The Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid

Chapter 7

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.'