The Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid
by
Thomas Hardy

Part 1 out of 2








This etext was prepared from the 1920 Macmillan and Co. edition by
David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk.





THE ROMANTIC ADVENTURES OF A MILKMAID

by Thomas Hardy




CHAPTER I



It was half-past four o'clock (by the testimony of the land-surveyor,
my authority for the particulars of this story, a gentleman with the
faintest curve of humour on his lips); it was half-past four o'clock
on a May morning in the eighteen forties. 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 from 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 flats, 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 the
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 stalled and proceedings about to
commence.

A hush followed, the atmosphere being so stagnant that the milk could
be heard buzzing into the pails, together with occasional words of
the milkmaids and men.

'Don't ye bide about long upon the road, Margery. You can be back
again by skimming-time.'

The rough voice of Dairyman Tucker was the vehicle 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 bonnet and ribbons
peeping from under the handkerchief, because it was likely to be a
sunny May day.

Her face was of the hereditary type among families 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 basket, 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, sometimes 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
stile. The dampness was such that innumerable 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 was 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 protecting 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 distance of four miles, and
arrived at a latticed cottage in a secluded spot. An elderly woman,
scarce awake, answered her knocking. Margery delivered 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 basket the girl proceeded to carry out some intention which had
not been included in her orders. Instead of returning to the light
labours of skimming-time, she hastened on, her direction being
towards a little neighbouring town. Before, 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. 'They 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 wanted the
draper's.

The postman turned up a side-path, and the young 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 way 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, went
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. However, 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. There was a doorway to the lawn, standing at
the head of a flight of steps. The shutters of the house 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 spy, and must be treated
accordingly; a house with the shutters together is an insensate 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 of four walls radiating from a centre like
the arms of a turnstile, with seats in each 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 matters; till, at the moment when she was not
a yard from the shelter, she heard a foot or feet scraping on the
gravel behind it. Some one was in the all-the-year-round, apparently
occupying the seat 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
questioned upon her business there. Accordingly she crept softly up
and sat in the seat behind, intending to remain there until her
companion should leave.

This he by no means seemed in a hurry to do. What could possibly
have brought him 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 not a little. But he remained quite
still, and Margery grew impatient. She 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.



CHAPTER II



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 tightly grasping his forehead, the other hung over his
knee. The attitude bespoke with sufficient 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
before, 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. There he remained
as motionless as the bushes around him; indeed, he scarcely seemed to
breathe.

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. 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. '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
had not known of it. 'My name is Margaret 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. 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 scarcely 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 sitting
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 engage in
country sports. But here it is 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 subject 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
again 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 the sun had burst
through the fog upon that face: it became clear, bright, almost
radiant. Yet it was but a change that may take place in the
commonest human being, provided his countenance be not too wooden, 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 embrace 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. '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 there 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 memory 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 would you like to have best in the world?'

Margery made a pretence of reflecting--then fell 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 what 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
acquaintance rose. It would be more proper--but no.'

Margery, too, seemed rather anxious that he should 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 stile 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 here 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
maiden. 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 this handsome,
melancholy, sleepless, foreign gentleman who had had a trouble on his
mind till the letter came? What 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. As the turnpike-
road ran, the postman's beat was twelve miles a day; six miles out
from the town, and six miles back at night. But what with zigzags,
devious ways, offsets to country seats, curves to farms, looped
courses, and triangles to outlying hamlets, the ground actually
covered by him was nearer one-and-twenty miles. Hence it 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
adventure caused her to respond at once when the bowed man of mails
said, 'You hit athwart the grounds of Mount Lodge, Miss Margery, or
you wouldn't ha' met me here. Well, somebody hey took the old place
at last.'

In acknowledging her route Margery brought herself 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 just a-come.--Well, nominal, he's a fishing gentleman,
come for the summer only. But, more to the subject, he's a foreign
noble that's lived in England so long as to be without any true
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: give 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 too rithe. The London smoke got into 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 tell, 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.' The postman with his
walking-stick wrote upon the ground,

'BARON VON XANTEN'



CHAPTER III



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 meeting 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 settle, 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 beheld the form
of the stranger, riding home, as he had said.

The moonlight so flooded her face as to make her very conspicuous in
the garden-gap. 'Ah my maiden--what is your name--Margery!' he said.
'How came you here? 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. 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 his hand. 'I was to give you a treat or
present, and you could not think of one. 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 murmured, as if, of all
requests in the world, this was what he had least expected. 'Where
is what you call the Yeomanry 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. '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 if 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. At first nobody would
have noticed in that pretty young face any sign of decision; yet it
was discoverable. The mouth, though soft, was firm in line; the
eyebrows were distinct, and extended near to each other. 'I have
thought of it all day,' she continued, sadly. 'Still, sir, if you
are sorry you offered me anything, I can let you off.'

'Sorry?--Certainly not, Margery,' be said, rather 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 power,' 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
people?'

'Not many, sir. None, I may say. I know nobody who goes to balls.'

'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 take you, I'll
take you myself. Would you like me to do so? I can dance.'

'O, yes, sir; I know that, and I thought you might 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 College 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. 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 sight,' he said, warming
up to the proceedings. '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 inquire more about this ball, and then I must see you
again.'

'If it is a great trouble to you, sir, I--'

'O no, no. I will think it over. So far so good.'

The Baron mentioned an evening and an hour when 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, she 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
thinking 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
presence 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. This 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, wishes to please the yeomen because
his brother is going to stand for the county. 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
neighbourhood?'

'O no, sir. 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. That 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. It is really an
ancient Scythian dance; but, such is the power of fashion, that,
having once been adopted by Society, this dance has made the tour of
the Continent in one season.'

'What is its name, sir?'

'The polka. Young people, who always dance, are ecstatic about it,
and old people, 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 good Margery. To learn this one dance
will be enough. They will dance scarce 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 more ways than one. But the curious reverence which was
stealing over her for all that this stranger said and did 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 numbers, 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 her 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 after 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 led 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 elements
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 figures, 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
mysterious, 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, sir?'

'Certainly. 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 me?'

'O yes, sir,' she replied brightly; 'if I am not 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. 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 him.
The Baron rolled and compressed it with all his force till it was
about as large as an apple-dumpling, and put it into his pocket.

'The next thing,' he said, 'is about getting the consent of your
friends to your going. Have you thought of this?'

'There is only my father. I can tell him I am invited to a party,
and I don't think he'll mind. Though 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 English peasantry
in such matters, and added, 'However, it is for you to decide. I
know nothing of the circumstances. As to getting to the ball, the
plan I have arranged is this. The direction to Lord Toneborough's
being the other way from my house, you must meet me at Three-Walks-
End--in Chillington Wood, two miles or more from here. You know the
place? Good. By meeting there we shall save five or six miles of
journey--a consideration, as it is a long way. Now, for the last
time: are you still firm in your wish for this particular treat and
no other? It is not too late to give it up. Cannot you think of
something else--something better--some useful household articles you
require?'

Margery's countenance, which before had been beaming with
expectation, lost its brightness: her lips became close, and her
voice 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.'



CHAPTER IV



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
strongly 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 woman 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 mysterious personage of romance
was her ardent desire and aim; and none the less in that she trembled
with fear and excitement at her position in so aiming. She felt the
deepest awe, tenderness, and humility towards the Baron of the
strange name; and yet she was prepared 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 innumerable birds, which
increased as she drew away from the open meads towards the groves.

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 contrivance 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 time 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 patron appeared. He was so transfigured in
dress that she scarcely knew him. Under a light great-coat, which
was flung open, instead of his ordinary 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
open 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 day I
observed a large hollow tree close by here, and it occurred to me
when I was last with you that this would be useful for our purpose.
Have you told your father?'

'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 rift in its
side.

'Now go inside,' he said, 'before it gets any darker. You will find
there everything you want. At any rate, 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 maiden.

'Go inside, and you will see. When you are ready wave your
handkerchief 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 entered at the top, and also through a round hole about six
feet from the ground, marking 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 the top, suffused the cavity with a faint mellow
radiance.

But Margery had hardly given herself time to heed 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
gossamer texture of precious manufacture, artistically festooned in a
dozen flounces or more.

Margery lifted it, and could hardly refrain from 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 back, went forward,
flushed, laughed, raised her hands. To say that the maker of that
dress had been an individual of talent was simply understatement: he
was a genius, and she sunned herself 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 satin slippers, gloves, a handkerchief nearly all
lace, a fan, and even flowers for the hair. 'O, how could he think
of it!' she said, clasping her hands and almost crying with
agitation. 'And the glass--how good of him!'

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
ready, 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 at as much as she could
see of herself: the image presented was superb. Then she hastily
rolled up her old dress, put it in the box, and thrust 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
fantastical, 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 steps 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 tree!'

He came round to the opening, stooped, and looked 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 have it!' he
said more loudly.

With all his might he kicked at the sides of the rift, and by that
means broke away several pieces of the rotten touchwood. 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 tearing her dress. She breathed her relief: the silly
girl had begun 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 hooded, 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 with some timidity to the coachman's figure.

'You need not mind him,' said the Baron. 'He is a foreigner, and
heeds nothing.'

In the space of a short minute she was handed inside; the Baron
buttoned up his overcoat, and surprised her by mounting with the
coachman. The carriage moved off silently over the long grass of the
vista, the shadows deepening to black 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 were 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 arrived 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 never 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 meant 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, 'Suppose he
is a wicked man, who is taking me off to a foreign country, and will
never bring me home again.'

But her characteristic persistence in an original idea sustained her
against these misgivings except at odd moments. One incident in
particular had given 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 thoughts 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. But it is a long way.'

'We are almost there,' he answered. 'And now, Margery,' he said in a
lower tone, 'I must tell you a secret. I have obtained this
invitation in a peculiar way. I thought it best for your sake not to
come in my own name, and this is how I have managed. A man in this
county, for whom I have lately done a service, one whom I can trust,
and who is personally as unknown here as you and I, has (privately)
transferred his card of invitation to me. So that we go under his
name. I explain this that you may not say anything imprudent by
accident. Keep your ears open and be cautious.' Having said this
the Baron retreated 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 sort 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 large 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 hours 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.



CHAPTER V



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 the 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 awaiting 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 of
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 gilded
chair, upon which she sat in the intervals between one arrival and
another. She had come down from London at great 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 comers.

'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 that, would
she?' whispered Margery confidentially.

'Indeed, she wouldn't!' drily said the Baron. '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 in your shoes now, dear.'

His words, like all his words to her, were quite 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 natural
agility and litheness. Moreover, her marvellous dress of twelve
flounces inspired her as nothing else could have done. Externally a
new creature, she was prompted to new deeds. To feel as well-dressed
as the other women around her is to set any woman at her 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 the 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 introduced into the
world of poesy--the polka, as a counterpoise to the new motive power
that had been introduced into the world of prose--steam.

Twenty finished musicians sat in the music gallery 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 its being very
inclusive. Every rank was there, from the peer to the smallest
yeoman, and Margery got on exceedingly 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
curtained nook, he drew her attention to scrap-books, prints, and
albums, and left her to amuse herself with turning them over till the
dance in which she was practised should again be called. Margery
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 longer they stayed the more
freely and gaily moved the dance. This entreaty he granted; but on
her asking for yet another, he was inexorable. 'No,' he said. 'We
have a long way to go.'

Then she bade adieu to the wondrous scene, looking 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 contemplate 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. '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 are 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.

'Now,' he said, smiling, 'run across to the hollow 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 the 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. 'Where is the finery?'

'Packed in the box, sir, as I found it.' She spoke with more
humility now. The difference between them was greater than it had
been at the ball.

'Good,' he said. 'I must just dispose of it; and then 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 carelessly as if
it had been rags. But this was not all. He gathered a few 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 whole.

Margery was agonized. She ran forward; she implored and entreated.
'Please, sir--do spare it--do! My lovely dress--my-dear, dear
slippers--my fan--it is cruel! Don't burn them, please!'

'Nonsense. 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 of his aristocratic eye. 'It is of no use for you to
speak like that. The things are my property. I undertook 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 said 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, and I dispose of them my own way. Have 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
disappeared. 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
which her granddame dwelt.

'Now, Margery,' he said, 'here we part. I have performed my
contract--at some awkwardness, if I was recognized. But never mind
that. How do you feel--sleepy?'

'Not at all, sir,' she said.

'That long nap refreshed you, eh? Now you must make me a promise.
That 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 desperate need of you again, to deliver me
from that darkness as of Death which sometimes encompasses me.
Promise it, Margery--promise it; that, no matter what stands 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 all 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!'

'You shall remember it in this way,' said he. 'We'll cut our
initials on this tree as a memorial, so that whenever you walk this
path you will see them.'

Then with a knife he inscribed on the smooth bark of a beech tree the
letters M.T., and underneath a large X.

'What, have you no Christian name, sir?' she said.

'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 with some gloom; 'and
have breakfast, and dinner, and tea with her, I suppose; and in the
evening I shall go home to Silverthorn Dairy, and perhaps Jim will
come 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 word of this to me!
Margery, Margery! when shall a straightforward one of your sex be
found! Subtle even in your simplicity! What mischief have you
caused me to do, through not telling me this? 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
excursion, he may be angry with you and part from you for ever? With
him already in the field I had no right to take you at all; he
undoubtedly ought to have taken you; which really might have been
arranged, if you had not deceived me by saying you had nobody.'

Margery's face wore that aspect of woe which comes 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 have 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 some 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.



CHAPTER VI



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
grandmother, four miles to the east.

He was a thoroughbred son of the country, as far 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 wore 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. His complexion was fair, almost
florid, and he had scarcely any beard.

A novel attraction about this young man, which a glancing stranger
would know nothing of, was a rare and curious freshness of 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 lime daily; and in return the lime
rendered him an incarnation of salubrity. His hair was dry, fair,
and frizzled, the latter possibly by the operation of the same
caustic agent. He carried as a walking-stick a green sapling, whose
growth had been contorted to a corkscrew pattern by a twining
honeysuckle.

As he descended to the level ground of the water-meadows he cast his
glance westward, with a frequency that revealed him 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 from 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 from the necessity of finding
points in these carriers convenient for jumping. Thus peering and
leaping and winding, 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 path on the brink of the stream. The 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. The girl smiled back to him; but her smile had not the
life in it that the young man's had shown.

'My dear Margery--here I am!' he said gladly in 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 purpose to meet me, and
you shouldn't have done it,' she reproachfully returned.

'We finished there at four, so it was no trouble; 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 you would be to see your
dog or cat?' he continued. 'Come, Mis'ess Margery, this is rather
hard. But, by George, how tired you dew look! Why, if you'd been up
all night your eyes couldn't be more like tea-saucers. You've walked
tew far, that's what it is. The weather is getting warm now, and the
air of these low-lying meads is not strengthening in summer. I wish
you lived up on higher ground with me, beside the kiln. You'd get as
strong as a hoss! Well, there; 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 settle 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 liberty to pat her shoulder,
and the further liberty of advancing his hand behind it to the other.
'The partnership is settled. 'Tis "Vine and Hayward, lime-burners,"
now, and "Richard Vine" no longer. Yes, Cousin Richard has settled
it so, for a time at least, and 'tis to be painted on the 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 without a
flitting accent of superiority.

'Hullo,' said Jim, taking her by the shoulders, and looking at her
hard. 'What 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. 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 edge, 'that's too plain-
spoken for you yet. 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 plain
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 images 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
beats of the Drum Polka. At last she 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 for yourself--the very best.'

'The best! Far are you from knowing what that is!' said the little
woman. 'There be ornaments such as you never 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 don'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 week 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, things a woman COULD want. And since you 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. 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 they 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, with more ceremony than
heartiness.

'No--I think not to-night,' he answered. 'I'll consider what you've
said.'

'You are very good, Jim,' she returned lightly. 'Good-bye.'



CHAPTER VII



Jim thoughtfully retraced his steps. He was a village character, and
he had a villager's simplicity: that is, 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 good 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 things with some
approach to keenness. The substance of his queries was, What change
had come over Margery--whence these new notions?

Ponder as he would he could evolve no answer save one, which,
eminently unsatisfactory as it was, he felt it would be unreasonable
not to accept: that she was simply skittish and ambitious by nature,
and would not be hunted into 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 ravine 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
turnpike-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 little to imagination.
For on the nibbled green steep above the kiln stood a bye-gone, 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 earthwork to be the forms of those giants who (he
supposed) had heaped it up. Often he clambered upon it, and walked
about the summit, thinking out the problems connected with his
business, his partner, 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 Jim
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
inform Jim that the Baron required a load of lime for the garden.

'You might have saved yourself trouble by leaving word at Mr.
Vine's,' said Jim.

'I was to see you personally,' said the gardener, '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 being established by what he brought, the Baron came down,
and the gardener withdrew.

The Baron's first inquiries were, as Jim had been led to suppose they
would be, on the exterminating effects of lime upon slugs and snails
in its different conditions of slaked and unslaked, ground and in the
lump. He appeared to be much 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 well 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 it--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. 'But 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. 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.

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 confidant of this kind
gentleman, instead of the parson, as he had intended? The thought
was no sooner conceived than acted on. 'My lord,' he resumed, '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. Therefore 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, Hayward. 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 it
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 regret.

'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 would 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: one
large mirror: two small ditto: one gilt china tea and coffee
service: one silver tea-pot, coffee-pot, sugar-basin, jug, and dozen
spoons: French clock: pair of curtains: six large pictures.'

'Now,' said the Baron, 'tear out that leaf and give it to me. Keep a
close tongue about this; go home, and don't be surprised at anything
that may come to your 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
gives 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 home, 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 have
been dictated by something more personal than sudden spontaneous
generosity to him, a stranger. To which Jim always answered that,
admitting the existence of such generosity, there had appeared
nothing remarkable in the Baron selecting himself as its object. The
Baron had told him that he took 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 outsider 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 sort of fellow, who had scarcely expected the
Baron to look in his face. It would be a fine story to tell Margery
when the Baron gave him liberty to speak out.

Jim lodged at the house of his cousin and partner, Richard Vine, a
widower of fifty odd years. Having failed in the development of a
household of direct descendants this tradesman had been glad to let
his chambers to his much younger relative, when the latter entered on
the business of lime manufacture; and their intimacy had led to a
partnership. Jim lived upstairs; his partner lived 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 against Jim for tolerating it. Not only were the
chairs and tables queer, but, with due regard to the principle that 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 interest 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, Mr. Vine, contenting himself entirely with the ground level. It
had been so convenient for discussing business matters to have Jim in
the same house, that he did not wish any change 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. 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 getting 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 little later in the
afternoon, he sent into the vale to the dairy, and invited Margery
and her father to his house to supper.

She was not unsociable that day, and, her father expressing a hard
and fast acceptance of the invitation, she perforce agreed to go with
him. Meanwhile at home, 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 stood till he heard the
voices of his guests from the direction of the low grounds, 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 which bodies and a horse and cart gradually
extended as the approaching pair rose towards the house.

When they had entered Jim pressed Margery's hand and conducted her up
to his rooms, her father waiting below to say a few words 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
candlesticks containing two candles that Jim was in the act of
lighting.

'Why--where--you have candlesticks like that?' said Margery. Her
eyes flew round the room as the growing candle-flames showed other
articles. 'Pictures too--and lovely china--why 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 cupid 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 'tis
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 Margery with earnest
reproach. 'Why, I hope you wouldn't be so foolish! Why, 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 the
remainder of her surprise.

As for the two elderly worthies, it was not till 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 each being unwilling to
express his wonder in the presence of his neighbours, they received
the objects before them with quite an accustomed air; the lime-burner
inwardly trying to conjecture what all this meant, and the dairyman
musing that if Jim's business allowed him to accumulate at this rate,
the sooner Margery became his wife the better. Margery retreated 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. Whenever 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 firm, 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 lady; 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 suppose it will be the best course for me, I will fix
the day--not this evening, but as soon as I can think it over.'



CHAPTER VIII



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'mighty
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, ascended
the mount, and entered the weather-screen, where he looked at the
seats, as though 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 was
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 bent his gaze over the distance. The valley 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 Three-
Walks-End, and the hollow elm hard by. He peeped in at the rift. In
the soft dry layer of touch-wood that floored the hollow Margery's
tracks were 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 whose 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 little walk.' She could get no further;
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 under 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 seeing you. Remember you
cannot be too careful,' continued the Baron, in the same grave tone;
'and I strongly request you as a friend to do your utmost to avoid
meetings like this. When you saw me before I turned, why 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 you should not think
of,' returned the Baron. 'Good morning.'

Margery could answer nothing. A browbeaten glance, almost of misery,
was all she gave him. He took a slow step away from her; then turned
suddenly back and, stooping, impulsively kissed 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 face 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
preliminaries. The white shirt-sleeves of the mowers 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 would 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 for the time being, and hiding
the awkwardness of having to pass through the milk-house to get to
the parlour door. These household contrivances appeared to interest
Margery much more than the great question of dressing for the
ceremony and the ceremony itself. In all relating to that she showed
an indescribable backwardness, which later on was well remembered.

'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!' said one of the
milkmaids.

It is said that about this time the Baron seemed to feel the effects
of solitude strongly. 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 thing within his present horizon, for he lived in absolute
seclusion; and her image 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
which shall be nameless.

You solemnly promised to come and see me whenever I should send for
you. Can you call for five minutes as soon as possible, and disperse
those plaguy glooms from which I am so unfortunate as to suffer? 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. 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 before 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 being
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 everywhere.

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
should not have come.'

'You sent for me, sir; and I was afraid you were ill; and my promise
to you was sacred.'

He bent over her, looking upon her downcast face, 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
little friend, to express good wishes--and to present her with this.'
He held forward 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, therefore, 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 this busy season of the
year,' replied she.

'And have you, then, put it off--surely not?'



 


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