'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

1 2 3 4 5