
t along
through more shrubberies, and stood ready to emerge upon the open lawn. Before doing so she looked around =
in the
wary manner of a poacher. It =
was
not the first time that she had broken fence in her life; but somehow, and =
all
of a sudden, she had felt herself too near womanhood to indulge in such
practices with freedom. Howev=
er,
she moved forth, and the house-front stared her in the face, at this higher
level unobscured by fog.
It was a building of the medium size, and
unpretending, the facade being of stone; and of the Italian elevation made
familiar by Inigo Jones and his school.&nb=
sp;
There was a doorway to the lawn, standing at the head of a flight of
steps. The shutters of the ho=
use
were closed, and the blinds of the bedrooms drawn down. Her perception of the fact that no
crusty caretaker could see her from the windows led her at once to slacken =
her
pace, and stroll through the flower-beds coolly. A house unblinded is a possible sp=
y, and
must be treated accordingly; a house with the shutters together is an insen=
sate
heap of stone and mortar, to be faced with indifference.
On the other side of the house the greensward =
rose
to an eminence, whereon stood one of those curious summer shelters sometimes
erected on exposed points of view, called an all-the-year-round. In the present case it consisted o=
f four
walls radiating from a centre like the arms of a turnstile, with seats in e=
ach
angle, so that whencesoever the wind came, it was always possible to find a
screened corner from which to observe the landscape.
The milkmaid's trackless course led her up the
hill and past this erection. =
At ease
as to being watched and scolded as an intruder, her mind flew to other matt=
ers;
till, at the moment when she was not a yard from the shelter, she heard a f=
oot
or feet scraping on the gravel behind it.&=
nbsp;
Some one was in the all-the-year-round, apparently occupying the sea=
t on
the other side; as was proved when, on turning, she saw an elbow, a man's
elbow, projecting over the edge.
Now the young woman did not much like the idea=
of
going down the hill under the eyes of this person, which she would have to =
do
if she went on, for as an intruder she was liable to be called back and que=
stioned
upon her business there.
Accordingly she crept softly up and sat in the seat behind, intendin=
g to
remain there until her companion should leave.
This he by no means seemed in a hurry to do. What could possibly have brought h=
im
there, what could detain him there, at six o'clock on a morning of mist when
there was nothing to be seen or enjoyed of the vale beneath, puzzled her no=
t a
little. But he remained quite=
still,
and Margery grew impatient. S=
he
discerned the track of his feet in the dewy grass, forming a line from the
house steps, which announced that he was an inhabitant and not a chance
passer-by. At last she peeped
round.
A fine-framed dark-mustachioed gentleman, in
dressing-gown and slippers, was sitting there in the damp without a hat
on. With one hand he was tigh=
tly
grasping his forehead, the other hung over his knee. The attitude bespoke with sufficie=
nt
clearness a mental condition of anguish. He was quite a different being from=
any
of the men to whom her eyes were accustomed. She had never seen mustachios befo=
re,
for they were not worn by civilians in Lower Wessex at this date. His hands and his face were white-=
-to
her view deadly white-- and he heeded nothing outside his own existence.
Having imprudently advanced thus far, Margery's
wish was to get back again in the same unseen manner; but in moving her foot
for the purpose it grated on the gravel.&n=
bsp;
He started up with an air of bewilderment, and slipped something into
the pocket of his dressing- gown.
She was almost certain that it was a pistol. The pair stood looking blankly at =
each
other.
'My Gott, who are you?' he asked sternly, and =
with
not altogether an English articulation.&nb=
sp;
'What do you do here?'
Margery had already begun to be frightened at =
her
boldness in invading the lawn and pleasure-seat. The house had a master, and she ha=
d not
known of it. 'My name is Marg=
aret
Tucker, sir,' she said meekly. 'My
father is Dairyman Tucker. We=
live
at Silverthorn Dairy-house.'
'What were you doing here at this hour of the
morning?'
She told him, even to the fact that she had
climbed over the fence.
'And what made you peep round at me?'
'I saw your elbow, sir; and I wondered what you
were doing?'
'And what was I doing?'
'Nothing.&nbs=
p;
You had one hand on your forehead and the other on your knee. I do hope you are not ill, sir, or=
in
deep trouble?' Margery had
sufficient tact to say nothing about the pistol.
'What difference would it make to you if I were
ill or in trouble? You don't know me.'
She returned no answer, feeling that she might
have taken a liberty in expressing sympathy. But, looking furtively up at him, =
she discerned
to her surprise that he seemed affected by her humane wish, simply as it had
been expressed. She had scarc=
ely
conceived that such a tall dark man could know what gentle feelings were.
'Well, I am much obliged to you for caring how=
I
am,' said he with a faint smile and an affected lightness of manner which, =
even
to her, only rendered more apparent the gloom beneath. 'I have not slept this past night.=
I suffer from sleeplessness. Probably you do not.'
Margery laughed a little, and he glanced with
interest at the comely picture she presented; her fresh face, brown hair,
candid eyes, unpractised manner, country dress, pink hands, empty
wicker-basket, and the handkerchief over her bonnet.
'Well,' he said, after his scrutiny, 'I need
hardly have asked such a question of one who is Nature's own image . . . Ah,
but my good little friend,' he added, recurring to his bitter tone and sitt=
ing wearily
down, 'you don't know what great clouds can hang over some people's lives, =
and
what cowards some men are in face of them.=
To escape themselves they travel, take picturesque houses, and engag=
e in
country sports. But here it i=
s so
dreary, and the fog was horrible this morning!'
'Why, this is only the pride of the morning!' =
said
Margery. 'By-and- by it will =
be a
beautiful day.'
She was going on her way forthwith; but he
detained her--detained her with words, talking on every innocent little sub=
ject
he could think of. He had an =
object
in keeping her there more serious than his words would imply. It was as if he feared to be left =
alone.
While they still stood, the misty figure of the
postman, whom Margery had left a quarter of an hour earlier to follow his
sinuous course, crossed the grounds below them on his way to the house. Signifying to Margery by a wave of=
his
hand that she was to step back out of sight, in the hinder angle of the
shelter, the gentleman beckoned to the postman to bring the bag to where he
stood. The man did so, and ag=
ain
resumed his journey.
The stranger unlocked the bag and threw it on =
the
seat, having taken one letter from within.=
This he read attentively, and his countenance changed.
The change was almost phantasmagorial, as if t=
he
sun had burst through the fog upon that face: it became clear, bright, almost ra=
diant. Yet it was but a change that may t=
ake
place in the commonest human being, provided his countenance be not too woo=
den,
or his artifice have not grown to second nature. He turned to Margery, who was again
edging off, and, seizing her hand, appeared as though he were about to embr=
ace
her. Checking his impulse, he=
said,
'My guardian child--my good friend--you have saved me!'
'What from?' she ventured to ask.
'That you may never know.'
She thought of the weapon, and guessed that the
letter he had just received had effected this change in his mood, but made =
no observation
till he went on to say, 'What did you tell me was your name, dear girl?'
She repeated her name.
'Margaret Tucker.' He stooped, and pressed her hand.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'Sit down for a moment--one moment=
,' he
said, pointing to the end of the seat, and taking the extremest further end=
for
himself, not to discompose her. She sat down.
'It is to ask a question,' he went on, 'and th=
ere
must be confidence between us. You
have saved me from an act of madness!
What can I do for you?'
'Nothing, sir.'
'Nothing?'
'Father is very well off, and we don't want
anything.'
'But there must be some service I can render, =
some
kindness, some votive offering which I could make, and so imprint on your m=
emory
as long as you live that I am not an ungrateful man?'
'Why should you be grateful to me, sir?'
He shook his head. 'Some things are best left
unspoken. Now think. What wou=
ld you
like to have best in the world?'
Margery made a pretence of reflecting--then fe=
ll
to reflecting seriously; but the negative was ultimately as undisturbed as
ever: she could not decide on anything she would like best in the world; it=
was
too difficult, too sudden.
'Very well--don't hurry yourself. Think it over all day. I ride this afternoon. You live--where?'
'Silverthorn Dairy-house.'
'I will ride that way homeward this evening. Do you consider by eight o'clock w=
hat
little article, what little treat, you would most like of any.'
'I will, sir,' said Margery, now warming up to=
the
idea. 'Where shall I meet you=
? Or will you call at the house, sir=
?'
'Ah--no.
I should not wish the circumstances known out of which our acquainta=
nce
rose. It would be more proper=
--but
no.'
Margery, too, seemed rather anxious that he sh=
ould
not call. 'I could come out, =
sir,'
she said. 'My father is
odd-tempered, and perhaps--'
It was agreed that she should look over a stil=
e at
the top of her father's garden, and that he should ride along a bridle-path
outside, to receive her answer. 'Margery,'
said the gentleman in conclusion, 'now that you have discovered me under
ghastly conditions, are you going to reveal them, and make me an object for=
the
gossip of the curious?'
'No, no, sir!' she replied earnestly. 'Why should I do that?'
'You will never tell?'
'Never, never will I tell what has happened he=
re
this morning.'
'Neither to your father, nor to your friends, =
nor
to any one?'
'To no one at all,' she said.
'It is sufficient,' he answered. 'You mean what you say, my dear ma=
iden. Now you want to leave me. Good-bye!'
She descended the hill, walking with some
awkwardness; for she felt the stranger's eyes were upon her till the fog had
enveloped her from his gaze. =
She
took no notice now of the dripping from the trees; she was lost in thought =
on
other things. Had she saved t=
his
handsome, melancholy, sleepless, foreign gentleman who had had a trouble on=
his
mind till the letter came? Wh=
at had
he been going to do? Margery =
could
guess that he had meditated death at his own hand. Strange as the incident had been in
itself; to her it had seemed stranger even than it was. Contrasting colours heighten each =
other
by being juxtaposed; it is the same with contrasting lives.
Reaching the opposite side of the park there
appeared before her for the third time that little old man, the foot-post.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> As the turnpike- road ran, the pos=
tman's
beat was twelve miles a day; six miles out from the town, and six miles bac=
k at
night. But what with zigzags,=
devious
ways, offsets to country seats, curves to farms, looped courses, and triang=
les
to outlying hamlets, the ground actually covered by him was nearer
one-and-twenty miles. Hence i=
t was
that Margery, who had come straight, was still abreast of him, despite her =
long
pause.
The weighty sense that she was mixed up in a
tragical secret with an unknown and handsome stranger prevented her joining
very readily in chat with the postman for some time. But a keen interest in her adventu=
re
caused her to respond at once when the bowed man of mails said, 'You hit at=
hwart
the grounds of Mount Lodge, Miss Margery, or you wouldn't ha' met me here.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Well, somebody hey took the old pl=
ace at
last.'
In acknowledging her route Margery brought her=
self
to ask who the new gentleman might be.
'Guide the girl's heart! What! don't she know? And yet how should ye--he's only j=
ust
a-come.--Well, nominal, he's a fishing gentleman, come for the summer
only. But, more to the subjec=
t,
he's a foreign noble that's lived in England so long as to be without any t=
rue country: some of his letters call him Baron=
, some
Squire, so that 'a must be born to something that can't be earned by
elbow-grease and Christian conduct.
He was out this morning a-watching the fog. "Postman," 'a
said, "good-morning: giv=
e me
the bag." O, yes, 'a's a=
civil
genteel nobleman enough.'
'Took the house for fishing, did he?'
'That's what they say, and as it can be for
nothing else I suppose it's true.
But, in final, his health's not good, 'a b'lieve; he's been living t=
oo
rithe. The London smoke got i=
nto
his wyndpipe, till 'a couldn't eat.
However, I shouldn't mind having the run of his kitchen.'
'And what is his name?'
'Ah--there you have me! 'Tis a name no man's tongue can te=
ll, or
even woman's, except by pen-and-ink and good scholarship. It begins with X, and who, without=
the
machinery of a clock in's inside, can speak that? But here 'tis--from his letters.'<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The postman with his walking-stick=
wrote
upon the ground,
'BARON VON XANTEN'
The day, as she had prognosticated, turned out
fine; for weather- wisdom was imbibed with their milk-sops by the children =
of
the Exe Vale. The impending m=
eeting
excited Margery, and she performed her duties in her father's house with
mechanical unconsciousness.
Milking, skimming, cheesemaking were done. Her father was asleep in the settl=
e, the
milkmen and maids were gone home to their cottages, and the clock showed a
quarter to eight. She dressed
herself with care, went to the top of the garden, and looked over the
stile. The view was eastward,=
and a
great moon hung before her in a sky which had not a cloud. Nothing was moving except on the
minutest scale, and she remained leaning over, the night-hawk sounding his
croud from the bough of an isolated tree on the open hill side.
Here Margery waited till the appointed time had
passed by three- quarters of an hour; but no Baron came. She had been full of an idea, and =
her
heart sank with disappointment.
Then at last the pacing of a horse became audible on the soft path
without, leading up from the water-meads, simultaneously with which she beh=
eld
the form of the stranger, riding home, as he had said.
The moonlight so flooded her face as to make h=
er
very conspicuous in the garden-gap.
'Ah my maiden--what is your name--Margery!' he said. 'How came you h=
ere? But of course I remember--we were =
to
meet. And it was to be at
eight--proh pudor!--I have kept you waiting!'
'It doesn't matter, sir. I've thought of something.'
'Thought of something?'
'Yes, sir.&nb=
sp;
You said this morning that I was to think what I would like best in =
the
world, and I have made up my mind.'
'I did say so--to be sure I did,' he replied,
collecting his thoughts. 'I
remember to have had good reason for gratitude to you.' He placed his hand =
to
his brow, and in a minute alighted, and came up to her with the bridle in h=
is
hand. 'I was to give you a tr=
eat or
present, and you could not think of one.&n=
bsp;
Now you have done so. =
Let me
hear what it is, and I'll be as good as my word.'
'To go to the Yeomanry Ball that's to be given
this month.'
'The Yeomanry Ball--Yeomanry Ball?' he murmure=
d,
as if, of all requests in the world, this was what he had least expected. 'Where is what you call the Yeoman=
ry
Ball?'
'At Exonbury.'
'Have you ever been to it before?'
'No, sir.'
'Or to any ball?'
'No.'
'But did I not say a gift--a present?'
'Or a treat?'
'Ah, yes, or a treat,' he echoed, with the air=
of
one who finds himself in a slight fix.&nbs=
p;
'But with whom would you propose to go?'
'I don't know. I have not thought of that yet.'
'You have no friend who could take you, even i=
f I
got you an invitation?'
Margery looked at the moon. 'No one who can dance,' she said; =
adding,
with hesitation, 'I was thinking that perhaps--'
'But, my dear Margery,' he said, stopping her,=
as
if he half-divined what her simple dream of a cavalier had been; 'it is very
odd that you can think of nothing else than going to a Yeomanry Ball. Think again. You are sure there is nothing else=
?'
'Quite sure, sir,' she decisively answered.
'Sorry?--Certainly not, Margery,' be said, rat=
her
nettled. 'I'll show you that
whatever hopes I have raised in your breast I am honourable enough to
gratify. If it lies in my pow=
er,'
he added with sudden firmness, 'you SHALL go to the Yeomanry Ball. In what building is it to be held?=
'
'In the Assembly Rooms.'
'And would you be likely to be recognized
there? Do you know many peopl=
e?'
'Not many, sir. None, I may say. I know nobody who goes to balls.'<= o:p>
'Ah, well; you must go, since you wish it; and=
if
there is no other way of getting over the difficulty of having nobody to ta=
ke
you, I'll take you myself. Wo=
uld
you like me to do so? I can d=
ance.'
'O, yes, sir; I know that, and I thought you m=
ight
offer to do it. But would you bring me back again?'
'Of course I'll bring you back. But, by-the-bye, can YOU dance?'
'Yes.'
'What?'
'Reels, and jigs, and country-dances like the
New-Rigged-Ship, and Follow-my-Lover, and Haste-to-the-Wedding, and the Col=
lege
Hornpipe, and the Favourite Quickstep, and Captain White's dance.'
'A very good list--a very good! but unluckily I
fear they don't dance any of those now.&nb=
sp;
But if you have the instinct we may soon cure your ignorance. Let me see you dance a moment.'
She stood out into the garden-path, the stile
being still between them, and seizing a side of her skirt with each hand,
performed the movements which are even yet far from uncommon in the dances =
of
the villagers of merry England. But
her motions, though graceful, were not precisely those which appear in the
figures of a modern ball- room.
'Well, my good friend, it is a very pretty sig=
ht,'
he said, warming up to the proceedings.&nb=
sp;
'But you dance too well--you dance all over your person--and that's =
too
thorough a way for the present day.
I should say it was exactly how they danced in the time of your poet=
Chaucer;
but as people don't dance like it now, we must consider. First I must inqui=
re
more about this ball, and then I must see you again.'
'If it is a great trouble to you, sir, I--'
'O no, no.&nb=
sp;
I will think it over. =
So far
so good.'
The Baron mentioned an evening and an hour whe=
n he
would be passing that way again; then mounted his horse and rode away.
On the next occasion, which was just when the =
sun
was changing places with the moon as an illuminator of Silverthorn Dairy, s=
he
found him at the spot before her, and unencumbered by a horse. The melancholy that had so weighed=
him
down at their first interview, and had been perceptible at their second, had
quite disappeared. He pressed=
her right
hand between both his own across the stile.
'My good maiden, Gott bless you!' said he
warmly. 'I cannot help thinki=
ng of
that morning! I was too much
over-shadowed at first to take in the whole force of it. You do not know all; but your pres=
ence
was a miraculous intervention. Now
to more cheerful matters. I
have a great deal to tell--that is, if your wish about the ball be still the
same?'
'O yes, sir--if you don't object.'
'Never think of my objecting. What I have found out is something=
which
simplifies matters amazingly. In
addition to your Yeomanry Ball at Exonbury, there is also to be one in the =
next
county about the same time. T=
his
ball is not to be held at the Town Hall of the county-town as usual, but at
Lord Toneborough's, who is colonel of the regiment, and who, I suppose, wis=
hes
to please the yeomen because his brother is going to stand for the county.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Now I find I could take you there =
very
well, and the great advantage of that ball over the Yeomanry Ball in this
county is, that there you would be absolutely unknown, and I also. But do you prefer your own neighbo=
urhood?'
'O no, sir.&n=
bsp;
It is a ball I long to see--I don't know what it is like; it does not
matter where.'
'Good.
Then I shall be able to make much more of you there, where there is =
no
possibility of recognition. T=
hat
being settled, the next thing is the dancing. Now reels and such things do not
do. For think of this--there =
is a
new dance at Almack's and everywhere else, over which the world has gone
crazy.'
'How dreadful!'
'Ah--but that is a mere expression--gone mad.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It is really an ancient Scythian d=
ance;
but, such is the power of fashion, that, having once been adopted by Societ=
y,
this dance has made the tour of the Continent in one season.'
'What is its name, sir?'
'The polka.&n=
bsp;
Young people, who always dance, are ecstatic about it, and old peopl=
e,
who have not danced for years, have begun to dance again, on its account. All share the excitement. It arrived in London only some few
months ago--it is now all over the country. Now this is your opportunity, my g=
ood
Margery. To learn this one da=
nce will
be enough. They will dance sc=
arce
anything else at that ball. While, to crown all, it is the easiest dance in=
the
world, and as I know it quite well I can practise you in the step. Suppose we try?'
Margery showed some hesitation before crossing=
the
stile: it was a Rubicon in mo=
re
ways than one. But the curious
reverence which was stealing over her for all that this stranger said and d=
id
was too much for prudence. She
crossed the stile.
Withdrawing with her to a nook where two high
hedges met, and where the grass was elastic and dry, he lightly rested his =
arm
on her waist, and practised with her the new step of fascination. Instead of music he whispered numb=
ers,
and she, as may be supposed, showed no slight aptness in following his
instructions. Thus they moved=
round
together, the moon-shadows from the twigs racing over their forms as they
turned.
The interview lasted about half an hour. Then he somewhat abruptly handed h=
er
over the stile and stood looking at her from the other side.
'Well,' he murmured, 'what has come to pass is
strange! My whole business af=
ter
this will be to recover my right mind!'
Margery always declared that there seemed to be
some power in the stranger that was more than human, something magical and
compulsory, when he seized her and gently trotted her round. But lingering emotions may have le=
d her
memory to play pranks with the scene, and her vivid imagination at that
youthful age must be taken into account in believing her. However, there is no doubt that the
stranger, whoever he might be, and whatever his powers, taught her the elem=
ents
of modern dancing at a certain interview by moonlight at the top of her
father's garden, as was proved by her possession of knowledge on the subject
that could have been acquired in no other way.
His was of the first rank of commanding figure=
s,
she was one of the most agile of milkmaids, and to casual view it would have
seemed all of a piece with Nature's doings that things should go on thus. But there was another side to the =
case;
and whether the strange gentleman were a wild olive tree, or not, it was
questionable if the acquaintance would lead to happiness. 'A fleeting romance and a possible
calamity;' thus it might have been summed up by the practical.
Margery was in Paradise; and yet she was not at
this date distinctly in love with the stranger. What she felt was something more m=
ysterious,
more of the nature of veneration.
As he looked at her across the stile she spoke timidly, on a subject
which had apparently occupied her long.
'I ought to have a ball-dress, ought I not, si=
r?'
'Certainly.&n=
bsp;
And you shall have a ball-dress.'
'Really?'
'No doubt of it. I won't do things by halves for my=
best
friend. I have thought of the
ball-dress, and of other things also.'
'And is my dancing good enough?'
'Quite--quite.' He paused, lapsed into thought, and
looked at her. 'Margery,' he said, 'do you trust yourself unreservedly to m=
e?'
'O yes, sir,' she replied brightly; 'if I am n=
ot
too much trouble: if I am good enough to be seen in your society.'
The Baron laughed in a peculiar way. 'Really, I think you may assume as=
much
as that.--However, to business. The
ball is on the twenty- fifth, that is next Thursday week; and the only
difficulty about the dress is the size.&nb=
sp;
Suppose you lend me this?'
And he touched her on the shoulder to signify a tight little jacket =
she
wore.
Margery was all obedience. She took it off and handed it to h=
im. The
Baron rolled and compressed it with all his force till it was about as larg=
e as
an apple-dumpling, and put it into his pocket.
'The next thing,' he said, 'is about getting t=
he
consent of your friends to your going.&nbs=
p;
Have you thought of this?'
'There is only my father. I can tell him I am invited to a p=
arty, and
I don't think he'll mind. Tho=
ugh I
would rather not tell him.'
'But it strikes me that you must inform him
something of what you intend. I
would strongly advise you to do so.'
He spoke as if rather perplexed as to the probable custom of the Eng=
lish
peasantry in such matters, and added, 'However, it is for you to decide.
Margery's countenance, which before had been
beaming with expectation, lost its brightness: her lips became close, and her voi=
ce
broken. 'You have offered to =
take
me, and now--'
'No, no, no,' he said, patting her cheek. 'We will not think of anything
else. You shall go.'
But whether the Baron, in naming such a distant
spot for the rendezvous, was in hope she might fail him, and so relieve him
after all of his undertaking, cannot be said; though it might have been str=
ongly
suspected from his manner that he had no great zest for the responsibility =
of
escorting her.
But he little knew the firmness of the young w=
oman
he had to deal with. She was =
one of
those soft natures whose power of adhesiveness to an acquired idea seems to=
be
one of the special attributes of that softness. To go to a ball with this mysterio=
us
personage of romance was her ardent desire and aim; and none the less in th=
at
she trembled with fear and excitement at her position in so aiming. She felt the deepest awe, tenderne=
ss,
and humility towards the Baron of the strange name; and yet she was prepare=
d to
stick to her point.
Thus it was that the afternoon of the eventful=
day
found Margery trudging her way up the slopes from the vale to the place of =
appointment. She walked to the music of innumer=
able
birds, which increased as she drew away from the open meads towards the gro=
ves.
She had overcome all difficulties. After thinking out the question of
telling or not telling her father, she had decided that to tell him was to =
be
forbidden to go. Her contriva=
nce
therefore was this: to leave home this evening on a visit to her invalid
grandmother, who lived not far from the Baron's house; but not to arrive at=
her
grandmother's till breakfast-time next morning. Who would suspect an intercalated
experience of twelve hours with the Baron at a ball? That this piece of
deception was indefensible she afterwards owned readily enough; but she did=
not
stop to think of it then.
It was sunset within Chillington Wood by the t=
ime
she reached Three- Walks-End--the converging point of radiating trackways, =
now
floored with a carpet of matted grass, which had never known other scythes =
than
the teeth of rabbits and hares. The
twitter overhead had ceased, except from a few braver and larger birds,
including the cuckoo, who did not fear night at this pleasant time of
year. Nobody seemed to be on =
the
spot when she first drew near, but no sooner did Margery stand at the
intersection of the roads than a slight crashing became audible, and her pa=
tron
appeared. He was so transfigu=
red in
dress that she scarcely knew him.
Under a light great-coat, which was flung open, instead of his ordin=
ary
clothes he wore a suit of thin black cloth, an open waistcoat with a frill =
all
down his shirt- front, a white tie, shining boots, no thicker than a glove,=
a
coat that made him look like a bird, and a hat that seemed as if it would o=
pen
and shut like an accordion.
'I am dressed for the ball--nothing worse,' he
said, drily smiling. 'So will you be soon.'
'Why did you choose this place for our meeting,
sir?' she asked, looking around and acquiring confidence.
'Why did I choose it? Well, because in riding past one d= ay I observed a large hollow tree close by here, and it occurred to me when I was last wi= th you that this would be useful for our purpose. Have you told your father?'<= o:p>
'I have not yet told him, sir.'
'That's very bad of you, Margery. How have you arranged it, then?'
She briefly related her plan, on which he made=
no
comment, but, taking her by the hand as if she were a little child, he led =
her through
the undergrowth to a spot where the trees were older, and standing at wider
distances. Among them was the=
tree
he had spoken of--an elm; huge, hollow, distorted, and headless, with a rif=
t in
its side.
'Now go inside,' he said, 'before it gets any
darker. You will find there
everything you want. At any r=
ate,
if you do not you must do without it.
I'll keep watch; and don't be longer than you can help to be.'
'What am I to do, sir?' asked the puzzled maid=
en.
'Go inside, and you will see. When you are ready wave your handk=
erchief
at that hole.'
She stooped into the opening. The cavity within the tree formed =
a lofty
circular apartment, four or five feet in diameter, to which daylight entere=
d at
the top, and also through a round hole about six feet from the ground, mark=
ing
the spot at which a limb had been amputated in the tree's prime. The decayed wood of cinnamon-brown=
, forming
the inner surface of the tree, and the warm evening glow, reflected in at t=
he
top, suffused the cavity with a faint mellow radiance.
But Margery had hardly given herself time to h=
eed
these things. Her eye had been
caught by objects of quite another quality. A large white oblong paper box lay
against the inside of the tree; over it, on a splinter, hung a small oval
looking-glass.
Margery seized the idea in a moment. She pressed through the rift into =
the
tree, lifted the cover of the box, and, behold, there was disclosed within a
lovely white apparition in a somewhat flattened state. It was the ball-dress.
This marvel of art was, briefly, a sort of
heavenly cobweb. It was a gos=
samer
texture of precious manufacture, artistically festooned in a dozen flounces=
or
more.
Margery lifted it, and could hardly refrain fr=
om
kissing it. Had any one told =
her
before this moment that such a dress could exist, she would have said, 'No;
it's impossible!' She drew ba=
ck,
went forward, flushed, laughed, raised her hands. To say that the maker of that dres=
s had
been an individual of talent was simply understatement: he was a genius, and she sunned he=
rself
in the rays of his creation.
She then remembered that her friend without had
told her to make haste, and she spasmodically proceeded to array herself. In removing the dress she found sa=
tin
slippers, gloves, a handkerchief nearly all lace, a fan, and even flowers f=
or
the hair. 'O, how could he th=
ink of
it!' she said, clasping her hands and almost crying with agitation. 'And the glass--how good of him!'<=
o:p>
Everything was so well prepared, that to clothe
herself in these garments was a matter of ease. In a quarter of an hour she was re=
ady,
even to shoes and gloves. But=
what
led her more than anything else into admiration of the Baron's foresight was
the discovery that there were half-a-dozen pairs each of shoes and gloves, =
of
varying sizes, out of which she selected a fit.
Margery glanced at herself in the mirror, or a=
t as
much as she could see of herself:
the image presented was superb.&nbs=
p;
Then she hastily rolled up her old dress, put it in the box, and thr=
ust
the latter on a ledge as high as she could reach. Standing on tiptoe, she waved the
handkerchief through the upper aperture, and bent to the rift to go out.
But what a trouble stared her in the face. The dress was so airy, so fantasti=
cal,
and so extensive, that to get out in her new clothes by the rift which had
admitted her in her old ones was an impossibility. She heard the Baron's st=
eps
crackling over the dead sticks and leaves.
'O, sir!' she began in despair.
'What--can't you dress yourself?' he inquired =
from
the back of the trunk.
'Yes; but I can't get out of this dreadful tre=
e!'
He came round to the opening, stooped, and loo=
ked
in. 'It is obvious that you
cannot,' he said, taking in her compass at a glance; and adding to himself;
'Charming! who would have thought that clothes could do so much!--Wait a
minute, my little maid: I hav=
e it!'
he said more loudly.
With all his might he kicked at the sides of t=
he
rift, and by that means broke away several pieces of the rotten touchwood.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But, being thinly armed about the =
feet,
he abandoned that process, and went for a fallen branch which lay near. By using the large end as a lever,=
he
tore away pieces of the wooden shell which enshrouded Margery and all her
loveliness, till the aperture was large enough for her to pass without tear=
ing
her dress. She breathed her
relief: the silly girl had be=
gun to
fear that she would not get to the ball after all.
He carefully wrapped round her a cloak he had
brought with him: it was hood=
ed,
and of a length which covered her to the heels.
'The carriage is waiting down the other path,'=
he
said, and gave her his arm. A=
short
trudge over the soft dry leaves brought them to the place indicated.
There stood the brougham, the horses, the
coachman, all as still as if they were growing on the spot, like the
trees. Margery's eyes rose wi=
th
some timidity to the coachman's figure.
'You need not mind him,' said the Baron. 'He is a foreigner, and heeds noth=
ing.'
In the space of a short minute she was handed
inside; the Baron buttoned up his overcoat, and surprised her by mounting w=
ith
the coachman. The carriage mo=
ved
off silently over the long grass of the vista, the shadows deepening to bla=
ck
as they proceeded. Darker and=
darker
grew the night as they rolled on; the neighbourhood familiar to Margery was
soon left behind, and she had not the remotest idea of the direction they w=
ere
taking. The stars blinked out=
, the
coachman lit his lamps, and they bowled on again.
In the course of an hour and a half they arriv=
ed
at a small town, where they pulled up at the chief inn, and changed horses;=
all
being done so readily that their advent had plainly been expected. The journey was resumed
immediately. Her companion ne=
ver
descended to speak to her; whenever she looked out there he sat upright on =
his perch,
with the mien of a person who had a difficult duty to perform, and who mean=
t to
perform it properly at all costs.
But Margery could not help feeling a certain dread at her
situation--almost, indeed, a wish that she had not come. Once or twice she thought, 'Suppos=
e he is
a wicked man, who is taking me off to a foreign country, and will never bri=
ng
me home again.'
But her characteristic persistence in an origi=
nal
idea sustained her against these misgivings except at odd moments. One incident in particular had giv=
en her
confidence in her escort: she=
had
seen a tear in his eye when she expressed her sorrow for his troubles. He may have divined that her thoug=
hts
would take an uneasy turn, for when they stopped for a moment in ascending a
hill he came to the window. '=
Are
you tired, Margery?' he asked kindly.
'No, sir.'
'Are you afraid?'
'N--no, sir.&=
nbsp;
But it is a long way.'
'We are almost there,' he answered. 'And now, Margery,' he said in a l=
ower
tone, 'I must tell you a secret. I
have obtained this invitation in a peculiar way. I thought it best for your sake no=
t to come
in my own name, and this is how I have managed. A man in this county, for whom I h=
ave
lately done a service, one whom I can trust, and who is personally as unkno=
wn
here as you and I, has (privately) transferred his card of invitation to
me. So that we go under his n=
ame. I explain this that you may not say
anything imprudent by accident.
Keep your ears open and be cautious.' Having said this the Baron retreat=
ed
again to his place.
'Then he is a wicked man after all!' she said =
to
herself; 'for he is going under a false name.' But she soon had the temerity not =
to
mind it: wickedness of that s=
ort
was the one ingredient required just now to finish him off as a hero in her
eyes.
They descended a hill, passed a lodge, then up=
an
avenue; and presently there beamed upon them the light from other carriages=
, drawn
up in a file, which moved on by degrees; and at last they halted before a l=
arge
arched doorway, round which a group of people stood.
'We are among the latest arrivals, on account =
of
the distance,' said the Baron, reappearing. 'But never mind; there are three h=
ours
at least for your enjoyment.'
The steps were promptly flung down, and they
alighted. The steam from the =
flanks
of their swarthy steeds, as they seemed to her, ascended to the parapet of =
the
porch, and from their nostrils the hot breath jetted forth like smoke out of
volcanoes, attracting the attention of all.
The bewildered Margery was led by the Baron up=
the
steps to the interior of the house, whence the sounds of music and dancing =
were
already proceeding. The tones=
were
strange. At every fourth beat=
a deep
and mighty note throbbed through the air, reaching Margery's soul with all =
the
force of a blow.
'What is that powerful tune, sir--I have never
heard anything like it?' she said.
'The Drum Polka,' answered the Baron. 'The strange dance I spoke of and =
that
we practised--introduced from my country and other parts of the continent.'=
Her surprise was not lessened when, at the
entrance to the ballroom, she heard the names of her conductor and herself
announced as 'Mr. and Miss Brown.'
However, nobody seemed to take any notice of t=
he
announcement, the room beyond being in a perfect turmoil of gaiety, and
Margery's consternation at sailing under false colours subsided. At the same moment she observed aw=
aiting
them a handsome, dark-haired, rather petite lady in cream-coloured satin. 'Who is she?' asked Margery of the
Baron.
'She is the lady of the mansion,' he
whispered. 'She is the wife o=
f a
peer of the realm, the daughter of a marquis, has five Christian names; and
hardly ever speaks to commoners, except for political purposes.'
'How divine--what joy to be here!' murmured
Margery, as she contemplated the diamonds that flashed from the head of her
ladyship, who was just inside the ball-room door, in front of a little gild=
ed chair,
upon which she sat in the intervals between one arrival and another. She had come down from London at g=
reat
inconvenience to herself; openly to promote this entertainment.
As Mr. and Miss Brown expressed absolutely no
meaning to Lady Toneborough (for there were three Browns already present in
this rather mixed assembly), and as there was possibly a slight awkwardness=
in
poor Margery's manner, Lady Toneborough touched their hands lightly with the
tips of her long gloves, said, 'How d'ye do,' and turned round for more com=
ers.
'Ah, if she only knew we were a rich Baron and=
his
friend, and not Mr. and Miss Brown at all, she wouldn't receive us like tha=
t,
would she?' whispered Margery confidentially.
'Indeed, she wouldn't!' drily said the Baron.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'Now let us drop into the dance at=
once;
some of the people here, you see, dance much worse than you.'
Almost before she was aware she had obeyed his
mysterious influence, by giving him one hand, placing the other upon his
shoulder, and swinging with him round the room to the steps she had learnt =
on
the sward.
At the first gaze the apartment had seemed to =
her
to be floored with black ice; the figures of the dancers appearing upon it
upside down. At last she realized that it was highly-polished oak, but she =
was none
the less afraid to move.
'I am afraid of falling down,' she said.
'Lean on me; you will soon get used to it,' he
replied. 'You have no nails i=
n your
shoes now, dear.'
His words, like all his words to her, were qui=
te
true. She found it amazingly =
easy
in a brief space of time. The
floor, far from hindering her, was a positive assistance to one of her natu=
ral agility
and litheness. Moreover, her
marvellous dress of twelve flounces inspired her as nothing else could have
done. Externally a new creatu=
re,
she was prompted to new deeds. To
feel as well-dressed as the other women around her is to set any woman at h=
er
ease, whencesoever she may have come:
to feel much better dressed is to add radiance to that ease.
Her prophet's statement on the popularity of t=
he
polka at this juncture was amply borne out. It was among the first seasons of =
its general
adoption in country houses; the enthusiasm it excited to- night was beyond
description, and scarcely credible to the youth of the present day. A new motive power had been introd=
uced
into the world of poesy--the polka, as a counterpoise to the new motive pow=
er that
had been introduced into the world of prose--steam.
Twenty finished musicians sat in the music gal=
lery
at the end, with romantic mop-heads of raven hair, under which their faces =
and
eyes shone like fire under coals.
The nature and object of the ball had led to i=
ts
being very inclusive. Every r=
ank
was there, from the peer to the smallest yeoman, and Margery got on exceedi=
ngly
well, particularly when the recuperative powers of supper had banished the
fatigue of her long drive.
Sometimes she heard people saying, 'Who are
they?--brother and sister--father and daughter? And never dancing except with each=
other--how
odd?' But of this she took no
notice.
When not dancing the watchful Baron took her
through the drawing- rooms and picture-galleries adjoining, which to-night =
were
thrown open like the rest of the house; and there, ensconcing her in some c=
urtained
nook, he drew her attention to scrap-books, prints, and albums, and left he=
r to
amuse herself with turning them over till the dance in which she was practi=
sed
should again be called. Marge=
ry would
much have preferred to roam about during these intervals; but the words of =
the
Baron were law, and as he commanded so she acted. In such alternations the
evening winged away; till at last came the gloomy words, 'Margery, our time=
is
up.'
'One more--only one!' she coaxed, for the long=
er
they stayed the more freely and gaily moved the dance. This entreaty he granted; but on h=
er
asking for yet another, he was inexorable.=
'No,' he said. 'We hav=
e a
long way to go.'
Then she bade adieu to the wondrous scene, loo=
king
over her shoulder as they withdrew from the hall; and in a few minutes she =
was
cloaked and in the carriage. =
The
Baron mounted to his seat on the box, where she saw him light a cigar; they
plunged under the trees, and she leant back, and gave herself up to contemp=
late
the images that filled her brain.
The natural result followed:
she fell asleep.
She did not awake till they stopped to change
horses; when she saw against the stars the Baron sitting as erect as ever.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'He watches like the Angel Gabriel=
, when
all the world is asleep!' she thought.
With the resumption of motion she slept again,=
and
knew no more till he touched her hand and said, 'Our journey is done--we ar=
e in
Chillington Wood.'
It was almost daylight. Margery scarcely knew herself to be awake till she was out of the carriage and standing beside the Baron, who, = having told the coachman to drive on to a certain point indicated, turned to her.<= o:p>
'Now,' he said, smiling, 'run across to the ho=
llow
tree; you know where it is. I=
'll
wait as before, while you perform the reverse operation to that you did last
night.' She took no heed of t=
he
path now, nor regarded whether her pretty slippers became scratched by the =
brambles
or no. A walk of a few steps
brought her to the particular tree which she had left about nine hours
earlier. It was still gloomy =
at
this spot, the morning not being clear.
She entered the trunk, dislodged the box
containing her old clothing, pulled off the satin shoes, and gloves, dress,=
and
in ten minutes emerged in the cotton and shawl of shepherd's plaid.
Baron was not far off. 'Now you look the milkmaid again,'=
he
said, coming towards her. 'Wh=
ere is
the finery?'
'Packed in the box, sir, as I found it.' She spoke with more humility now.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The difference between them was gr=
eater
than it had been at the ball.
'Good,' he said. 'I must just dispose of it; and th=
en
away we go.'
He went back to the tree, Margery following at=
a
little distance. Bringing forth the box, he pulled out the dress as careles=
sly
as if it had been rags. But t=
his
was not all. He gathered a fe=
w dry sticks,
crushed the lovely garment into a loose billowy heap, threw the gloves, fan,
and shoes on the top, then struck a light and ruthlessly set fire to the wh=
ole.
Margery was agonized. She ran forward; she implored and
entreated. 'Please, sir--do spare it--do!&=
nbsp;
My lovely dress--my-dear, dear slippers--my fan--it is cruel! Don't burn them, please!'
'Nonsense.&nb=
sp;
We shall have no further use for them if we live a hundred years.'
'But spare a bit of it--one little piece, sir-=
-a
scrap of the lace-- one bow of the ribbon--the lovely fan--just something!'=
But he was as immoveable as Rhadamanthus. 'No,' he said, with a stern gaze o=
f his
aristocratic eye. 'It is of n=
o use
for you to speak like that. T=
he
things are my property. I und=
ertook
to gratify you in what you might desire because you had saved my life. To go to a ball, you said. You might much more wisely have sa=
id
anything else, but no; you said, to go to a ball. Very well--I have taken you to a
ball. I have brought you back=
. The clothes were only the means, a=
nd I
dispose of them my own way. H=
ave I
not a right to?'
'Yes, sir,' she said meekly.
He gave the fire a stir, and lace and ribbons,=
and
the twelve flounces, and the embroidery, and all the rest crackled and disa=
ppeared. He then put in her hands the butter
basket she had brought to take on to her grandmother's, and accompanied her=
to
the edge of the wood, where it merged in the undulating open country in whi=
ch
her granddame dwelt.
'Now, Margery,' he said, 'here we part. I have performed my contract--at s=
ome
awkwardness, if I was recognized.
But never mind that. H=
ow do
you feel--sleepy?'
'Not at all, sir,' she said.
'That long nap refreshed you, eh? Now you must make me a promise. Th=
at if
I require your presence at any time, you will come to me . . . I am a man of
more than one mood,' he went on with sudden solemnity; 'and I may have desp=
erate
need of you again, to deliver me from that darkness as of Death which somet=
imes
encompasses me. Promise it, Margery--promise it; that, no matter what stand=
s in
the way, you will come to me if I require you.'
'I would have if you had not burnt my pretty
clothes!' she pouted.
'Ah--ungrateful!'
'Indeed, then, I will promise, sir,' she said =
from
her heart. 'Wherever I am, if I have bodily strength I will come to you.'
He pressed her hand. 'It is a solemn promise,' he
replied. 'Now I must go, for =
you
know your way.'
'I shall hardly believe that it has not been a= ll a dream!' she said, with a childish instinct to cry at his withdrawal. 'There will be nothing left of last night--nothing of my dress, nothing of my pleasure, nothing of the place!'<= o:p>
'You shall remember it in this way,' said he.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'We'll cut our initials on this tr=
ee as
a memorial, so that whenever you walk this path you will see them.'
Then with a knife he inscribed on the smooth b=
ark
of a beech tree the letters M.T., and underneath a large X.
'What, have you no Christian name, sir?' she s=
aid.
'Yes, but I don't use it. Now, good-bye, my little friend.--=
What will
you do with yourself to-day, when you are gone from me?' he lingered to ask=
.
'Oh--I shall go to my granny's,' she replied w=
ith
some gloom; 'and have breakfast, and dinner, and tea with her, I suppose; a=
nd
in the evening I shall go home to Silverthorn Dairy, and perhaps Jim will c=
ome
to meet me, and all will be the same as usual.'
'Who is Jim?'
'O, he's nobody--only the young man I've got to
marry some day.'
'What!--you engaged to be married?--Why didn't=
you
tell me this before?'
'I--I don't know, sir.'
'What is the young man's name?'
'James Hayward.'
'What is he?'
'A master lime-burner.'
'Engaged to a master lime-burner, and not a wo=
rd
of this to me! Margery, Margery! when shall a straightforward one of your s=
ex
be found! Subtle even in your
simplicity! What mischief hav=
e you caused
me to do, through not telling me this?&nbs=
p;
I wouldn't have so endangered anybody's happiness for a thousand
pounds. Wicked girl that you =
were;
why didn't you tell me?'
'I thought I'd better not!' said Margery,
beginning to be frightened.
'But don't you see and understand that if you =
are
already the property of a young man, and he were to find out this night's e=
xcursion,
he may be angry with you and part from you for ever? With him already in the field I ha=
d no
right to take you at all; he undoubtedly ought to have taken you; which rea=
lly
might have been arranged, if you had not deceived me by saying you had nobo=
dy.'
Margery's face wore that aspect of woe which c=
omes
from the repentant consciousness of having been guilty of an enormity. 'But he wasn't good enough to take=
me,
sir!' she said, almost crying; 'and he isn't absolutely my master until I h=
ave
married him, is he?'
'That's a subject I cannot go into. However, we must alter our tactics=
. Instead of advising you, as I did =
at
first, to tell of this experience to your friends, I must now impress on you
that it will be best to keep a silent tongue on the matter--perhaps for ever
and ever. It may come right s=
ome
day, and you may be able to say "All's well that ends well." Now, good morning, my friend. Think of Jim, and forget me.'
'Ah, perhaps I can't do that,' she said, with a
tear in her eye, and a full throat.
'Well--do your best. I can say no more.'
He turned and retreated into the wood, and
Margery, sighing, went on her way.
Between six and seven o'clock in the evening of
the same day a young man descended the hills into the valley of the Exe, at=
a
point about midway between Silverthorn and the residence of Margery's grand=
mother,
four miles to the east.
He was a thoroughbred son of the country, as f=
ar
removed from what is known as the provincial, as the latter is from the
out-and-out gentleman of culture.
His trousers and waistcoat were of fustian, almost white, but he wor=
e a
jacket of old-fashioned blue West-of- England cloth, so well preserved that
evidently the article was relegated to a box whenever its owner engaged in =
such
active occupations as he usually pursued.&=
nbsp;
His complexion was fair, almost florid, and he had scarcely any bear=
d.
A novel attraction about this young man, which=
a
glancing stranger would know nothing of, was a rare and curious freshness o=
f atmosphere
that appertained to him, to his clothes, to all his belongings, even to the
room in which he had been sitting.
It might almost have been said that by adding him and his implements=
to
an over-crowded apartment you made it healthful. This resulted from his trade. He was a lime-burner; he handled l=
ime
daily; and in return the lime rendered him an incarnation of salubrity. His hair was dry, fair, and frizzl=
ed,
the latter possibly by the operation of the same caustic agent. He carried as a walking-stick a gr=
een
sapling, whose growth had been contorted to a corkscrew pattern by a twinin=
g honeysuckle.
As he descended to the level ground of the
water-meadows he cast his glance westward, with a frequency that revealed h=
im
to be in search of some object in the distance. It was rather difficult to do this=
, the
low sunlight dazzling his eyes by glancing from the river away there, and f=
rom
the 'carriers' (as they were called) in his path-- narrow artificial brooks=
for
conducting the water over the grass. His course was something of a zigzag f=
rom
the necessity of finding points in these carriers convenient for jumping. Thus peering and leaping and windi=
ng, he
drew near the Exe, the central river of the miles-long mead.
A moving spot became visible to him in the
direction of his scrutiny, mixed up with the rays of the same river. The spot got nearer, and revealed =
itself
to be a slight thing of pink cotton and shepherd's plaid, which pursued a p=
ath
on the brink of the stream. T=
he
young man so shaped his trackless course as to impinge on the path a little=
ahead
of this coloured form, and when he drew near her he smiled and reddened.
'My dear Margery--here I am!' he said gladly i=
n an
undertone, as with a last leap he crossed the last intervening carrier, and
stood at her side.
'You've come all the way from the kiln, on pur=
pose
to meet me, and you shouldn't have done it,' she reproachfully returned.
'We finished there at four, so it was no troub=
le;
and if it had been- -why, I should ha' come.'
A small sigh was the response.
'What, you are not even so glad to see me as y=
ou
would be to see your dog or cat?' he continued. 'Come, Mis'ess Margery, this is ra=
ther hard. But, by George, how tired you dew
look! Why, if you'd been up a=
ll
night your eyes couldn't be more like tea-saucers. You've walked tew far, that's what=
it
is. The weather is getting wa=
rm
now, and the air of these low-lying meads is not strengthening in summer. I wish you lived up on higher grou=
nd
with me, beside the kiln. You=
'd get
as strong as a hoss! Well, th=
ere;
all that will come in time.'
Instead of saying yes, the fair maid repressed
another sigh.
'What, won't it, then?' he said.
'I suppose so,' she answered. 'If it is to be, it is.'
'Well said--very well said, my dear.'
'And if it isn't to be it isn't.'
'What?
Who's been putting that into your head? Your grumpy granny, I suppose. However, how is she? Margery, I have been thinking to- =
day--in
fact, I was thinking it yesterday and all the week--that really we might se=
ttle
our little business this summer.'
'This summer?' she repeated, with some
dismay. 'But the partnership?=
Remember
it was not to be till after that was completed.'
'There I have you!' said he, taking the libert=
y to
pat her shoulder, and the further liberty of advancing his hand behind it to
the other. 'The partnership is settled.&nb=
sp;
'Tis "Vine and Hayward, lime-burners," now, and "Rich=
ard
Vine" no longer. Yes, Co=
usin
Richard has settled it so, for a time at least, and 'tis to be painted on t=
he
carts this week--blue letters--yaller ground. I'll boss one of 'em, and drive en=
round
to your door as soon as the paint is dry, to show 'ee how it looks?'
'Oh, I am sure you needn't take that trouble, =
Jim;
I can see it quite well enough in my mind,' replied the young girl--not wit=
hout
a flitting accent of superiority.
'Hullo,' said Jim, taking her by the shoulders,
and looking at her hard. 'Wha=
t dew
that bit of incivility mean? =
Now,
Margery, let's sit down here, and have this cleared.' He rapped with his stick upon the =
rail
of a little bridge they were crossing, and seated himself firmly, leaving a
place for her.
'But I want to get home-along,' dear Jim, she
coaxed.
'Fidgets.&nbs=
p;
Sit down, there's a dear. I
want a straightforward answer, if you please. In what month, and on what day of =
the
month, will you marry me?'
'O, Jim,' she said, sitting gingerly on the ed=
ge,
'that's too plain- spoken for you yet.&nbs=
p;
Before I look at it in that business light I should have to--to--'
'But your father has settled it long ago, and =
you
said it should be as soon as I became a partner. So, dear, you must not mind a plai=
n man
wanting a plain answer. Come,=
name
your time.'
She did not reply at once. What thoughts were passing through=
her brain
during the interval? Not imag=
es
raised by his words, but whirling figures of men and women in red and white=
and
blue, reflected from a glassy floor, in movements timed by the thrilling be=
ats
of the Drum Polka. At last sh=
e said
slowly, 'Jim, you don't know the world, and what a woman's wants can be.'
'But I can make you comfortable. I am in lodgings as yet, but I can=
have
a house for the asking; and as to furniture, you shall choose of the best f=
or
yourself--the very best.'
'The best!&nb=
sp;
Far are you from knowing what that is!' said the little woman. 'There be ornaments such as you ne=
ver
dream of; work-tables that would set you in amaze; silver candlesticks, tea=
and
coffee pots that would dazzle your eyes; tea-cups, and saucers, gilded all =
over
with guinea-gold; heavy velvet curtains, gold clocks, pictures, and looking=
-glasses
beyond your very dreams. So d=
on't
say I shall have the best.'
'H'm!' said Jim gloomily; and fell into
reflection. 'Where did you get
those high notions from, Margery?' he presently inquired. 'I'll swear you hadn't got 'em a w=
eek
ago.' She did not answer, and=
he added,
'YEW don't expect to have such things, I hope; deserve them as you may?'
'I was not exactly speaking of what I wanted,'=
she
said severely. 'I said, thing=
s a
woman COULD want. And since y=
ou
wish to know what I CAN want to quite satisfy me, I assure you I can want
those!'
'You are a pink-and-white conundrum, Margery,'=
he
said; 'and I give you up for to-night.&nbs=
p;
Anybody would think the devil had showed you all the kingdoms of the
world since I saw you last!'
She reddened.=
'Perhaps he has!' she murmured; then arose, he following her; and th=
ey
soon reached Margery's home, approaching it from the lower or meadow side--=
the
opposite to that of the garden top, where she had met the Baron.
'You'll come in, won't you, Jim?' she said, wi=
th
more ceremony than heartiness.
'No--I think not to-night,' he answered. 'I'll consider what you've said.'<= o:p>
'You are very good, Jim,' she returned
lightly. 'Good-bye.'
Jim thoughtfully retraced his steps. He was a village character, and he=
had a
villager's simplicity: that i=
s, the
simplicity which comes from the lack of a complicated experience. But simple by nature he certainly =
was
not. Among the rank and file =
of
rustics he was quite a Talleyrand, or rather had been one, till he lost a g=
ood
deal of his self-command by falling in love.
Now, however, that the charming object of his
distraction was out of sight he could deliberate, and measure, and weigh th=
ings
with some approach to keenness. The
substance of his queries was, What change had come over Margery--whence the=
se
new notions?
Ponder as he would he could evolve no answer s=
ave
one, which, eminently unsatisfactory as it was, he felt it would be
unreasonable not to accept: t=
hat
she was simply skittish and ambitious by nature, and would not be hunted in=
to
matrimony till he had provided a well- adorned home.
Jim retrod the miles to the kiln, and looked to
the fires. The kiln stood in a
peculiar, interesting, even impressive spot. It was at the end of a short ravin=
e in a
limestone formation, and all around was an open hilly down. The nearest house was that of Jim's
cousin and partner, which stood on the outskirts of the down beside the tur=
npike-road. From this house a little lane wound
between the steep escarpments of the ravine till it reached the kiln, which
faced down the miniature valley, commanding it as a fort might command a
defile.
The idea of a fort in this association owed li=
ttle
to imagination. For on the nibbled green steep above the kiln stood a bye-g=
one,
worn- out specimen of such an erection, huge, impressive, and difficult to =
scale
even now in its decay. It was=
a
British castle or entrenchment, with triple rings of defence, rising roll
behind roll, their outlines cutting sharply against the sky, and Jim's kiln
nearly undermining their base. When
the lime-kiln flared up in the night, which it often did, its fires lit up =
the
front of these ramparts to a great majesty. They were old friends of his, and =
while
keeping up the heat through the long darkness, as it was sometimes his duty=
to do,
he would imagine the dancing lights and shades about the stupendous earthwo=
rk
to be the forms of those giants who (he supposed) had heaped it up. Often he clambered upon it, and wa=
lked about
the summit, thinking out the problems connected with his business, his part=
ner,
his future, his Margery.
It was what he did this evening, continuing the
meditation on the young girl's manner that he had begun upon the road, and
still, as then, finding no clue to the change.
While thus engaged he observed a man coming up=
the
ravine to the kiln. Business
messages were almost invariably left at the house below, and Jim watched the
man with the interest excited by a belief that he had come on a personal
matter. On nearer approach Ji=
m recognized
him as the gardener at Mount Lodge some miles away. If this meant business, the Baron =
(of
whose arrival Jim had vaguely heard) was a new and unexpected customer.
It meant nothing else, apparently. The man's errand was simply to inf=
orm
Jim that the Baron required a load of lime for the garden.
'You might have saved yourself trouble by leav=
ing
word at Mr. Vine's,' said Jim.
'I was to see you personally,' said the garden=
er,
'and to say that the Baron would like to inquire of you about the different
qualities of lime proper for such purposes.'
'Couldn't you tell him yourself?' said Jim.
'He said I was to tell you that,' replied the =
gardener;
'and it wasn't for me to interfere.'
No motive other than the ostensible one could
possibly be conjectured by Jim Hayward at this time; and the next morning he
started with great pleasure, in his best business suit of clothes. By eleven o'clock he and his horse=
and
cart had arrived on the Baron's premises, and the lime was deposited where
directed; an exceptional spot, just within view of the windows of the south
front.
Baron von Xanten, pale and melancholy, was
sauntering in the sun on the slope between the house and the
all-the-year-round. He looked=
across
to where Jim and the gardener were standing, and the identity of Hayward be=
ing
established by what he brought, the Baron came down, and the gardener withd=
rew.
The Baron's first inquiries were, as Jim had b=
een
led to suppose they would be, on the exterminating effects of lime upon slu=
gs
and snails in its different conditions of slaked and unslaked, ground and in
the lump. He appeared to be m=
uch
interested by Jim's explanations, and eyed the young man closely whenever he
had an opportunity.
'And I hope trade is prosperous with you this
year,' said the Baron.
'Very, my noble lord,' replied Jim, who, in his
uncertainty on the proper method of address, wisely concluded that it was
better to err by giving too much honour than by giving too little. 'In short, trade is looking so wel=
l that
I've become a partner in the firm.'
'Indeed; I am glad to hear it. So now you are settled in life.'
'Well, my lord; I am hardly settled, even
now. For I've got to finish i=
t--I
mean, to get married.'
'That's an easy matter, compared with the
partnership.'
'Now a man might think so, my baron,' said Jim,
getting more confidential. 'B=
ut the
real truth is, 'tis the hardest part of all for me.'
'Your suit prospers, I hope?'
'It don't,' said Jim. 'It don't at all just at present.<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> In short, I can't for the life o' = me think what's come over the young woman lately.' And he fell into deep reflection.<= o:p>
Though Jim did not observe it, the Baron's brow
became shadowed with self-reproach as he heard those simple words, and his =
eyes
had a look of pity. 'Indeed--=
since
when?' he asked.
'Since yesterday, my noble lord.' Jim spoke meditatively. He was resolving upon a bold
stroke. Why not make a confid=
ant of
this kind gentleman, instead of the parson, as he had intended? The thought was no sooner conceive=
d than
acted on. 'My lord,' he resum=
ed, 'I
have heard that you are a nobleman of great scope and talent, who has seen =
more
strange countries and characters than I have ever heard of, and know the
insides of men well. Therefor=
e I
would fain put a question to your noble lordship, if I may so trouble you, =
and
having nobody else in the world who could inform me so trewly.'
'Any advice I can give is at your service, Hay=
ward. What do you wish to know?'
'It is this, my baron. What can I do to bring down a young
woman's ambition that's got to such a towering height there's no reaching i=
t or
compassing it: how get her to=
be
pleased with me and my station as she used to be when I first knew her?'
'Truly, that's a hard question, my man. What does she aspire to?'
'She's got a craze for fine furniture.'
'How long has she had it?'
'Only just now.'
The Baron seemed still more to experience regr=
et.
'What furniture does she specially covet?' he
asked.
'Silver candlesticks, work-tables,
looking-glasses, gold tea-things, silver tea-pots, gold clocks, curtains,
pictures, and I don't know what all--things I shall never get if I live to =
be a
hundred--not so much that I couldn't raise the money to buy 'em, as that to=
put
it to other uses, or save it for a rainy day.'
'You think the possession of those articles wo=
uld
make her happy?'
'I really think they might, my lord.'
'Good.
Open your pocket-book and write as I tell you.'
Jim in some astonishment did as commanded, and
elevating his pocket- book against the garden-wall, thoroughly moistened his
pencil, and wrote at the Baron's dictation:
'Pair of silver candlesticks: inlaid work-table and work-box:
'Now,' said the Baron, 'tear out that leaf and
give it to me. Keep a close t=
ongue
about this; go home, and don't be surprised at anything that may come to yo=
ur
door.'
'But, my noble lord, you don't mean that your
lordship is going to give--'
'Never mind what I am going to do. Only keep your own counsel. I perceive that, though a plain
countryman, you are by no means deficient in tact and understanding. If sending these things to you giv=
es me
pleasure, why should you object?
The fact is, Hayward, I occasionally take an interest in people, and
like to do a little for them. I take
an interest in you. Now go ho=
me,
and a week hence invite Marg--the young woman and her father, to tea with
you. The rest is in your own
hands.'
A question often put to Jim in after times was=
why
it had not occurred to him at once that the Baron's liberal conduct must ha=
ve been
dictated by something more personal than sudden spontaneous generosity to h=
im,
a stranger. To which Jim alwa=
ys
answered that, admitting the existence of such generosity, there had appear=
ed nothing
remarkable in the Baron selecting himself as its object. The Baron had told him that he too=
k an
interest in him; and self-esteem, even with the most modest, is usually
sufficient to over-ride any little difficulty that might occur to an outsid=
er
in accounting for a preference. He
moreover considered that foreign noblemen, rich and eccentric, might have
habits of acting which were quite at variance with those of their English
compeers.
So he drove off homeward with a lighter heart =
than
he had known for several days. To
have a foreign gentleman take a fancy to him--what a triumph to a plain sor=
t of
fellow, who had scarcely expected the Baron to look in his face. It would be a fine story to tell M=
argery
when the Baron gave him liberty to speak out.
Jim lodged at the house of his cousin and part=
ner,
Richard Vine, a widower of fifty odd years. Having failed in the development o=
f a household
of direct descendants this tradesman had been glad to let his chambers to h=
is
much younger relative, when the latter entered on the business of lime manu=
facture;
and their intimacy had led to a partnership. Jim lived upstairs; his partner li=
ved
down, and the furniture of all the rooms was so plain and old fashioned as =
to excite
the special dislike of Miss Margery Tucker, and even to prejudice her again=
st
Jim for tolerating it. Not on=
ly
were the chairs and tables queer, but, with due regard to the principle tha=
t a man's
surroundings should bear the impress of that man's life and occupation, the
chief ornaments of the dwelling were a curious collection of calcinations, =
that
had been discovered from time to time in the lime-kiln--misshapen ingots of
strange substance, some of them like Pompeian remains.
The head of the firm was a quiet-living,
narrow-minded, though friendly, man of fifty; and he took a serious interes=
t in
Jim's love- suit, frequently inquiring how it progressed, and assuring Jim =
that
if he chose to marry he might have all the upper floor at a low rent, he, M=
r.
Vine, contenting himself entirely with the ground level. It had been so convenient for disc=
ussing
business matters to have Jim in the same house, that he did not wish any ch=
ange
to be made in consequence of a change in Jim's domestic estate. Margery knew of this wish, and of =
Jim's
concurrent feeling; and did not like the idea at all.
About four days after the young man's interview
with the Baron, there drew up in front of Jim's house at noon a waggon laden
with cases and packages, large and small.&=
nbsp;
They were all addressed to 'Mr. Hayward,' and they had come from the
largest furnishing ware-houses in that part of England.
Three-quarters of an hour were occupied in get=
ting
the cases to Jim's rooms. The=
wary
Jim did not show the amazement he felt at his patron's munificence; and
presently the senior partner came into the passage, and wondered what was
lumbering upstairs.
'Oh--it's only some things of mine,' said Jim
coolly.
'Bearing upon the coming event--eh?' said his
partner.
'Exactly,' replied Jim.
Mr. Vine, with some astonishment at the number=
of
cases, shortly after went away to the kiln; whereupon Jim shut himself into=
his
rooms, and there he might have been heard ripping up and opening boxes with=
a
cautious hand, afterwards appearing outside the door with them empty, and
carrying them off to the outhouse.
A triumphant look lit up his face when, a litt=
le
later in the afternoon, he sent into the vale to the dairy, and invited Mar=
gery
and her father to his house to supper.
She was not unsociable that day, and, her fath=
er
expressing a hard and fast acceptance of the invitation, she perforce agree=
d to
go with him. Meanwhile at hom=
e, Jim
made himself as mysteriously busy as before in those rooms of his, and when=
his
partner returned he too was asked to join in the supper.
At dusk Hayward went to the door, where he sto=
od
till he heard the voices of his guests from the direction of the low ground=
s,
now covered with their frequent fleece of fog. The voices grew more distinct, and=
then
on the white surface of the fog there appeared two trunkless heads, from wh=
ich
bodies and a horse and cart gradually extended as the approaching pair rose
towards the house.
When they had entered Jim pressed Margery's ha=
nd
and conducted her up to his rooms, her father waiting below to say a few wo=
rds
to the senior lime-burner.
'Bless me,' said Jim to her, on entering the
sitting-room; 'I quite forgot to get a light beforehand; but I'll have one =
in a
jiffy.'
Margery stood in the middle of the dark room,
while Jim struck a match; and then the young girl's eyes were conscious of a
burst of light, and the rise into being of a pair of handsome silver candle=
sticks
containing two candles that Jim was in the act of lighting.
'Why--where--you have candlesticks like that?'
said Margery. Her eyes flew r=
ound
the room as the growing candle-flames showed other articles. 'Pictures too--and lovely china--w=
hy I
knew nothing of this, I declare.'
'Yes--a few things that came to me by accident=
,'
said Jim in quiet tones.
'And a great gold clock under a glass, and a c=
upid
swinging for a pendulum; and O what a lovely work-table--woods of every
colour--and a work-box to match.
May I look inside that work-box, Jim?--whose is it?'
'O yes; look at it, of course. It is a poor enough thing, but 'ti=
s mine;
and it will belong to the woman I marry, whoever she may be, as well as all=
the
other things here.'
'And the curtains and the looking-glasses: why I declare I can see myself in a
hundred places.'
'That tea-set,' said Jim, placidly pointing to=
a
gorgeous china service and a large silver tea-pot on the side table, 'I don=
't
use at present, being a bachelor-man; but, says I to myself, "whoever =
I marry
will want some such things for giving her parties; or I can sell em"--=
but
I haven't took steps for't yet--'
'Sell 'em--no, I should think not,' said Marge=
ry
with earnest reproach. 'Why, =
I hope
you wouldn't be so foolish! W=
hy,
this is exactly the kind of thing I was thinking of when I told you of the =
things
women could want--of course not meaning myself particularly. I had no idea =
that
you had such valuable--'
Margery was unable to speak coherently, so much
was she amazed at the wealth of Jim's possessions.
At this moment her father and the lime-burner =
came
upstairs; and to appear womanly and proper to Mr. Vine, Margery repressed t=
he remainder
of her surprise.
As for the two elderly worthies, it was not ti=
ll
they entered the room and sat down that their slower eyes discerned anything
brilliant in the appointments. Then
one of them stole a glance at some article, and the other at another; but e=
ach
being unwilling to express his wonder in the presence of his neighbours, th=
ey
received the objects before them with quite an accustomed air; the lime-bur=
ner inwardly
trying to conjecture what all this meant, and the dairyman musing that if J=
im's
business allowed him to accumulate at this rate, the sooner Margery became =
his
wife the better. Margery retr=
eated
to the work-table, work-box, and tea-service, which she examined with hushed
exclamations.
An entertainment thus surprisingly begun could=
not
fail to progress well. Whenev=
er
Margery's crusty old father felt the need of a civil sentence, the flash of
Jim's fancy articles inspired him to one; while the lime-burner, having
reasoned away his first ominous thought that all this had come out of the f=
irm,
also felt proud and blithe.
Jim accompanied his dairy friends part of the =
way
home before they mounted. Her
father, finding that Jim wanted to speak to her privately, and that she
exhibited some elusiveness, turned to Margery and said; 'Come, come, my lad=
y;
no more of this nonsense. You=
just step
behind with that young man, and I and the cart will wait for you.'
Margery, a little scared at her father's
peremptoriness, obeyed. It was
plain that Jim had won the old man by that night's stroke, if he had not won
her.
'I know what you are going to say, Jim,' she
began, less ardently now, for she was no longer under the novel influence of
the shining silver and glass.
'Well, as you desire it, and as my father desires it, and as I suppo=
se
it will be the best course for me, I will fix the day--not this evening, bu=
t as
soon as I can think it over.'
=
Notwithstanding a press of business, Jim went =
and
did his duty in thanking the Baron.
The latter saw him in his fishing-tackle room, an apartment littered
with every appliance that a votary of the rod could require.
'And when is the wedding-day to be, Hayward?' =
the
Baron asked, after Jim had told him that matters were settled.
'It is not quite certain yet, my noble lord,' =
said
Jim cheerfully. 'But I hope 'twill not be long after the time when God A'mi=
ghty
christens the little apples.'
'And when is that?'
'St. Swithin's--the middle of July. 'Tis to be some time in that month=
, she
tells me.'
When Jim was gone the Baron seemed
meditative. He went out, asce=
nded the
mount, and entered the weather-screen, where he looked at the seats, as tho=
ugh
re-enacting in his fancy the scene of that memorable morning of fog. He turned his eyes to the angle of=
the
shelter, round which Margery had suddenly appeared like a vision, and it wa=
s plain
that he would not have minded her appearing there then. The juncture had indeed been such =
an
impressive and critical one that she must have seemed rather a heavenly
messenger than a passing milkmaid, more especially to a man like the Baron,
who, despite the mystery of his origin and life, revealed himself to be a
melancholy, emotional character--the Jacques of this forest and stream.
Behind the mount the ground rose yet higher,
ascending to a plantation which sheltered the house. The Baron strolled up here, and be=
nt his
gaze over the distance. The v=
alley
of the Exe lay before him, with its shining river, the brooks that fed it, =
and
the trickling springs that fed the brooks.=
The situation of Margery's house was visible, though not the house
itself; and the Baron gazed that way for an infinitely long time, till,
remembering himself, he moved on.
Instead of returning to the house he went along
the ridge till he arrived at the verge of Chillington Wood, and in the same
desultory manner roamed under the trees, not pausing till he had come to Th=
ree-
Walks-End, and the hollow elm hard by.&nbs=
p;
He peeped in at the rift. In
the soft dry layer of touch-wood that floored the hollow Margery's tracks w=
ere
still visible, as she had made them there when dressing for the ball.
'Little Margery!' murmured the Baron.
In a moment he thought better of this mood, and
turned to go home. But behold, a form stood behind him--that of the girl wh=
ose
name had been on his lips.
She was in utter confusion. 'I--I--did not know you were here,=
sir!'
she began. 'I was out for a l=
ittle
walk.' She could get no furth=
er; her
eyes filled with tears. That =
spice
of wilfulness, even hardness, which characterized her in Jim's company,
magically disappeared in the presence of the Baron.
'Never mind, never mind,' said he, masking und=
er a
severe manner whatever he felt.
'The meeting is awkward, and ought not to have occurred, especially =
if
as I suppose, you are shortly to be married to James Hayward. But it cannot be helped now. You had no idea I was here, of
course. Neither had I of seei=
ng
you. Remember you cannot be t=
oo
careful,' continued the Baron, in the same grave tone; 'and I strongly requ=
est
you as a friend to do your utmost to avoid meetings like this. When you saw me before I turned, w=
hy did
you not go away?'
'I did not see you, sir. I did not think of seeing you. I was walking this way, and I only
looked in to see the tree.'
'That shows you have been thinking of things y=
ou
should not think of,' returned the Baron.&=
nbsp;
'Good morning.'
Margery could answer nothing. A browbeaten glance, almost of mis=
ery, was
all she gave him. He took a s=
low
step away from her; then turned suddenly back and, stooping, impulsively ki=
ssed
her cheek, taking her as much by surprise as ever a woman was taken in her
life.
Immediately after he went off with a flushed f=
ace
and rapid strides, which he did not check till he was within his own
boundaries.
The haymaking season now set in vigorously, and
the weir-hatches were all drawn in the meads to drain off the water. The streams ran themselves dry, and
there was no longer any difficulty in walking about among them. The Baron could very well witness =
from
the elevations about his house the activity which followed these preliminar=
ies. The white shirt-sleeves of the mow=
ers
glistened in the sun, the scythes flashed, voices echoed, snatches of song
floated about, and there were glimpses of red waggon-wheels, purple gowns, =
and
many-coloured handkerchiefs.
The Baron had been told that the haymaking was=
to
be followed by the wedding, and had he gone down the vale to the dairy he w=
ould
have had evidence to that effect.
Dairyman Tucker's house was in a whirlpool of bustle, and among other
difficulties was that of turning the cheese-room into a genteel apartment f=
or
the time being, and hiding the awkwardness of having to pass through the
milk-house to get to the parlour door.&nbs=
p;
These household contrivances appeared to interest Margery much more =
than
the great question of dressing for the ceremony and the ceremony itself.
'If it were only somebody else, and I was one =
of
the bridesmaids, I really think I should like it better!' she murmured one
afternoon.
'Away with thee--that's only your shyness!' sa=
id
one of the milkmaids.
It is said that about this time the Baron seem=
ed
to feel the effects of solitude strongly.&=
nbsp;
Solitude revives the simple instincts of primitive man, and lonely
country nooks afford rich soil for wayward emotions. Moreover, idleness waters those
unconsidered impulses which a short season of turmoil would stamp out. It is difficult to speak with any
exactness of the bearing of such conditions on the mind of the Baron--a man=
of
whom so little was ever truly known--but there is no doubt that his mind ran
much on Margery as an individual, without reference to her rank or quality,=
or
to the question whether she would marry Jim Hayward that summer. She was the single lovely human th=
ing
within his present horizon, for he lived in absolute seclusion; and her ima=
ge
unduly affected him.
But, leaving conjecture, let me state what
happened.
One Saturday evening, two or three weeks after=
his
accidental meeting with her in the wood, he wrote the note following:-
=
DEAR
MARGERY, -
You must not suppose that, because I spoke
somewhat severely to you at our chance encounter by the hollow tree, I have=
any
feeling against you. Far from
it. Now, as ever, I have the =
most
grateful sense of your considerate kindness to me on a momentous occasion w=
hich
shall be nameless.
You solemnly promised to come and see me whene=
ver
I should send for you. Can yo=
u call
for five minutes as soon as possible, and disperse those plaguy glooms from
which I am so unfortunate as to suffer?&nb=
sp;
If you refuse I will not answer for the consequences.
I shall be in the summer shelter of the mount
to-morrow morning at half-past ten.
If you come I shall be grateful.&nb=
sp;
I have also something for you.
Yours,
X.
=
In
keeping with the tenor of this epistle the desponding, self- oppressed Baron
ascended the mount on Sunday morning and sat down. There was nothing here to
signify exactly the hour, but before the church bells had begun he heard
somebody approaching at the back. The light footstep moved timidly, first to
one recess, and then to another; then to the third, where he sat in the
shade. Poor Margery stood bef=
ore
him.
She looked worn and weary, and her little shoes
and the skirts of her dress were covered with dust. The weather was sultry, the sun be=
ing already
high and powerful, and rain had not fallen for weeks. The Baron, who walked little, had
thought nothing of the effects of this heat and drought in inducing
fatigue. A distance which had=
been
but a reasonable exercise on a foggy morning was a drag for Margery now. She
was out of breath; and anxiety, even unhappiness was written on her everywh=
ere.
He rose to his feet, and took her hand. He was vexed with himself at sight=
of
her. 'My dear little girl!' he
said. 'You are tired--you sho=
uld
not have come.'
'You sent for me, sir; and I was afraid you we=
re
ill; and my promise to you was sacred.'
He bent over her, looking upon her downcast fa=
ce,
and still holding her hand; then he dropped it, and took a pace or two
backwards.
'It was a whim, nothing more,' he said,
sadly. 'I wanted to see my li=
ttle
friend, to express good wishes--and to present her with this.' He held forw=
ard
a small morocco case, and showed her how to open it, disclosing a pretty
locket, set with pearls. 'It =
is
intended as a wedding present,' he continued. 'To be returned to me again if you=
do
not marry Jim this summer--it is to be this summer, I think?'
'It was, sir,' she said with agitation. 'But it is so no longer. And, ther=
efore,
I cannot take this.'
'What do you say?'
'It was to have been to-day; but now it cannot
be.'
'The wedding to-day--Sunday?' he cried.
'We fixed Sunday not to hinder much time at th=
is
busy season of the year,' replied she.
'And have you, then, put it off--surely not?'<= o:p>
'You sent for me, and I have come,' she answer=
ed
humbly, like an obedient familiar in the employ of some great enchanter.
'You have come--on your wedding-day!--O Marger=
y,
this is a mistake. Of course, you should not have obeyed me, since, though I
thought your wedding would be soon, I did not know it was to-day.'
'I promised you, sir; and I would rather keep =
my
promise to you than be married to Jim.'
'That must not be--the feeling is wrong!' he
murmured, looking at the distant hills.&nb=
sp;
'There seems to be a fate in all this; I get out of the frying-pan i=
nto
the fire. What a recompense t=
o you
for your goodness! The fact i=
s, I
was out of health and out of spirits, so I- -but no more of that. Now instantly to repair this treme=
ndous blunder
that we have made--that's the question.'
After a pause, he went on hurriedly, 'Walk down
the hill; get into the road. =
By
that time I shall be there with a phaeton.=
We may get back in time.
What time is it now? I=
f not,
no doubt the wedding can be to-morrow; so all will come right again. Don't cry, my dear girl. Keep the
locket, of course--you'll marry Jim.'
=
He hastened down towards the stables, and she =
went
on as directed. It seemed as if he must have put in the horse himself, so
quickly did he reappear with the phaeton on the open road. Margery silently took her seat, an=
d the
Baron seemed cut to the quick with self-reproach as he noticed the listless
indifference with which she acted.
There was no doubt that in her heart she had preferred obeying the
apparently important mandate that morning to becoming Jim's wife; but there=
was
no less doubt that had the Baron left her alone she would quietly have gone=
to
the altar.
He drove along furiously, in a cloud of dust.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There was much to contemplate in t=
hat
peaceful Sunday morning--the windless trees and fields, the shaking sunligh=
t,
the pause in human stir. Yet
neither of them heeded, and thus they drew near to the dairy. His first expressed intention had =
been
to go indoors with her, but this he abandoned as impolitic in the highest
degree.
'You may be soon enough,' he said, springing d=
own,
and helping her to follow. 'T=
ell
the truth: say you were sent =
for to
receive a wedding present--that it was a mistake on my part--a mistake on
yours; and I think they'll forgive . . . And, Margery, my last request to y=
ou
is this: that if I send for y=
ou
again, you do not come. Promi=
se solemnly,
my dear girl, that any such request shall be unheeded.'
Her lips moved, but the promise was not
articulated. 'O, sir, I cannot
promise it!' she said at last.
'But you must; your salvation may depend on it=
!'
he insisted almost sternly. '=
You
don't know what I am.'
'Then, sir, I promise,' she replied. 'Now leave me to myself, please, a=
nd
I'll go indoors and manage matters.'
He turned the horse and drove away, but only f=
or a
little distance. Out of sight he pulled rein suddenly. 'Only to go back and propose it to=
her,
and she'd come!' he murmured.
He stood up in the phaeton, and by this means =
he
could see over the hedge. Mar=
gery
still sat listlessly in the same place; there was not a lovelier flower in =
the
field. 'No,' he said; 'no,
no--never!' He reseated himse=
lf,
and the wheels sped lightly back over the soft dust to Mount Lodge.
Meanwhile Margery had not moved. If the Baron could dissimulate on =
the
side of severity she could dissimulate on the side of calm. He did not know what had been veil=
ed by
the quiet promise to manage matters indoors. Rising at length she first turned =
away
from the house; and, by-and-by, having apparently forgotten till then that =
she carried
it in her hand, she opened the case, and looked at the locket. This seemed to give her courage. She turned, set her face towards t=
he
dairy in good earnest, and though her heart faltered when the gates came in
sight, she kept on and drew near the door.
On the threshold she stood listening. The house was silent. Decorations =
were
visible in the passage, and also the carefully swept and sanded path to the
gate, which she was to have trodden as a bride; but the sparrows hopped ove=
r it
as if it were abandoned; and all appeared to have been checked at its
climacteric, like a clock stopped on the strike. Till this moment of confronting the
suspended animation of the scene she had not realized the full shock of the=
convulsion
which her disappearance must have caused.&=
nbsp;
It is quite certain--apart from her own repeated assurances to that
effect in later years--that in hastening off that morning to her sudden eng=
agement,
Margery had not counted the cost of such an enterprise; while a dim notion =
that
she might get back again in time for the ceremony, if the message meant not=
hing
serious, should also be mentioned in her favour. But, upon the whole, she had obeye=
d the call
with an unreasoning obedience worthy of a disciple in primitive times. A conviction that the Baron's life=
might
depend upon her presence--for she had by this time divined the tragical eve=
nt
she had interrupted on the foggy morning--took from her all will to judge a=
nd consider
calmly. The simple affairs of=
her
and hers seemed nothing beside the possibility of harm to him.
A well-known step moved on the sanded floor
within, and she went forward. That
she saw her father's face before her, just within the door, can hardly be
said: it was rather Reproach =
and
Rage in a human mask.
'What! ye have dared to come back alive, hussy= , to look upon the dupery you have practised on honest people! You've mortified us all; I don't w= ant to see 'ee; I don't want to hear 'ee; I don't want to know anything!' He walked up and down the room, un= able to command himself. 'Nothing = but being dead could have excused 'ee for not meeting and marrying that man this morning; and yet you have the brazen impudence to stand there as well as ever! What be you here for?'<= o:p>
'I've come back to marry Jim, if he wants me t= o,' she said faintly. 'And if not--perhaps so much the better. I was sent for this morning early.= I thought--.' She halted. To say that she had thought a man's death might happen by his own hand if she did not go to him, would never do. 'I was obliged to go,' she said. 'I had given my word.'<= o:p>
'Why didn't you tell us then, so that the wedd=
ing
could be put off, without making fools o' us?'
'Because I was afraid you wouldn't let me go, =
and
I had made up my mind to go.'
'To go where?'
She was silent; till she said, 'I will tell Jim
all, and why it was; and if he's any friend of mine he'll excuse me.'
'Not Jim--he's no such fool. Jim had put all ready for you, Jim=
had called
at your house, a-dressed up in his new wedding clothes, and a- smiling like=
the
sun; Jim had told the parson, had got the ringers in tow, and the clerk
awaiting; and then--you was GONE!
Then Jim turned as pale as rendlewood, and busted out, "If she
don't marry me to- day," 'a said, "she don't marry me at all! No; let her look elsewhere for a
husband. For tew years I've p=
ut up
with her haughty tricks and her takings," 'a said. "I've droudged and I've traip=
sed, I've
bought and I've sold, all wi' an eye to her; I've suffered horseflesh,"=
; he
says--yes, them was his noble words--"but I'll suffer it no longer.
'He was too hasty,' murmured Margery. 'For now he's said this I can't ma=
rry
him to-morrow, as I might ha' done; and perhaps so much the better.'
'You can be so calm about it, can ye? Be my arrangements nothing, then, =
that
you should break 'em up, and say off hand what wasn't done to-day might ha'
been done to-morrow, and such flick-flack?=
Out o' my sight! I won=
't
hear any more. I won't speak =
to 'ee
any more.'
'I'll go away, and then you'll be sorry!'
'Very well, go. Sorry--not I.'
He turned and stamped his way into the cheese-=
room. Margery went upstairs. She too was excited now, and inste=
ad of
fortifying herself in her bedroom till her father's rage had blown over, as=
she
had often done on lesser occasions, she packed up a bundle of articles, cre=
pt
down again, and went out of the house.&nbs=
p;
She had a place of refuge in these cases of necessity, and her father
knew it, and was less alarmed at seeing her depart than he might otherwise =
have
been. This place was Rook's Gate, the house of her grandmother, who always =
took
Margery's part when that young woman was particularly in the wrong.
The devious way she pursued, to avoid the vici=
nity
of Mount Lodge, was tedious, and she was already weary. But the cottage was a restful plac=
e to
arrive at, for she was her own mistress there--her grandmother never coming
down stairs--and Edy, the woman who lived with and attended her, being a ci=
pher
except in muscle and voice. The approach was by a straight open road, borde=
red
by thin lank trees, all sloping away from the south-west wind-quarter, and =
the scene
bore a strange resemblance to certain bits of Dutch landscape which have be=
en
imprinted on the world's eye by Hobbema and his school.
Having explained to her granny that the wedding
was put off; and that she had come to stay, one of Margery's first acts was
carefully to pack up the locket and case, her wedding present from the
Baron. The conditions of the =
gift
were unfulfilled, and she wished it to go back instantly. Perhaps, in the intricacies of her
bosom, there lurked a greater satisfaction with the reason for returning the
present than she would have felt just then with a reason for keeping it.
To send the article was difficult. In the evening she wrapped herself=
up,
searched and found a gauze veil that had been used by her grandmother in pa=
st
years for hiving swarms of bees, buried her face in it, and sallied forth w=
ith
a palpitating heart till she drew near the tabernacle of her demi-god the
Baron. She ventured only to t=
he back-door,
where she handed in the parcel addressed to him, and quickly came away.
Now it seems that during the day the Baron had
been unable to learn the result of his attempt to return Margery in time for
the event he had interrupted.
Wishing, for obvious reasons, to avoid direct inquiry by messenger, =
and
being too unwell to go far himself, he could learn no particulars. He was sitting in thought after a =
lonely
dinner when the parcel intimating failure as brought in. The footman, whose curiosity had b=
een
excited by the mode of its arrival, peeped through the keyhole after closing
the door, to learn what the packet meant.&=
nbsp;
Directly the Baron had opened it he thrust out his feet vehemently f=
rom
his chair, and began cursing his ruinous conduct in bringing about such a
disaster, for the return of the locket denoted not only no wedding that day,
but none to-morrow, or at any time.
'I have done that innocent woman a great wrong=
!'
he murmured. 'Deprived her of, perhaps, her only opportunity of becoming
mistress of a happy home!'
A considerable period of inaction followed amo=
ng
all concerned.
Nothing tended to dissipate the obscurity which
veiled the life of the Baron. The
position he occupied in the minds of the country-folk around was one which
combined the mysteriousness of a legendary character with the unobtrusive d=
eeds
of a modern gentleman. To thi=
s day
whoever takes the trouble to go down to Silverthorn in Lower Wessex and make
inquiries will find existing there almost a superstitious feeling for the m=
oody
melancholy stranger who resided in the Lodge some forty years ago.
Whence he came, whither he was going, were ali=
ke
unknown. It was said that his
mother had been an English lady of noble family who had married a foreigner=
not
unheard of in circles where men pile up 'the cankered heaps of strange-achi=
eved
gold'--that he had been born and educated in England, taken abroad, and so
on. But the facts of a life i=
n such
cases are of little account beside the aspect of a life; and hence, though
doubtless the years of his existence contained their share of trite and hom=
ely
circumstance, the curtain which masked all this was never lifted to gratify
such a theatre of spectators as those at Silverthorn. Therein lay his charm. His life was a vignette, of which =
the
central strokes only were drawn with any distinctness, the environment shad=
ing
away to a blank.
He might have been said to resemble that solit=
ary
bird the heron. The still, lonely stream was his frequent haunt: on its banks he would stand for ho=
urs
with his rod, looking into the water, beholding the tawny inhabitants with =
the
eye of a philosopher, and seeming to say, 'Bite or don't bite--it's all the
same to me.' He was often mis=
taken
for a ghost by children; and for a pollard willow by men, when, on their way
home in the dusk, they saw him motionless by some rushy bank, unobservant of
the decline of day.
Why did he come to fish near Silverthorn? That was never explained. As far a=
s was
known he had no relatives near; the fishing there was not exceptionally goo=
d;
the society thereabout was decidedly meagre. That he had committed some fol=
ly
or hasty act, that he had been wrongfully accused of some crime, thus rende=
ring
his seclusion from the world desirable for a while, squared very well with =
his
frequent melancholy. But such=
as he
was there he lived, well supplied with fishing-tackle, and tenant of a
furnished house, just suited to the requirements of such an eccentric being=
as
he.
=
Margery's
father, having privately ascertained that she was living with her grandmoth=
er,
and getting into no harm, refrained from communicating with her, in the hop=
e of
seeing her contrite at his door. It
had, of course, become known about Silverthorn that at the last moment Marg=
ery
refused to wed Hayward, by absenting herself from the house. Jim was pitied, yet not pitied muc=
h, for
it was said that he ought not to have been so eager for a woman who had sho=
wn
no anxiety for him.
And where was Jim himself? It must not be supposed that that =
tactician
had all this while withdrawn from mortal eye to tear his hair in silent ind=
ignation
and despair. He had, in truth,
merely retired up the lonesome defile between the downs to his smouldering =
kiln,
and the ancient ramparts above it; and there, after his first hours of natu=
ral
discomposure, he quietly waited for overtures from the possibly repentant
Margery. But no overtures arr=
ived,
and then he meditated anew on the absorbing problem of her skittishness, an=
d how
to set about another campaign for her conquest, notwithstanding his late
disastrous failure. Why had he
failed? To what was her stran=
ge
conduct owing? That was the t=
hing
which puzzled him.
He had made no advance in solving the riddle w=
hen,
one morning, a stranger appeared on the down above him, looking as if he had
lost his way. The man had a g=
ood
deal of black hair below his felt hat, and carried under his arm a case
containing a musical instrument. Descending to where Jim stood, he asked if
there were not a short cut across that way to Tivworthy, where a fete was t=
o be
held.
'Well, yes, there is,' said Jim. 'But 'tis an enormous distance for=
'ee.'
'Oh, yes,' replied the musician. 'I wish to intercept the carrier o=
n the
highway.'
The nearest way was precisely in the direction=
of
Rook's Gate, where Margery, as Jim knew, was staying. Having some time to spare, Jim was
strongly impelled to make a kind act to the lost musician a pretext for tak=
ing
observations in that neighbourhood, and telling his acquaintance that he was
going the same way, he started without further ado.
They skirted the long length of meads, and in =
due
time arrived at the back of Rook's Gate, where the path joined the high
road. A hedge divided the pub=
lic
way from the cottage garden. =
Jim
drew up at this point and said, 'Your road is straight on: I turn back here.'
But the musician was standing fixed, as if in
great perplexity. Thrusting his hand into his forest of black hair, he
murmured, 'Surely it is the same--surely!'
Jim, following the direction of his neighbour's
eyes, found them to be fixed on a figure till that moment hidden from himse=
lf--Margery
Tucker--who was crossing the garden to an opposite gate with a little chees=
e in
her arms, her head thrown back, and her face quite exposed.
'What of her?' said Jim.
'Two months ago I formed one of the band at the
Yeomanry Ball given by Lord Toneborough in the next county. I saw that young lady dancing the =
polka
there in robes of gauze and lace.
Now I see her carry a cheese!'
'Never!' said Jim incredulously.
'But I do not mistake. I say it is so!'
Jim ridiculed the idea; the bandsman protested,
and was about to lose his temper, when Jim gave in with the good-nature of a
person who can afford to despise opinions; and the musician went his way.
As he dwindled out of sight Jim began to think
more carefully over what he had said.
The young man's thoughts grew quite to an excitement, for there came
into his mind the Baron's extraordinary kindness in regard to furniture,
hitherto accounted for by the assumption that the nobleman had taken a fanc=
y to
him. Could it be, among all t=
he
amazing things of life, that the Baron was at the bottom of this mischief; =
and
that he had amused himself by taking Margery to a ball?
Doubts and suspicions which distract some love=
rs
to imbecility only served to bring out Jim's great qualities. Where he trusted he was the most
trusting fellow in the world; where he doubted he could be guilty of the sl=
yest
strategy. Once suspicious, he
became one of those subtle, watchful characters who, without integrity, make
good thieves; with a little, good jobbers; with a little more, good diploma=
tists. Jim was honest, and he considered =
what
to do.
Retracing his steps, he peeped again. She had gone in; but she would soon
reappear, for it could be seen that she was carrying little new cheeses one=
by
one to a spring-cart and horse tethered outside the gate--her grandmother,
though not a regular dairywoman, still managing a few cows by means of a man
and maid. With the lightness =
of a
cat Jim crept round to the gate, took a piece of chalk from his pocket, and
wrote upon the boarding 'The Baron.'
Then he retreated to the other side of the garden where he had just
watched Margery.
In due time she emerged with another little
cheese, came on to the garden-door, and glanced upon the chalked words which
confronted her. She started; the cheese rolled from her arms to the ground,=
and
broke into pieces like a pudding.
She looked fearfully round, her face burning l=
ike
sunset, and, seeing nobody, stooped to pick up the flaccid lumps. Jim, with a pale face, departed as
invisibly as he had come. He =
had
proved the bandsman's tale to be true.&nbs=
p;
On his way back he formed a resolution. It was to beard the lion in his de=
n--to
call on the Baron.
Meanwhile Margery had recovered her equanimity,
and gathered up the broken cheese.
But she could by no means account for the handwriting. Jim was just the sort of fellow to=
play
her such a trick at ordinary times, but she imagined him to be far too ince=
nsed
against her to do it now; and she suddenly wondered if it were any sort of
signal from the Baron himself.
Of him she had lately heard nothing. If ever monotony pervaded a life it
pervaded hers at Rook's Gate; and she had begun to despair of any happy
change. But it is precisely w=
hen
the social atmosphere seems stagnant that great events are brewing. Margery's quiet was broken first, =
as we
have seen, by a slight start, only sufficient to make her drop a cheese; and
then by a more serious matter.
She was inside the same garden one day when she
heard two watermen talking without.
The conversation was to the effect that the strange gentleman who had
taken Mount Lodge for the season was seriously ill.
'How ill?' cried Margery through the hedge, wh=
ich
screened her from recognition.
'Bad abed,' said one of the watermen.
'Inflammation of the lungs,' said the other.
'Got wet, fishing,' the first chimed in.
Margery could gather no more. An ideal admiration rather than an=
y positive
passion existed in her breast for the Baron: she had of late seen too little of=
him
to allow any incipient views of him as a lover to grow to formidable
dimensions. It was an extreme=
ly
romantic feeling, delicate as an aroma, capable of quickening to an active =
principle,
or dying to 'a painless sympathy,' as the case might be.
This news of his illness, coupled with the mys=
terious
chalking on the gate, troubled her, and revived his image much. She took to walking up and down the
garden-paths, looking into the hearts of flowers, and not thinking what they
were. His last request had be=
en
that she was not to go to him if be should send for her; and now she asked =
herself,
was the name on the gate a hint to enable her to go without infringing the
letter of her promise? Thus
unexpectedly had Jim's manoeuvre operated.
Ten days passed. All she could hear of the Baron we=
re the
same words, 'Bad abed,' till one afternoon, after a gallop of the physician=
to
the Lodge, the tidings spread like lightning that the Baron was dying.
Margery distressed herself with the question whether she might be permitted to visit him and say her prayers at his beds= ide; but she feared to venture; and thus eight-and-forty hours slipped away, and= the Baron still lived. Despite her shyness and awe of him she had almost made up her mind to call when, just at dusk on that October evening, somebody came to the door and asked for her.<= o:p>
She could see the messenger's head against the=
low
new moon. He was a
man-servant. He said he had b=
een
all the way to her father's, and had been sent thence to her here. He simply brought a note, and, del=
ivering
it into her hands, went away.
=
DEAR
MARGERY TUCKER (ran the note)--They say I am not likely to live, so I want =
to
see you. Be here at eight o'c=
lock
this evening. Come quite alon=
e to
the side-door, and tap four times softly.&=
nbsp;
My trusty man will admit you.
The occasion is an important one.&n=
bsp;
Prepare yourself for a solemn ceremony, which I wish to have perform=
ed
while it lies in my power.
VON XANTEN.
Margery's face flushed up, and her neck and ar=
ms
glowed in sympathy. The quickness of youthful imagination, and the
assumptiveness of woman's reason, sent her straight as an arrow this
thought: 'He wants to marry m=
e!'
She had heard of similar strange proceedings, =
in
which the orange- flower and the sad cypress were intertwined. People sometimes wished on their d=
eath-beds,
from motives of esteem, to form a legal tie which they had not cared to
establish as a domestic one during their active life.
For a few minutes Margery could hardly be call=
ed
excited; she was excitement itself.
Between surprise and modesty she blushed and trembled by turns. She became grave, sat down in the
solitary room, and looked into the fire.&n=
bsp;
At seven o'clock she rose resolved, and went quite tranquilly upstai=
rs,
where she speedily began to dress.
In making this hasty toilet nine-tenths of her
care were given to her hands. The
summer had left them slightly brown, and she held them up and looked at them
with some misgiving, the fourth finger of her left hand more especially.
She no longer tripped like a girl, but walked =
like
a woman. While crossing the p=
ark
she murmured 'Baroness von Xanten' in a pronunciation of her own. The sound of that title caused her=
such agitation
that she was obliged to pause, with her hand upon her heart.
The house was so closely neighboured by
shrubberies on three of its sides that it was not till she had gone nearly
round it that she found the little door.&n=
bsp;
The resolution she had been an hour in forming failed her when she s=
tood
at the portal. While pausing =
for courage
to tap, a carriage drove up to the front entrance a little way off, and pee=
ping
round the corner she saw alight a clergyman, and a gentleman in whom Margery
fancied that she recognized a well-known solicitor from the neighbouring
town. She had no longer any d=
oubt
of the nature of the ceremony proposed.&nb=
sp;
'It is sudden but I must obey him!' she murmured: and tapped four times.
The door was opened so quickly that the servant
must have been standing immediately inside. She thought him the man who had dr=
iven them
to the ball--the silent man who could be trusted. Without a word he conducted her up=
the
back staircase, and through a door at the top, into a wide corridor. She was asked to wait in a little =
dressing-room,
where there was a fire, and an old metal-framed looking-glass over the
mantel-piece, in which she caught sight of herself. A red spot burnt in each of her ch=
eeks;
the rest of her face was pale; and her eyes were like diamonds of the first
water.
Before she had been seated many minutes the man
came back noiselessly, and she followed him to a door covered by a red and =
black
curtain, which he lifted, and ushered her into a large chamber. A screened
light stood on a table before her, and on her left the hangings of a tall d=
ark
four-post bedstead obstructed her view of the centre of the room. Everything here seemed of such a
magnificent type to her eyes that she felt confused, diminished to half her=
height,
half her strength, half her prettiness.&nb=
sp;
The man who had conducted her retired at once, and some one came sof=
tly
round the angle of the bed-curtains.
He held out his hand kindly--rather patronisingly: it was the solicitor whom she knew=
by
sight. This gentleman led her
forward, as if she had been a lamb rather than a woman, till the occupant of
the bed was revealed.
The Baron's eyes were closed, and her entry had
been so noiseless that he did not open them. The pallor of his face nearly matc=
hed
the white bed-linen, and his dark hair and heavy black moustache were like
dashes of ink on a clean page. Near
him sat the parson and another gentleman, whom she afterwards learnt to be a
London physician; and on the parson whispering a few words the Baron opened=
his
eyes. As soon as he saw her he
smiled faintly, and held out his hand.
Margery would have wept for him, if she had not
been too overawed and palpitating to do anything. She quite forgot what she had come=
for, shook
hands with him mechanically, and could hardly return an answer to his weak
'Dear Margery, you see how I am--how are you?'
In preparing for marriage she had not calculat=
ed
on such a scene as this. Her
affection for the Baron had too much of the vague in it to afford her
trustfulness now. She wished =
she
had not come. On a sign from =
the
Baron the lawyer brought her a chair, and the oppressive silence was broken=
by
the Baron's words.
'I am pulled down to death's door, Margery,' he
said; 'and I suppose I soon shall pass through . . . My peace has been much
disturbed in this illness, for just before it attacked me I received--that
present you returned, from which, and in other ways, I learnt that you had =
lost
your chance of marriage . . . Now it was I who did the harm, and you can
imagine how the news has affected me.
It has worried me all the illness through, and I cannot dismiss my e=
rror
from my mind . . . I want to right the wrong I have done you before I die.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Margery, you have always obeyed me=
, and,
strange as the request may be, will you obey me now?'
She whispered 'Yes.'
'Well, then,' said the Baron, 'these three
gentlemen are here for a special purpose:&=
nbsp;
one helps the body--he's called a physician; another helps the
soul--he's a parson; the other helps the understanding--he's a lawyer. They are here partly on my account=
, and
partly on yours.'
The speaker then made a sign to the lawyer, who
went out of the door. He came back almost instantly, but not alone. Behind him, dressed up in his best
clothes, with a flower in his buttonhole and a bridegroom's air, walked--Ji=
m.
Margery could hardly repress a scream. As for flushing and blushing, she =
had
turned hot and turned pale so many times already during the evening, that t=
here
was really now nothing of that sort left for her to do; and she remained in
complexion much as before. O,=
the
mockery of it! That secret
dream--that sweet word 'Baroness!'--which had sustained her all the way
along. Instead of a Baron the=
re
stood Jim, white-waistcoated, demure, every hair in place, and, if she mist=
ook not,
even a deedy spark in his eye.
Jim's surprising presence on the scene may be
briefly accounted for. His resolve to seek an explanation with the Baron at=
all
risks had proved unexpectedly easy:
the interview had at once been granted, and then, seeing the crisis =
at
which matters stood, the Baron had generously revealed to Jim the whole of =
his
indebtedness to and knowledge of Margery.&=
nbsp;
The truth of the Baron's statement, the innocent nature as yet of the
acquaintanceship, his sorrow for the rupture he had produced, was so evident
that, far from having any further doubts of his patron, Jim frankly asked h=
is
advice on the next step to be pursued.&nbs=
p;
At this stage the Baron fell ill, and, desiring much to see the two
young people united before his death, he had sent anew Hayward, and proposed
the plan which they were to now about to attempt--a marriage at the bedside=
of
the sick man by special licence.
The influence at Lambeth of some friends of the Baron's, and the
charitable bequests of his late mother to several deserving Church funds, w=
ere
generally supposed to be among the reasons why the application for the lice=
nce
was not refused.
This, however, is of small consequence. The Baron probably knew, in propos=
ing
this method of celebrating the marriage, that his enormous power over her w=
ould
outweigh any sentimental obstacles which she might set up--inward objections
that, without his presence and firmness, might prove too much for her
acquiescence. Doubtless he fo=
resaw,
too, the advantage of getting her into the house before making the
individuality of her husband clear to her mind.
Now, the Baron's conjectures were right as to =
the
event, but wrong as to the motives.
Margery was a perfect little dissembler on some occasions, and one of
them was when she wished to hide any sudden mortification that might bring =
her
into ridicule. She had no soo=
ner recovered
from her first fit of discomfiture than pride bade her suffer anything rath=
er
than reveal her absurd disappointment.&nbs=
p;
Hence the scene progressed as follows:
'Come here, Hayward,' said the invalid. Hayward came near. The Baron, holding her hand in one=
of
his own, and her lover's in the other, continued, 'Will you, in spite of yo=
ur
recent vexation with her, marry her now if she does not refuse?'
'I will, sir,' said Jim promptly.
'And Margery, what do you say? It is merely a setting of things r=
ight. You have already promised this you=
ng man
to be his wife, and should, of course, perform your promise. You don't dislike Jim?'
'O, no, sir,' she said, in a low, dry voice.
'I like him better than I can tell you,' said =
the
Baron. 'He is an honourable m=
an,
and will make you a good husband.
You must remember that marriage is a life contract, in which general
compatibility of temper and worldly position is of more importance than
fleeting passion, which never long survives. Now, will you, at my earnest reque=
st,
and before I go to the South of Europe to die, agree to make this good man
happy? I have expressed your =
views
on the subject, haven't I, Hayward?'
'To a T, sir,' said Jim emphatically; with a
motion of raising his hat to his influential ally, till he remembered he ha=
d no
hat on. 'And, though I could hardly expect Margery to gie in for my asking,=
I feels
she ought to gie in for yours.'
'And you accept him, my little friend?'
'Yes, sir,' she murmured, 'if he'll agree to a
thing or two.'
'Doubtless he will--what are they?'
'That I shall not be made to live with him til=
l I
am in the mind for it; and that my having him shall be kept unknown for the
present.'
'Well, what do you think of it, Hayward?'
'Anything that you or she may wish I'll do, my
noble lord,' said Jim.
'Well, her request is not unreasonable, seeing
that the proceedings are, on my account, a little hurried. So we'll proceed. You rather expected this, from my
allusion to a ceremony in my note, did you not, Margery?'
'Yes, sir,' said she, with an effort.
'Good; I thought so; you looked so little
surprised.'
We now leave the scene in the bedroom for a sp=
ot
not many yards off.
When the carriage seen by Margery at the door =
was
driving up to Mount Lodge it arrested the attention, not only of the young
girl, but of a man who had for some time been moving slowly about the oppos=
ite
lawn, engaged in some operation while he smoked a short pipe. A short observation of his doings =
would
have shown that he was sheltering some delicate plants from an expected fro=
st,
and that he was the gardener. When
the light at the door fell upon the entering forms of parson and lawyer--the
former a stranger, the latter known to him-- the gardener walked thoughtful=
ly
round the house. Reaching the=
small
side-entrance he was further surprised to see it noiselessly open to a young
woman, in whose momentarily illumined features he discerned those of Margery
Tucker.
Altogether there was something curious in
this. The man returned to the=
lawn
front, and perfunctorily went on putting shelters over certain plants, thou=
gh
his thoughts were plainly otherwise engaged. On the grass his footsteps were
noiseless, and the night moreover being still, he could presently hear a
murmuring from the bedroom window over his head.
The gardener took from a tree a ladder that he=
had
used in nailing that day, set it under the window, and ascended half-way,
hoodwinking his conscience by seizing a nail or two with his hand and testi=
ng their
twig-supporting powers. He so=
on
heard enough to satisfy him. The words of a church-service in the strange
parson's voice were audible in snatches through the blind: they were words he knew to be part=
of
the solemnization of matrimony, such as 'wedded wife,' 'richer for poorer,'=
and
so on; the less familiar parts being a more or less confused sound.
Satisfied that a wedding was in progress there,
the gardener did not for a moment dream that one of the contracting parties
could be other than the sick Baron.
He descended the ladder and again walked round the house, waiting on=
ly
till he saw Margery emerge from the same little door; when, fearing that he=
might
be discovered, he withdrew in the direction of his own cottage.
This building stood at the lower corner of the
garden, and as soon as the gardener entered he was accosted by a handsome w=
oman
in a widow's cap, who called him father, and said that supper had been ready
for a long time. They sat dow=
n, but
during the meal the gardener was so abstracted and silent that his daughter=
put
her head winningly to one side and said, 'What is it, father dear?'
'Ah--what is it!' cried the gardener. 'Something that makes very little
difference to me, but may be of great account to you, if you play your cards
well. THERE'S BEEN A WEDDING =
AT THE
LODGE TO-NIGHT!' He related to her, with a caution to secrecy, all that he =
had
heard and seen.
'We are folk that have got to get their living=
,'
he said, 'and such ones mustn't tell tales about their betters,--Lord forgi=
ve
the mockery of the word!--but there's something to be made of it. She's a nice maid; so, Harriet, do=
you
take the first chance you get for honouring her, before others know what has
happened. Since this is done =
so
privately it will be kept private for some time--till after his death, no
question;--when I expect she'll take this house for herself; and blaze out =
as a
widow-lady ten thousand pound strong. You being a widow, she may make you h=
er
company-keeper; and so you'll have a home by a little contriving.'
While this conversation progressed at the
gardener's Margery was on her way out of the Baron's house. She was, indeed, married. But, as we know, she was not marri=
ed to
the Baron. The ceremony over =
she seemed
but little discomposed, and expressed a wish to return alone as she had
come. To this, of course, no
objection could be offered under the terms of the agreement, and wishing Ji=
m a
frigid good-bye, and the Baron a very quiet farewell, she went out by the d=
oor
which had admitted her. Once =
safe
and alone in the darkness of the park she burst into tears, which dropped u=
pon
the grass as she passed along. In
the Baron's room she had seemed scared and helpless; now her reason and
emotions returned. The furthe=
r she
got away from the glamour of that room, and the influence of its occupant, =
the
more she became of opinion that she had acted foolishly. She had disobediently left her fat=
her's
house, to obey him here. She =
had pleased
everybody but herself.
However, thinking was now too late. How she got into her grandmother's=
house
she hardly knew; but without a supper, and without confronting either her
relative or Edy, she went to bed.
On going out into the garden next morning, wit=
h a
strange sense of being another person than herself, she beheld Jim leaning
mutely over the gate.
He nodded.&nb=
sp;
'Good morning, Margery,' he said civilly.
'Good morning,' said Margery in the same tone.=
'I beg your pardon,' he continued. 'But which way was you going this =
morning?'
'I am not going anywhere just now, thank you.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But I shall go to my father's by-a=
nd-by
with Edy.' She went on with a=
sigh,
'I have done what he has all along wished, that is, married you; and there'=
s no
longer reason for enmity atween him and me.'
'Trew--trew.&=
nbsp;
Well, as I am going the same way, I can give you a lift in the trap,=
for
the distance is long.'
'No thank you--I am used to walking,' she said=
.
They remained in silence, the gate between the=
m,
till Jim's convictions would apparently allow him to hold his peace no long=
er. 'This
is a bad job!' he murmured.
'It is,' she said, as one whose thoughts have =
only
too readily been identified. =
'How I
came to agree to it is more than I can tell!' And tears began rolling down =
her
cheeks.
'The blame is more mine than yours, I suppose,=
' he
returned. 'I ought to have sa=
id No,
and not backed up the gentleman in carrying out this scheme. 'Twas his own notion entirely, as
perhaps you know. I should never have thought of such a plan; but he said y=
ou'd
be willing, and that it would be all right; and I was too ready to believe
him.'
'The thing is, how to remedy it,' said she
bitterly. 'I believe, of cour=
se, in
your promise to keep this private, and not to trouble me by calling.'
'Certainly,' said Jim. 'I don't want to trouble you. As for that, why, my dear Mrs.
Hayward--'
'Don't Mrs. Hayward me!' said Margery
sharply. 'I won't be Mrs. Hay=
ward!'
Jim paused.&n=
bsp;
'Well, you are she by law, and that was all I meant,' he said mildly=
.
'I said I would acknowledge no such thing, and=
I
won't. A thing can't be legal=
when
it's against the wishes of the persons the laws are made to protect. So I beg you not to call me that
anymore.'
'Very well, Miss Tucker,' said Jim
deferentially. 'We can live o=
n exactly
as before. We can't marry any=
body
else, that's true; but beyond that there's no difference, and no harm
done. Your father ought to be=
told,
I suppose, even if nobody else is?
It will partly reconcile him to you, and make your life smoother.'
Instead of directly replying, Margery exclaime=
d in
a low voice:
'O, it is a mistake--I didn't see it all, owin=
g to
not having time to reflect! I
agreed, thinking that at least I should get reconciled to father by the
step. But perhaps he would as=
soon
have me not married at all as married and parted. I must ha' been enchanted--bewitch=
ed-- when
I gave my consent to this! I =
only
did it to please that dear good dying nobleman--though why he should have w=
ished
it so much I can't tell!'
'Nor I neither,' said Jim. 'Yes, we've been fooled into it, M=
argery,'
he said, with extraordinary gravity.
'He's had his way wi' us, and now we've got to suffer for it. Being a gentleman of patronage, and
having bought several loads of lime o' me, and having given me all that
splendid furniture, I could hardly refuse--'
'What, did he give you that?'
'Ay sure--to help me win ye.'
Margery covered her face with her hands; where=
upon
Jim stood up from the gate and looked critically at her. ''Tis a footy plot between you two=
men
to--snare me!' she exclaimed. 'Why
should you have done it--why should he have done it--when I've not deserved=
to
be treated so. He bought the
furniture--did he! O, I've be=
en
taken in--I've been wronged!' The
grief and vexation of finding that long ago, when fondly believing the Baro=
n to
have lover-like feelings himself for her, he was still conspiring to favour
Jim's suit, was more than she could endure.
Jim with distant courtesy waited, nibbling a
straw, till her paroxysm was over.
'One word, Miss Tuck--Mrs.--Margery,' he then recommenced gravely. 'You'll find me man enough to resp=
ect
your wish, and to leave you to yourself--for ever and ever, if that's all.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But I've just one word of advice to
render 'ee. That is, that bef=
ore
you go to Silverthorn Dairy yourself you let me drive ahead and call on you=
r father. He's friends with me, and he's not
friends with you. I can break=
the
news, a little at a time, and I think I can gain his good will for you now,
even though the wedding be no natural wedding at all. At any count, I can hear what he's=
got
to say about 'ee, and come back here and tell 'ee.'
She nodded a cool assent to this, and he left =
her
strolling about the garden in the sunlight while he went on to reconnoitre =
as
agreed. It must not be suppos=
ed
that Jim's dutiful echoes of Margery's regret at her precipitate marriage w=
ere
all gospel; and there is no doubt that his private intention, after telling=
the
dairy-farmer what had happened, was to ask his temporary assent to her capr=
ice,
till, in the course of time, she should be reasoned out of her whims and in=
duced
to settle down with Jim in a natural manner. He had, it is true, been somewhat
nettled by her firm objection to him, and her keen sorrow for what she had =
done
to please another; but he hoped for the best.
But, alas for the astute Jim's calculations! He drove on to the dairy, whose wh=
ite
walls now gleamed in the morning sun; made fast the horse to a ring in the
wall, and entered the barton.
Before knocking, he perceived the dairyman walking across from a gat=
e in
the other direction, as if he had just come in. Jim went over to him. Since the
unfortunate incident on the morning of the intended wedding they had merely
been on nodding terms, from a sense of awkwardness in their relations.
'What--is that thee?' said Dairyman Tucker, in=
a
voice which unmistakably startled Jim by its abrupt fierceness. 'A pretty fellow thou be'st!'
It was a bad beginning for the young man's lif=
e as
a son-in-law, and augured ill for the delicate consultation he desired.
'What's the matter?' said Jim.
'Matter!
I wish some folks would burn their lime without burning other folks'
property along wi' it. You ou=
ght to
be ashamed of yourself. You c=
all
yourself a man, Jim Hayward, and an honest lime- burner, and a respectable,
market-keeping Christen, and yet at six o'clock this morning, instead o' be=
ing
where you ought to ha' been-- at your work, there was neither vell or mark =
o'
thee to be seen!'
'Faith, I don't know what you are raving at,' =
said
Jim.
'Why--the sparks from thy couch-heap blew over
upon my hay-rick, and the rick's burnt to ashes; and all to come out o' my
well-squeezed pocket. I'll te=
ll
thee what it is, young man. T=
here's
no business in thee. I've kno=
wn
Silverthorn folk, quick and dead, for the last couple-o'-score year, and I'=
ve
never knew one so three-cunning for harm as thee, my gentleman lime-burner;=
and
I reckon it one o' the luckiest days o' my life when I 'scaped having thee =
in my
family. That maid of mine was right; I was wrong. She seed thee to be a drawlacheting
rogue, and 'twas her wisdom to go off that morning and get rid o' thee. I commend her for't, and I'm going=
to
fetch her home to-morrow.'
'You needn't take the trouble. She's coming home-along to-night o=
f her
own accord. I have seen her t=
his
morning, and she told me so.'
'So much the better. I'll welcome her warm. Nation! I'd sooner see her married to the =
parish
fool than thee. Not you--you =
don't
care for my hay. Tarrying abo=
ut
where you shouldn't be, in bed, no doubt; that's what you was a-doing. Now, don't you darken my doors aga=
in, and
the sooner you be off my bit o' ground the better I shall be pleased.'
Jim looked, as he felt, stultified. If the rick had been really destro=
yed, a
little blame certainly attached to him, but he could not understand how it =
had
happened. However, blame or n=
one,
it was clear he could not, with any self-respect, declare himself to be thi=
s peppery
old gaffer's son-in-law in the face of such an attack as this.
For months--almost years--the one transaction =
that
had seemed necessary to compose these two families satisfactorily was Jim's=
union
with Margery. No sooner had i=
t been
completed than it appeared on all sides as the gravest mishap for both. Stating coldly that he would disco=
ver
how much of the accident was to be attributed to his negligence, and pay the
damage, he went out of the barton, and returned the way he had come.
Margery had been keeping a look-out for him,
particularly wishing him not to enter the house, lest others should see the
seriousness of their interview; and as soon as she heard wheels she went to=
the
gate, which was out of view.
'Surely father has been speaking roughly to yo=
u!'
she said, on seeing his face.
'Not the least doubt that he have,' said Jim.<= o:p>
'But is he still angry with me?'
'Not in the least. He's waiting to welcome 'ee.'
'Ah! because I've married you.'
'Because he thinks you have not married me!
Margery looked towards home with a sad, severe
gaze. 'Mr. Hayward,' she said=
, 'we
have made a great mistake, and we are in a strange position.'
'True, but I'll tell you what, mistress--I won=
't
stand--' He stopped suddenly.=
'Well, well; I've promised!' he qu=
ietly
added.
'We must suffer for our mistake,' she went
on. 'The way to suffer least =
is to
keep our own counsel on what happened last evening, and not to meet. I must now return to my father.'
He inclined his head in indifferent assent, and
she went indoors, leaving him there.
Margery returned home, as she had decided, and
resumed her old life at Silverthorn.
And seeing her father's animosity towards Jim, she told him not a wo=
rd of
the marriage.
Her inner life, however, was not what it once =
had
been. She had suffered a ment=
al and
emotional displacement--a shock, which had set a shade of astonishment on h=
er
face as a permanent thing.
Her indignation with the Baron for collusion w=
ith
Jim, at first bitter, lessened with the lapse of a few weeks, and at length=
vanished
in the interest of some tidings she received one day.
The Baron was not dead, but he was no longer at
the Lodge. To the surprise of=
the
physicians, a sufficient improvement had taken place in his condition to pe=
rmit
of his removal before the cold weather came. His desire for removal had been su=
ch,
indeed, that it was advisable to carry it out at almost any risk. The plan adopted had been to have =
him
borne on men's shoulders in a sort of palanquin to the shore near Idmouth, a
distance of several miles, where a yacht lay awaiting him. By this means the noise and joltin=
g of a
carriage, along irregular bye-roads, were avoided. The singular procession over the f=
ields
took place at night, and was witnessed by but few people, one being a labou=
ring
man, who described the scene to Margery.&n=
bsp;
When the seaside was reached a long, narrow gangway was laid from the
deck of the yacht to the shore, which was so steep as to allow the yacht to=
lie
quite near. The men, with the=
ir
burden, ascended by the light of lanterns, the sick man was laid in the cab=
in,
and, as soon as his bearers had returned to the shore, the gangway was remo=
ved,
a rope was heard skirring over wood in the darkness, the yacht quivered, sp=
read
her woven wings to the air, and moved away. Soon she was but a small, shapeless
phantom upon the wide breast of the sea.
It was said that the yacht was bound for Algie=
rs.
When the inimical autumn and winter weather ca=
me
on, Margery wondered if he were still alive. The house being shut up, and the
servants gone, she had no means of knowing, till, on a particular Saturday,=
her
father drove her to Exonbury market.
Here, in attending to his business, he left her to herself for
awhile. Walking in a quiet st=
reet
in the professional quarter of the town, she saw coming towards her the
solicitor who had been present at the wedding, and who had acted for the Ba=
ron
in various small local matters during his brief residence at the Lodge.
She reddened to peony hues, averted her eyes, =
and
would have passed him. But he
crossed over and barred the pavement, and when she met his glance he was
looking with friendly severity at her.&nbs=
p;
The street was quiet, and he said in a low voice, 'How's the husband=
?'
'I don't know, sir,' said she.
'What--and are your stipulations about secrecy=
and
separate living still in force?'
'They will always be,' she replied
decisively. 'Mr. Hayward and =
I agreed
on the point, and we have not the slightest wish to change the arrangement.=
'
'H'm.
Then 'tis Miss Tucker to the world; Mrs. Hayward to me and one or two
others only?'
Margery nodded. Then she nerved herself by an effo=
rt,
and, though blushing painfully, asked, 'May I put one question, sir? Is the Baron dead?'
'He is dead to you and to all of us. Why should you ask?'
'Because, if he's alive, I am sorry I married
James Hayward. If he is dead =
I do
not much mind my marriage.'
'I repeat, he is dead to you,' said the lawyer
emphatically. 'I'll tell you =
all I
know. My professional service=
s for
him ended with his departure from this country; but I think I should have h=
eard
from him if he had been alive still.
I have not heard at all: and
this, taken in connection with the nature of his illness, leaves no doubt i=
n my
mind that he is dead.'
Margery sighed, and thanking the lawyer she le=
ft
him with a tear for the Baron in her eye.&=
nbsp;
After this incident she became more restful; and the time drew on for
her periodical visit to her grandmother.
A few days subsequent to her arrival her aged
relative asked her to go with a message to the gardener at Mount Lodge (who
still lived on there, keeping the grounds in order for the landlord). Margery hated that direction now, =
but
she went. The Lodge, which sh=
e saw
over the trees, was to her like a skull from which the warm and living fles=
h had
vanished. It was twilight by =
the
time she reached the cottage at the bottom of the Lodge garden, and, the ro=
om
being illuminated within, she saw through the window a woman she had never =
seen
before. She was dark, and rather handsome, and when Margery knocked she ope=
ned
the door. It was the gardener=
's
widowed daughter, who had been advised to make friends with Margery.
She now found her opportunity. Margery's errand was soon complete=
d, the
young widow, to her surprise, treating her with preternatural respect, and
afterwards offering to accompany her home.=
Margery was not sorry to have a companion in the gloom, and they wal=
ked
on together. The widow, Mrs. =
Peach,
was demonstrative and confidential; and told Margery all about herself. She had come quite recently to liv=
e with
her father--during the Baron's illness, in fact--and her husband had been
captain of a ketch.
'I saw you one morning, ma'am,' she said. 'But you didn't see me. It was whe=
n you
were crossing the hill in sight of the Lodge. You looked at it, and sighed. 'Tis the lot of widows to sigh, ma=
'am,
is it not?'
'Widows--yes, I suppose; but what do you mean?=
'
Mrs. Peach lowered her voice. 'I can't say more, ma'am, with pro=
per respect. But there seems to be no question =
of the
poor Baron's death; and though these foreign princes can take (as my poor
husband used to tell me) what they call left-handed wives, and leave them b=
ehind
when they go abroad, widowhood is widowhood, left-handed or right. And really, to be the left-handed =
wife
of a foreign baron is nobler than to be married all round to a common man.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> You'll excuse my freedom, ma'am; b=
ut
being a widow myself, I have pitied you from my heart; so young as you are,=
and
having to keep it a secret, and (excusing me) having no money out of his va=
st
riches because 'tis swallowed up by Baroness Number One.'
Now Margery did not understand a word more of =
this
than the bare fact that Mrs. Peach suspected her to be the Baron's undowered
widow, and such was the milkmaid's nature that she did not deny the widow's=
impeachment. The latter continued -
'But ah, ma'am, all your troubles are straight
backward in your memory--while I have troubles before as well as grief behi=
nd.'
'What may they be, Mrs. Peach?' inquired Marge=
ry
with an air of the Baroness.
The other dropped her voice to revelation
tones: 'I have been forgetful
enough of my first man to lose my heart to a second!'
'You shouldn't do that--it is wrong. You should control your feelings.'=
'But how am I to control my feelings?'
'By going to your dead husband's grave, and th=
ings
of that sort.'
'Do you go to your dead husband's grave?'
'How can I go to Algiers?'
'Ah--too true! Well, I've tried everything to cure
myself--read the words against it, gone to the Table the first Sunday of ev=
ery
month, and all sorts. But, av=
ast,
my shipmate!--as my poor man used to say- -there 'tis just the same. In short, I've made up my mind to =
encourage
the new one. 'Tis flattering =
that
I, a new-comer, should have been found out by a young man so soon.'
'Who is he?' said Margery listlessly.
'A master lime-burner.'
'A master lime-burner?'
'That's his profession. He's a partner-in-co., doing very =
well indeed.'
'But what's his name?'
'I don't like to tell you his name, for, though
'tis night, that covers all shame-facedness, my face is as hot as a 'Talian
iron, I declare! Do you just =
feel
it.'
Margery put her hand on Mrs. Peach's face, and,
sure enough, hot it was. 'Doe=
s he
come courting?' she asked quickly.
'Well only in the way of business. He never comes unless lime is want=
ed in
the neighbourhood. He's in the
Yeomanry, too, and will look very fine when he comes out in regimentals for
drill in May.'
'Oh--in the Yeomanry,' Margery said, with a sl=
ight
relief. 'Then it can't--is he=
a
young man?'
'Yes, junior partner-in-co.'
The description had an odd resemblance to Jim,=
of
whom Margery had not heard a word for months. He had promised silence and absenc=
e, and
had fulfilled his promise literally, with a gratuitous addition that was ra=
ther
amazing, if indeed it were Jim whom the widow loved. One point in the
description puzzled Margery: =
Jim
was not in the Yeomanry, unless, by a surprising development of enterprise,=
he
had entered it recently.
At parting Margery said, with an interest quite
tender, 'I should like to see you again, Mrs. Peach, and hear of your
attachment. When can you call=
?'
'Oh--any time, dear Baroness, I'm sure--if you
think I am good enough.'
'Indeed, I do, Mrs. Peach. Come as soon as you've seen the li=
me- burner
again.'
Seeing that Jim lived several miles from the
widow, Margery was rather surprised, and even felt a slight sinking of the
heart, when her new acquaintance appeared at her door so soon as the evenin=
g of
the following Monday. She ask=
ed
Margery to walk out with her, which the young woman readily did.
'I am come at once,' said the widow breathless=
ly,
as soon as they were in the lane, 'for it is so exciting that I can't keep =
it. I must tell it to somebody, if onl=
y a
bird, or a cat, or a garden snail.'
'What is it?' asked her companion.
'I've pulled grass from my husband's grave to =
cure
it--wove the blades into true lover's knots; took off my shoes upon the sod;
but, avast, my shipmate,--'
'Upon the sod--why?'
'To feel the damp earth he's in, and make the
sense of it enter my soul. But
no. It has swelled to a head;=
he is
going to meet me at the Yeomanry Review.'
'The master lime-burner?'
The widow nodded.
'When is it to be?'
'To-morrow.&n=
bsp;
He looks so lovely in his accoutrements! He's such a splendid soldier; that=
was
the last straw that kindled my soul to say yes. He's home from Exonbury for a night
between the drills,' continued Mrs. Peach.=
'He goes back to-morrow morning for the Review, and when it's over h=
e's
going to meet me. But, guide =
my heart,
there he is!'
Her exclamation had rise in the sudden appeara=
nce
of a brilliant red uniform through the trees, and the tramp of a horse carr=
ying
the wearer thereof. In another
half-minute the military gentleman would have turned the corner, and faced
them.
'He'd better not see me; he'll think I know too
much,' said Margery precipitately.
'I'll go up here.'
The widow, whose thoughts had been of the same
cast, seemed much relieved to see Margery disappear in the plantation, in t=
he
midst of a spring chorus of birds.
Once among the trees, Margery turned her head, and, before she could=
see
the rider's person she recognized the horse as Tony, the lightest of three =
that
Jim and his partner owned, for the purpose of carting out lime to their
customers.
Jim, then, had joined the Yeomanry since his
estrangement from Margery. A =
man
who had worn the young Queen Victoria's uniform for seven days only could n=
ot
be expected to look as if it were part of his person, in the manner of
long-trained soldiers; but he was a well-formed young fellow, and of an age
when few positions came amiss to one who has the capacity to adapt himself =
to
circumstances.
Meeting the blushing Mrs. Peach (to whom Marge=
ry
in her mind sternly denied the right to blush at all), Jim alighted and mov=
ed
on with her, probably at Mrs. Peach's own suggestion; so that what they sai=
d, how
long they remained together, and how they parted, Margery knew not. She might have known some of these
things by waiting; but the presence of Jim had bred in her heart a sudden
disgust for the widow, and a general sense of discomfiture. She went away in an opposite direc=
tion,
turning her head and saying to the unconscious Jim, 'There's a fine rod in
pickle for you, my gentleman, if you carry out that pretty scheme!'
Jim's military coup had decidedly astonished
her. What he might do n=
ext
she could not conjecture. The=
idea
of his doing anything sufficiently brilliant to arrest her attention would =
have
seemed ludicrous, had not Jim, by entering the Yeomanry, revealed a capacit=
y for
dazzling exploits which made it unsafe to predict any limitation to his pow=
ers.
Margery was now excited. The daring of the wretched Jim in
bursting into scarlet amazed her as much as his doubtful acquaintanceship w=
ith the
demonstrative Mrs. Peach. To =
go to
that Review, to watch the pair, to eclipse Mrs. Peach in brilliancy, to meet
and pass them in withering contempt--if she only could do it! But, alas! she was a forsaken woma=
n.
'If the Baron were alive, or in England,' she =
said
to herself (for sometimes she thought he might possibly be alive), 'and he =
were
to take me to this Review, wouldn't I show that forward Mrs. Peach what a l=
ady
is like, and keep among the select company, and not mix with the common peo=
ple
at all!'
It might at first sight be thought that the be=
st
course for Margery at this juncture would have been to go to Jim, and nip t=
he
intrigue in the bud without further scruple. But her own declaration in after d=
ays
was that whoever could say that was far from realizing her situation. It was hard to break such ice as d=
ivided
their two lives now, and to attempt it at that moment was a too humiliating=
proclamation
of defeat. The only plan she =
could
think of--perhaps not a wise one in the circumstances--was to go to the Rev=
iew
herself; and be the gayest there.
A method of doing this with some propriety soon
occurred to her. She dared no=
t ask
her father, who scorned to waste time in sight-seeing, and whose animosity
towards Jim knew no abatement; but she might call on her old acquaintance, =
Mr.
Vine, Jim's partner, who would probably be going with the rest of the
holiday-folk, and ask if she might accompany him in his spring-trap. She had no sooner perceived the fe=
asibility
of this, through her being at her grandmother's, than she decided to meet w=
ith
the old man early the next morning.
In the meantime Jim and Mrs. Peach had walked
slowly along the road together, Jim leading the horse, and Mrs. Peach infor=
ming
him that her father, the gardener, was at Jim's village further on, and tha=
t she
had come to meet him. Jim, for
reasons of his own, was going to sleep at his partner's that night, and thus
their route was the same. The shades of eve closed in upon them as they wal=
ked,
and by the time they reached the lime-kiln, which it was necessary to pass =
to
get to the village, it was quite dark.&nbs=
p;
Jim stopped at the kiln, to see if matters had progressed rightly in=
his
seven days' absence, and Mrs. Peach, who stuck to him like a teazle, stopped
also, saying she would wait for her father there.
She held the horse while he ascended to the to=
p of
the kiln. Then rejoining her,=
and
not quite knowing what to do, he stood beside her looking at the flames, wh=
ich
to-night burnt up brightly, shining a long way into the dark air, even up to
the ramparts of the earthwork above them, and overhead into the bosoms of t=
he
clouds.
It was during this proceeding that a carriage,
drawn by a pair of dark horses, came along the turnpike road. The light of the kiln caused the h=
orses
to swerve a little, and the occupant of the carriage looked out. He saw the bluish, lightning-like =
flames
from the limestone, rising from the top of the furnace, and hard by the fig=
ures
of Jim Hayward, the widow, and the horse, standing out with spectral
distinctness against the mass of night behind. The scene wore the aspect of some =
unholy
assignation in Pandaemonium, and it was all the more impressive from the fa=
ct
that both Jim and the woman were quite unconscious of the striking spectacle
they presented. The gentleman=
in
the carriage watched them till he was borne out of sight.
Having seen to the kiln, Jim and the widow wal=
ked
on again, and soon Mrs. Peach's father met them, and relieved Jim of the
lady. When they had parted, J=
im,
with an expiration not unlike a breath of relief; went on to Mr. Vine's, an=
d,
having put the horse into the stable, entered the house. His partner was seated at the tabl=
e, solacing
himself after the labours of the day by luxurious alternations between a lo=
ng
clay pipe and a mug of perry.
'Well,' said Jim eagerly, 'what's the news--ho=
w do
she take it?'
'Sit down--sit down,' said Vine. ''Tis working well; not but that I=
deserve
something o' thee for the trouble I've had in watching her. The soldiering =
was
a fine move; but the woman is a better!--who invented it?'
'I myself,' said Jim modestly.
'Well; jealousy is making her rise like a
thunderstorm, and in a day or two you'll have her for the asking, my
sonny. What's the next step?'=
'The widow is getting rather a weight upon a feller, worse luck,' said Jim. 'But I must keep it up until to-morrow, at any rate. I have promised to see her at the Review, and now the great thing is that Margery should see we a-smiling together--I in my full-dress uniform and clinking arms o' war. 'Twill be a good strong sting, and= will end the business, I hope. Cou= ldn't you manage to put the hoss in and drive her there? She'd go if you were to ask her.'<= o:p>
'With all my heart,' said Mr. Vine, moistening=
the
end of a new pipe in his perry. 'I
can call at her grammer's for her--'twill be all in my way.'
Margery duly followed up her intention by arra=
ying
herself the next morning in her loveliest guise, and keeping watch for Mr.
Vine's appearance upon the high road, feeling certain that his would form o=
ne
in the procession of carts and carriages which set in towards Exonbury that
day. Jim had gone by at a very
early hour, and she did not see him pass.&=
nbsp;
Her anticipation was verified by the advent of Mr. Vine about eleven
o'clock, dressed to his highest effort; but Margery was surprised to find t=
hat,
instead of her having to stop him, he pulled in towards the gate of his own
accord. The invitation planne=
d between
Jim and the old man on the previous night was now promptly given, and, as m=
ay
be supposed, as promptly accepted.
Such a strange coincidence she had never before known. She was quite ready, and they drove
onward at once.
The Review was held on some high ground a litt=
le
way out of the city, and her conductor suggested that they should put up the
horse at the inn, and walk to the field--a plan which pleased her well, for=
it
was more easy to take preliminary observations on foot without being seen h=
erself
than when sitting elevated in a vehicle.
They were just in time to secure a good place =
near
the front, and in a few minutes after their arrival the reviewing officer c=
ame
on the ground. Margery's eye =
had
rapidly run over the troop in which Jim was enrolled, and she discerned him=
in
one of the ranks, looking remarkably new and bright, both as to uniform and
countenance. Indeed, if she had not worked herself into such a desperate st=
ate
of mind she would have felt proud of him then and there. His shapely upright figure was qui=
te
noteworthy in the row of rotund yeomen on his right and left; while his cha=
rger
Tony expressed by his bearing, even more than Jim, that he knew nothing abo=
ut
lime-carts whatever, and everything about trumpets and glory. How Jim could have scrubbed Tony t=
o such
shining blackness she could not tell, for the horse in his natural state was
ingrained with lime-dust, that burnt the colour out of his coat as it did o=
ut
of Jim's hair. Now he pranced=
martially,
and was a war-horse every inch of him.
Having discovered Jim her next search was for =
Mrs.
Peach, and, by dint of some oblique glancing Margery indignantly discovered=
the
widow in the most forward place of all, her head and bright face conspicuou=
sly
advanced; and, what was more shocking, she had abandoned her mourning for a
violet drawn-bonnet and a gay spencer, together with a parasol luxuriously
fringed in a way Margery had never before seen. 'Where did she get the money?' said
Margery, under her breath. 'A=
nd to
forget that poor sailor so soon!'
These general reflections were precipitately
postponed by her discovering that Jim and the widow were perfectly alive to
each other's whereabouts, and in the interchange of telegraphic signs of af=
fection,
which on the latter's part took the form of a playful fluttering of her
handkerchief or waving of her parasol.&nbs=
p;
Richard Vine had placed Margery in front of him, to protect her from=
the
crowd, as he said, he himself surveying the scene over her bonnet. Margery
would have been even more surprised than she was if she had known that Jim =
was
not only aware of Mrs. Peach's presence, but also of her own, the treachero=
us
Mr. Vine having drawn out his flame- coloured handkerchief and waved it to =
Jim
over the young woman's head as soon as they had taken up their position.
'My partner makes a tidy soldier, eh--Miss
Tucker?' said the senior lime-burner.
'It is my belief as a Christian that he's got a party here that he's
making signs to--that handsome figure o' fun straight over-right him.'
'Perhaps so,' she said.
'And it's growing warm between 'em if I don't
mistake,' continued the merciless Vine.
Margery was silent, biting her lip; and the tr=
oops
being now set in motion, all signalling ceased for the present between sold=
ier
Hayward and his pretended sweetheart.
'Have you a piece of paper that I could make a
memorandum on, Mr. Vine?' asked Margery.
Vine took out his pocket-book and tore a leaf =
from
it, which he handed her with a pencil.
'Don't move from here--I'll return in a minute=
,'
she continued, with the innocence of a woman who means mischief. And, withdrawing herself to the ba=
ck,
where the grass was clear, she pencilled down the words
=
'JIM'S
MARRIED.'
=
Armed
with this document she crept into the throng behind the unsuspecting Mrs.
Peach, slipped the paper into her pocket on the top of her handkerchief; and
withdrew unobserved, rejoining Mr. Vine with a bearing of nonchalance.
By-and-by the troops were in different order, =
Jim
taking a left-hand position almost close to Mrs. Peach. He bent down and said a few words =
to
her. From her manner of noddi=
ng
assent it was surely some arrangement about a meeting by-and-by when Jim's
drill was over, and Margery was more certain of the fact when, the Review
having ended, and the people having strolled off to another part of the fie=
ld
where sports were to take place, Mrs. Peach tripped away in the direction of
the city.
'I'll just say a word to my partner afore he g=
oes
off the ground, if you'll spare me a minute,' said the old lime-burner. 'Please stay here till I'm back
again.' He edged along the fr=
ont
till he reached Jim.
'How is she?' said the latter.
'In a trimming sweat,' said Mr. Vine. 'And my counsel to 'ee is to carry=
this
larry no further. 'Twill do no
good. She's as ready to make
friends with 'ee as any wife can be; and more showing off can only do harm.=
'
'But I must finish off with a spurt,' said
Jim. 'And this is how I am go=
ing to
do it. I have arranged with M=
rs.
Peach that, as soon as we soldiers have entered the town and been dismissed,
I'll meet her there. It is re=
ally
to say good-bye, but she don't know that; and I wanted it to look like a
lopement to Margery's eyes. W=
hen
I'm clear of Mrs. Peach I'll come back here and make it up with Margery on =
the spot. But don't say I'm coming, or she m=
ay be
inclined to throw off again. =
Just
hint to her that I may be meaning to be off to London with the widow.'
The old man still insisted that this was going=
too
far.
'No, no, it isn't,' said Jim. 'I know how to manage her. 'Twill just mellow her heart nicel=
y by
the time I come back. I must =
bring her
down real tender, or 'twill all fail.'
His senior reluctantly gave in and returned to
Margery. A short time afterwa=
rds
the Yeomanry hand struck up, and Jim with the regiment followed towards
Exonbury.
'Yes, yes; they are going to meet,' said Marge=
ry
to herself, perceiving that Mrs. Peach had so timed her departure as to be =
in
the town at Jim's dismounting.
'Now we will go and see the games,' said Mr. V=
ine;
'they are really worth seeing.
There's greasy poles, and jumping in sacks, and other trials of the
intellect, that nobody ought to miss who wants to be abreast of his
generation.'
Margery felt so indignant at the apparent
assignation, which seemed about to take place despite her anonymous writing,
that she helplessly assented to go anywhere, dropping behind Vine, that he =
might
not see her mood.
Jim followed out his programme with literal
exactness. No sooner was the =
troop
dismissed in the city than he sent Tony to stable and joined Mrs. Peach, wh=
o stood
on the edge of the pavement expecting him.=
But this acquaintance was to end:&n=
bsp;
he meant to part from her for ever and in the quickest time, though
civilly; for it was important to be with Margery as soon as possible. He had nearly completed the manoeu=
vre to
his satisfaction when, in drawing her handkerchief from her pocket to wipe =
the
tears from her eyes, Mrs. Peach's hand grasped the paper, which she read at
once.
'What! is that true?' she said, holding it out=
to
Jim.
Jim started and admitted that it was, beginnin=
g an
elaborate explanation and apologies.
But Mrs. Peach was thoroughly roused, and then overcome. 'He's married, he's married!' she =
said,
and swooned, or feigned to swoon, so that Jim was obliged to support her.
'He's married, he's married!' said a boy hard =
by
who watched the scene with interest.
'He's married, he's married!' said a hilarious
group of other boys near, with smiles several inches broad, and shining tee=
th;
and so the exclamation echoed down the street.
Jim cursed his ill-luck; the loss of time that
this dilemma entailed grew serious; for Mrs. Peach was now in such a hyster=
ical
state that he could not leave her with any good grace or feeling. It was necessary to take her to a
refreshment room, lavish restoratives upon her, and altogether to waste nea=
rly
half an hour. When she had ke=
pt him
as long as she chose, she forgave him; and thus at last he got away, his he=
art
swelling with tenderness towards Margery.&=
nbsp;
He at once hurried up the street to effect the reconciliation with h=
er.
'How shall I do it?' he said to himself. 'Why, I'll step round to her side,=
fish
for her hand, draw it through my arm as if I wasn't aware of it. Then she'll look in my face, I sha=
ll
look in hers, and we shall march off the field triumphant, and the thing wi=
ll
be done without takings or tears.'
He entered the field and went straight as an a=
rrow
to the place appointed for the meeting.&nb=
sp;
It was at the back of a refreshment tent outside the mass of spectat=
ors,
and divided from their view by the tent itself. He turned the corner of the canvas=
, and
there beheld Vine at the indicated spot.&n=
bsp;
But Margery was not with him.
Vine's hat was thrust back into his poll. His face was pale, and his manner
bewildered. 'Hullo? what's the
matter?' said Jim. 'Where's my
Margery?'
'You've carried this footy game too far, my ma=
n!'
exclaimed Vine, with the air of a friend who has 'always told you so.' 'You ought to have dropped it seve=
ral
days ago, when she would have come to 'ee like a cooing dove. Now this is the end o't!'
'Hey! what, my Margery? Has anything happened, for God's s=
ake?'
'She's gone.'
'Where to?'
'That's more than earthly man can tell! I never see such a thing! 'Twas a =
stroke
o' the black art--as if she were sperrited away. When we got to the games I said--m=
ind,
you told me to!--I said, "Jim Hayward thinks o' going off to London wi=
th
that widow woman"--mind you told me to! She showed no wonderment, though a'
seemed very low. Then she said to me, "I don't like standing here in t=
his
slummocky crowd. I shall feel=
more
at home among the gentlepeople."
And then she went to where the carriages were drawn up, and near her
there was a grand coach, a-blazing with lions and unicorns, and hauled by t=
wo coal-black
horses. I hardly thought much=
of it
then, and by degrees lost sight of her behind it. Presently the other carriages move=
d off,
and I thought still to see her standing there. But no, she had vanished; and then=
I saw
the grand coach rolling away, and glimpsed Margery in it, beside a fine dar=
k gentleman
with black mustachios, and a very pale prince-like face. As soon as the horses got into the=
hard
road they rattled on like hell-and-skimmer, and went out of sight in the du=
st,
and--that's all. If you'd com=
e back
a little sooner you'd ha' caught her.'
Jim had turned whiter than his pipeclay. 'O, this is too bad--too bad!' he =
cried
in anguish, striking his brow.
'That paper and that fainting woman kept me so long. Who could have done it? But 'tis my fault. I've stung her too much. I shouldn't have carried it so far=
.'
'You shouldn't--just what I said,' replied his
senior.
'She thinks I've gone off with that cust widow;
and to spite me she's gone off with the man! Do you know who that stranger wi' =
the
lions and unicorns is? Why, '=
tis
that foreigner who calls himself a Baron, and took Mount Lodge for six mont=
hs
last year to make mischief--a villain!&nbs=
p;
O, my Margery--that it should come to this! She's lost, she's ruined!--Which w=
ay did
they go?'
Jim turned to follow in the direction indicate=
d,
when, behold, there stood at his back her father, Dairyman Tucker.
'Now look here, young man,' said Dairyman
Tucker. 'I've just heard all =
that
wailing--and straightway will ask 'ee to stop it sharp. 'Tis like your braz=
en
impudence to teave and wail when you be another woman's husband; yes, faith=
, I
see'd her a-fainting in yer arms when you wanted to get away from her, and
honest folk a-standing round who knew you'd married her, and said so. I heard it, though you didn't see
me. "He's married!"=
says
they. Some sly register-offic=
e business,
no doubt; but sly doings will out.
As for Margery--who's to be called higher titles in these parts
hencefor'ard--I'm her father, and I say it's all right what she's done. Don't I know private news, hey? Begone, young man, and leave noble=
men's wives
alone; and I thank God I shall be rid of a numskull!'
Swift words of explanation rose to Jim's lips,=
but
they paused there and died. A=
t that
last moment he could not, as Margery's husband, announce Margery's shame and
his own, and transform her father's triumph to wretchedness at a blow.
'I--I--must leave here,' he stammered. Going from the place in an opposite
course to that of the fugitives, he doubled when out of sight, and in an
incredibly short space had entered the town. Here he made inquiries for the
emblazoned carriage, and gained from one or two persons a general idea of i=
ts
route. They thought it had ta=
ken the
highway to London. Saddling p=
oor
Tony before he had half eaten his corn, Jim galloped along the same road.
Now Jim was quite mistaken in supposing that by
leaving the field in a roundabout manner he had deceived Dairyman Tucker as=
to
his object. That astute old man immediately divined that Jim was meaning to
track the fugitives, in ignorance (as the dairyman supposed) of their lawful
relation. He was soon assured=
of
the fact, for, creeping to a remote angle of the field, he saw Jim hastening
into the town. Vowing vengeance on the young lime-burner for his mischievou=
s interference
between a nobleman and his secretly-wedded wife, the dairy-farmer determine=
d to
balk him.
Tucker had ridden on to the Review ground, so =
that
there was no necessity for him, as there had been for poor Jim, to re-enter=
the
town before starting. The dai=
ryman
hastily untied his mare from the row of other horses, mounted, and descende=
d to
a bridle-path which would take him obliquely into the London road a mile or=
so
ahead. The old man's route being along one side of an equilateral triangle,=
while
Jim's was along two sides of the same, the former was at the point of
intersection long before Hayward.
Arrived here, the dairyman pulled up and looked
around. It was a spot at whic=
h the
highway forked; the left arm, the more important, led on through Sherton Ab=
bas
and Melchester to London; the right to Idmouth and the coast. Nothing was visible on the white t=
rack
to London; but on the other there appeared the back of a carriage, which ra=
pidly
ascended a distant hill and vanished under the trees. It was the Baron's who, according =
to the
sworn information of the gardener at Mount Lodge, had made Margery his wife=
.
The carriage having vanished, the dairyman gaz=
ed
in the opposite direction, towards Exonbury. Here he beheld Jim in his regiment=
als, laboriously
approaching on Tony's back.
Soon he reached the forking roads, and saw the
dairyman by the wayside. But =
Jim
did not halt. Then the dairym=
an
practised the greatest duplicity of his life.
'Right along the London road, if you want to c=
atch
'em!' he said.
'Thank 'ee, dairyman, thank 'ee!' cried Jim, h=
is
pale face lighting up with gratitude, for he believed that Tucker had learnt
his mistake from Vine, and had come to his assistance. Without drawing rein he diminished=
along
the road not taken by the flying pair.&nbs=
p;
The dairyman rubbed his hands with delight, and returned to the city=
as
the cathedral clock struck five.
Jim pursued his way through the dust, up hill =
and
down hill; but never saw ahead of him the vehicle of his search. That vehicle was passing along a
diverging way at a distance of many miles from where he rode. Still he sped onwards, till Tony s=
howed
signs of breaking down; and then Jim gathered from inquiries he made that he
had come the wrong way. It bu=
rst
upon his mind that the dairyman, still ignorant of the truth, had misinform=
ed
him. Heavier in his heart than
words can describe he turned Tony's drooping head, and resolved to drag his=
way
home.
But the horse was now so jaded that it was
impossible to proceed far. Having gone about half a mile back he came again=
to
a small roadside hamlet and inn, where he put up Tony for a rest and feed.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> As for himself, there was no quiet=
in
him. He tried to sit and eat =
in the
inn kitchen; but he could not stay there.&=
nbsp;
He went out, and paced up and down the road.
Standing in sight of the white way by which he=
had
come he beheld advancing towards him the horses and carriage he sought, now
black and daemonic against the slanting fires of the western sun.
The why and wherefore of this sudden appearanc=
e he
did not pause to consider. His
resolve to intercept the carriage was instantaneous. He ran forward, and
doggedly waiting barred the way to the advancing equipage.
The Baron's coachman shouted, but Jim stood fi=
rm
as a rock, and on the former attempting to push past him Jim drew his sword,
resolving to cut the horses down rather than be displaced. The animals were thrown nearly bac=
k upon
their haunches, and at this juncture a gentleman looked out of the window.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It was the Baron himself.
'Who's there?' he inquired.
'James Hayward!' replied the young man fiercel=
y,
'and he demands his wife.'
The Baron leapt out, and told the coachman to
drive back out of sight and wait for him.
'I was hastening to find you,' he said to
Jim. 'Your wife is where she =
ought
to be, and where you ought to be also--by your own fireside. Where's the other woman?'
Jim, without replying, looked incredulously in=
to
the carriage as it turned. Ma=
rgery
was certainly not there. 'The=
other
woman is nothing to me,' he said bitterly.=
'I used her to warm up Margery:&nbs=
p;
I have now done with her.
The question I ask, my lord, is, what business had you with Margery
to-day?'
'My business was to help her to regain the hus=
band
she had seemingly lost. I saw=
her;
she told me you had eloped by the London road with another. I, who have--mostly--had her happi=
ness
at heart, told her I would help her to follow you if she wished. She gladly agreed; we drove after,=
but
could hear no tidings of you in front of us. Then I took her--to your house--and
there she awaits you. I promi=
sed to
send you to her if human effort could do it, and was tracking you for that
purpose.'
'Then you've been a-pursuing after me?'
'You and the widow.'
'And I've been pursuing after you and
Margery! My noble lord, your =
actions
seem to show that I ought to believe you in this; and when you say you've h=
er
happiness at heart, I don't forget that you've formerly proved it to be
so. Well, Heaven forbid that I
should think wrongfully of you if you don't deserve it! A mystery to me you have always be=
en, my
noble lord, and in this business more than in any.'
'I am glad to hear you say no worse. In one hour you'll have proof of my
conduct--good and bad. Can I =
do
anything more? Say the word, =
and
I'll try.'
Jim reflected. 'Baron,' he said, 'I am a plain ma=
n, and
wish only to lead a quiet life with my wife, as a man should. You have great power over her--pow=
er to
any extent, for good or otherwise.
If you command her anything on earth, righteous or questionable, that
she'll do. So that, since you=
ask
me if you can do more for me, I'll answer this, you can promise never to see
her again. I mean no harm, my=
lord;
but your presence can do no good; you will trouble us. If I return to her, will you for e=
ver
stay away?'
'Hayward,' said the Baron, 'I swear to you tha=
t I
will disturb you and your wife by my presence no more. And he took Jim's hand, and presse=
d it
within his own upon the hilt of Jim's sword.
In relating this incident to the present narra=
tor
Jim used to declare that, to his fancy, the ruddy light of the setting sun
burned with more than earthly fire on the Baron's face as the words were
spoken; and that the ruby flash of his eye in the same light was what he ne=
ver
witnessed before nor since in the eye of mortal man. After this there was nothing more =
to do
or say in that place. Jim acc=
ompanied
his never-to-be-forgotten acquaintance to the carriage, closed the door aft=
er
him, waved his hat to him, and from that hour he and the Baron met not agai=
n on
earth.
A few words will suffice to explain the fortun=
es
of Margery while the foregoing events were in action elsewhere. On leaving her companion Vine she =
had
gone distractedly among the carriages, the rather to escape his observation
than of any set purpose. Stan=
ding
here she thought she heard her name pronounced, and turning, saw her foreig=
n friend,
whom she had supposed to be, if not dead, a thousand miles off. He beckoned, and she went close. 'You are ill--you are wretched,' he
said, looking keenly in her face.
'Where's your husband?'
She told him her sad suspicion that Jim had run
away from her. The Baron refl=
ected,
and inquired a few other particulars of her late life. Then he said: 'You and I must find him. Come with me.' At this word of command from the B=
aron
she had entered the carriage as docilely as a child, and there she sat besi=
de
him till he chose to speak, which was not till they were some way out of the
town, at the forking ways, and the Baron had discovered that Jim was certai=
nly not,
as they had supposed, making off from Margery along that particular branch =
of
the fork that led to London.
'To pursue him in this way is useless, I
perceive,' he said. 'And the =
proper
course now is that I should take you to his house. That done I will return, and bring=
him
to you if mortal persuasion can do it.'
'I didn't want to go to his house without him,
sir,' said she, tremblingly.
'Didn't want to!' he answered. 'Let me remind you, Margery Haywar=
d, that
your place is in your husband's house.&nbs=
p;
Till you are there you have no right to criticize his conduct, howev=
er
wild it may be. Why have you =
not
been there before?'
'I don't know, sir,' she murmured, her tears
falling silently upon her hand.
'Don't you think you ought to be there?'
She did not answer.
'Of course you ought.'
Still she did not speak.
The Baron sank into silence, and allowed his e=
ye
to rest on her. What thoughts were all at once engaging his mind after those
moments of reproof? Margery h=
ad
given herself into his hands without a remonstrance, her husband had appare=
ntly
deserted her. She was absolut=
ely in
his power, and they were on the high road.
That his first impulse in inviting her to
accompany him had been the legitimate one denoted by his words cannot
reasonably be doubted. That his second was otherwise soon became revealed,
though not at first to her, for she was too bewildered to notice where they
were going. Instead of turnin=
g and
taking the road to Jim's, the Baron, as if influenced suddenly by her
reluctance to return thither if Jim was playing truant, signalled to the
coachman to take the branch road to the right, as her father had discerned.=
They soon approached the coast near Idmouth. The carriage stopped. Margery awok=
e from
her reverie.
'Where are we?' she said, looking out of the
window, with a start. Before her was an inlet of the sea, and in the middle=
of
the inlet rode a yacht, its masts repeating as if from memory the rocking t=
hey had
practised in their native forest.
'At a little sea-side nook, where my yacht lie=
s at
anchor,' he said tentatively. 'Now,
Margery, in five minutes we can be aboard, and in half an hour we can be
sailing away all the world over.
Will you come?'
'I cannot decide,' she said, in low tones.
'Why not?'
'Because--'
Then on a sudden, Margery seemed to see all
contingencies: she became whi=
te as
a fleece, and a bewildered look came into her eyes. With clasped hands she
leant on the Baron.
Baron von Xanten observed her distracted look,
averted his face, and coming to a decision opened the carriage door, quickly
mounted outside, and in a second or two the carriage left the shore behind,=
and
ascended the road by which it had come.
In about an hour they reached Jim Hayward's
home. The Baron alighted, and=
spoke
to her through the window.
'Margery, can you forgive a lover's bad impulse, which I swear was
unpremeditated?' he asked. 'I=
f you
can, shake my hand.'
She did not do it, but eventually allowed him =
to
help her out of the carriage. He
seemed to feel the awkwardness keenly; and seeing it, she said, 'Of course I
forgive you, sir, for I felt for a moment as you did. Will you send my husband to me?'
'I will, if any man can,' said he. 'Such penance is milder than I des=
erve! God bless you and give you
happiness! I shall never see =
you
again!' He turned, entered the
carriage, and was gone; and having found out Jim's course, came up with him
upon the road as described.
In due time the latter reached his lodging at =
his
partner's. The woman who took=
care
of the house in Vine's absence at once told Jim that a lady who had come in=
a
carriage was waiting for him in his sitting-room. Jim proceeded thither with agitati=
on,
and beheld, shrinkingly ensconced in the large slippery chair, and surround=
ed
by the brilliant articles that had so long awaited her, his long- estranged
wife.
Margery's eyes were round and fear-stricken. She essayed to speak, but Jim, str=
angely
enough, found the readier tongue then.&nbs=
p;
'Why did I do it, you would ask,' he said. 'I cannot tell. Do you forgive my deception? O Margery--you are my Margery
still! But how could you trust
yourself in the Baron's hands this afternoon, without knowing him better?'<=
o:p>
'He said I was to come, and I went,' she said,=
as
well as she could for tearfulness.
'You obeyed him blindly.'
'I did.
But perhaps I was not justified in doing it.'
'I don't know,' said Jim musingly. 'I think he's a good man.' Margery=
did
not explain. And then a sunni=
er
mood succeeded her tremblings and tears, till old Mr. Vine came into the ho=
use
below, and Jim went down to declare that all was well, and sent off his par=
tner
to break the news to Margery's father, who as yet remained unenlightened.
The dairyman bore the intelligence of his
daughter's untitled state as best he could, and punished her by not coming =
near
her for several weeks, though at last he grumbled his forgiveness, and made=
up matters
with Jim. The handsome Mrs. P=
each
vanished to Plymouth, and found another sailor, not without a reasonable
complaint against Jim and Margery both that she had been unfairly used.
As for the mysterious gentleman who had exerci=
sed
such an influence over their lives, he kept his word, and was a stranger to
Lower Wessex thenceforward. B=
aron
or no Baron, Englishman or foreigner, he had shown a genuine interest in Ji=
m,
and real sorrow for a certain reckless phase of his acquaintance with
Margery. That he had a more t=
ender
feeling toward the young girl than he wished her or any one else to perceive
there could be no doubt. That=
he
was strongly tempted at times to adopt other than conventional courses with
regard to her is also clear, particularly at that critical hour when she ro=
lled
along the high road with him in the carriage, after turning from the fancied
pursuit of Jim. But at other =
times
he schooled impassioned sentiments into fair conduct, which even erred on t=
he side
of harshness. In after years =
there
was a report that another attempt on his life with a pistol, during one of
those fits of moodiness to which he seemed constitutionally liable, had bee=
n effectual;
but nobody in Silverthorn was in a position to ascertain the truth.
There he is still regarded as one who had
something about him magical and unearthly.=
In his mystery let him remain; for a man, no less than a landscape, =
who
awakens an interest under uncertain lights and touches of unfathomable shad=
e,
may cut but a poor figure in a garish noontide shine.
When she heard of his mournful death Margery s= at in her nursing- chair, gravely thinking for nearly ten minutes, to the total neglect of her infant in the cradle. Jim, from the other side of the fire- place, said: 'You are sorry enough for him, Margery. I am sure of that.'<= o:p>
'Yes, yes,' she murmured, 'I am sorry.' After a moment she added: 'Now tha=
t he's
dead I'll make a confession, Jim, that I have never made to a soul. If he had pressed me--which he did=
not--to
go with him when I was in the carriage that night beside his yacht, I would=
have
gone. And I was disappointed =
that
he did not press me.'
'Suppose he were to suddenly appear now, and s=
ay
in a voice of command, "Margery, come with me!"'
'I believe I should have no power to disobey,'=
she
returned, with a mischievous look.
'He was like a magician to me.
I think he was one. He=
could
move me as a loadstone moves a speck of steel . . . Yet no,' she added, hea=
ring
the infant cry, 'he would not move me now.=
It would be so unfair to baby.'
'Well,' said Jim, with no great concern (for '=
la
jalousie retrospective,' as George Sand calls it, had nearly died out of hi=
m), 'however
he might move 'ee, my love, he'll never come. He swore it to me: and he was a man of his word.'
Midsummer, 1883.