The Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid

Chapter 6

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.'