The Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid

Chapter 12

Margery could hardly repress a scream. As for flushing and blushing,

she had turned hot and turned pale so many times already during the

evening, that there was really now nothing of that sort left for her

to do; and she remained in complexion much as before. O, the mockery

of it! That secret dream--that sweet word 'Baroness!'--which had

sustained her all the way along. Instead of a Baron there stood Jim,

white-waistcoated, demure, every hair in place, and, if she mistook

not, even a deedy spark in his eye.

Jim's surprising presence on the scene may be briefly accounted for.

His resolve to seek an explanation with the Baron at all risks had

proved unexpectedly easy: the interview had at once been granted,

and then, seeing the crisis at which matters stood, the Baron had

generously revealed to Jim the whole of his indebtedness to and

knowledge of Margery. The truth of the Baron's statement, the

innocent nature as yet of the acquaintanceship, his sorrow for the

rupture he had produced, was so evident that, far from having any

further doubts of his patron, Jim frankly asked his advice on the

next step to be pursued. At this stage the Baron fell ill, and,

desiring much to see the two young people united before his death, he

had sent anew Hayward, and proposed the plan which they were to now

about to attempt--a marriage at the bedside of the sick man by

special licence. The influence at Lambeth of some friends of the

Baron's, and the charitable bequests of his late mother to several

deserving Church funds, were generally supposed to be among the

reasons why the application for the licence was not refused.

This, however, is of small consequence. The Baron probably knew, in

proposing this method of celebrating the marriage, that his enormous

power over her would outweigh any sentimental obstacles which she

might set up--inward objections that, without his presence and

firmness, might prove too much for her acquiescence. Doubtless he

foresaw, too, the advantage of getting her into the house before

making the individuality of her husband clear to her mind.

Now, the Baron's conjectures were right as to the event, but wrong as

to the motives. Margery was a perfect little dissembler on some

occasions, and one of them was when she wished to hide any sudden

mortification that might bring her into ridicule. She had no sooner

recovered from her first fit of discomfiture than pride bade her

suffer anything rather than reveal her absurd disappointment. Hence

the scene progressed as follows:

'Come here, Hayward,' said the invalid. Hayward came near. The

Baron, holding her hand in one of his own, and her lover's in the

other, continued, 'Will you, in spite of your recent vexation with

her, marry her now if she does not refuse?'

'I will, sir,' said Jim promptly.

'And Margery, what do you say? It is merely a setting of things

right. You have already promised this young man to be his wife, and

should, of course, perform your promise. You don't dislike Jim?'

'O, no, sir,' she said, in a low, dry voice.

'I like him better than I can tell you,' said the Baron. 'He is an

honourable man, and will make you a good husband. You must remember

that marriage is a life contract, in which general compatibility of

temper and worldly position is of more importance than fleeting

passion, which never long survives. Now, will you, at my earnest

request, and before I go to the South of Europe to die, agree to make

this good man happy? I have expressed your views on the subject,

haven't I, Hayward?'

'To a T, sir,' said Jim emphatically; with a motion of raising his

hat to his influential ally, till he remembered he had no hat on.

'And, though I could hardly expect Margery to gie in for my asking, I

feels she ought to gie in for yours.'

'And you accept him, my little friend?'

'Yes, sir,' she murmured, 'if he'll agree to a thing or two.'

'Doubtless he will--what are they?'

'That I shall not be made to live with him till I am in the mind for

it; and that my having him shall be kept unknown for the present.'

'Well, what do you think of it, Hayward?'

'Anything that you or she may wish I'll do, my noble lord,' said Jim.

'Well, her request is not unreasonable, seeing that the proceedings

are, on my account, a little hurried. So we'll proceed. You rather

expected this, from my allusion to a ceremony in my note, did you

not, Margery?'

'Yes, sir,' said she, with an effort.

'Good; I thought so; you looked so little surprised.'

We now leave the scene in the bedroom for a spot not many yards off.

When the carriage seen by Margery at the door was driving up to Mount

Lodge it arrested the attention, not only of the young girl, but of a

man who had for some time been moving slowly about the opposite lawn,

engaged in some operation while he smoked a short pipe. A short

observation of his doings would have shown that he was sheltering

some delicate plants from an expected frost, and that he was the

gardener. When the light at the door fell upon the entering forms of

parson and lawyer--the former a stranger, the latter known to him--

the gardener walked thoughtfully round the house. Reaching the small

side-entrance he was further surprised to see it noiselessly open to

a young woman, in whose momentarily illumined features he discerned

those of Margery Tucker.

Altogether there was something curious in this. The man returned to

the lawn front, and perfunctorily went on putting shelters over

certain plants, though his thoughts were plainly otherwise engaged.

On the grass his footsteps were noiseless, and the night moreover

being still, he could presently hear a murmuring from the bedroom

window over his head.

The gardener took from a tree a ladder that he had used in nailing

that day, set it under the window, and ascended half-way, hoodwinking

his conscience by seizing a nail or two with his hand and testing

their twig-supporting powers. He soon heard enough to satisfy him.

The words of a church-service in the strange parson's voice were

audible in snatches through the blind: they were words he knew to be

part of the solemnization of matrimony, such as 'wedded wife,'

'richer for poorer,' and so on; the less familiar parts being a more

or less confused sound.

Satisfied that a wedding was in progress there, the gardener did not

for a moment dream that one of the contracting parties could be other

than the sick Baron. He descended the ladder and again walked round

the house, waiting only till he saw Margery emerge from the same

little door; when, fearing that he might be discovered, he withdrew

in the direction of his own cottage.

This building stood at the lower corner of the garden, and as soon as

the gardener entered he was accosted by a handsome woman in a widow's

cap, who called him father, and said that supper had been ready for a

long time. They sat down, but during the meal the gardener was so

abstracted and silent that his daughter put her head winningly to one

side and said, 'What is it, father dear?'

'Ah--what is it!' cried the gardener. 'Something that makes very

little difference to me, but may be of great account to you, if you

play your cards well. THERE'S BEEN A WEDDING AT THE LODGE TO-NIGHT!'

He related to her, with a caution to secrecy, all that he had heard

and seen.

'We are folk that have got to get their living,' he said, 'and such

ones mustn't tell tales about their betters,--Lord forgive the

mockery of the word!--but there's something to be made of it. She's

a nice maid; so, Harriet, do you take the first chance you get for

honouring her, before others know what has happened. Since this is

done so privately it will be kept private for some time--till after

his death, no question;--when I expect she'll take this house for

herself; and blaze out as a widow-lady ten thousand pound strong.

You being a widow, she may make you her company-keeper; and so you'll

have a home by a little contriving.'

While this conversation progressed at the gardener's Margery was on

her way out of the Baron's house. She was, indeed, married. But, as

we know, she was not married to the Baron. The ceremony over she

seemed but little discomposed, and expressed a wish to return alone

as she had come. To this, of course, no objection could be offered

under the terms of the agreement, and wishing Jim a frigid good-bye,

and the Baron a very quiet farewell, she went out by the door which

had admitted her. Once safe and alone in the darkness of the park

she burst into tears, which dropped upon the grass as she passed

along. In the Baron's room she had seemed scared and helpless; now

her reason and emotions returned. The further she got away from the

glamour of that room, and the influence of its occupant, the more she

became of opinion that she had acted foolishly. She had

disobediently left her father's house, to obey him here. She had

pleased everybody but herself.

However, thinking was now too late. How she got into her

grandmother's house she hardly knew; but without a supper, and

without confronting either her relative or Edy, she went to bed.