The Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid

Chapter 8

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?'

'You sent for me, and I have come,' she answered humbly, like an

obedient familiar in the employ of some great enchanter. Indeed, the

Baron's power over this innocent girl was curiously like enchantment,

or mesmeric influence. It was so masterful that the s****l element

was almost eliminated. It was that of Prospero over the gentle

Ariel. And yet it was probably only that of the cosmopolite over the

recluse, of the experienced man over the simple maid.

'You have come--on your wedding-day!--O Margery, this is a mistake.

Of course, you should not have obeyed me, since, though I thought

your wedding would be soon, I did not know it was to-day.'

'I promised you, sir; and I would rather keep my promise to you than

be married to Jim.'

'That must not be--the feeling is wrong!' he murmured, looking at the

distant hills. 'There seems to be a fate in all this; I get out of

the frying-pan into the fire. What a recompense to you for your

goodness! The fact is, I was out of health and out of spirits, so I-

-but no more of that. Now instantly to repair this tremendous

blunder that we have made--that's the question.'

After a pause, he went on hurriedly, 'Walk down the hill; get into

the road. By that time I shall be there with a phaeton. We may get

back in time. What time is it now? If not, no doubt the wedding can

be to-morrow; so all will come right again. Don't cry, my dear girl.

Keep the locket, of course--you'll marry Jim.'