A considerable period of inaction followed among all concerned.

Nothing tended to dissipate the obscurity which veiled the life of the Baron.  The position he occupied in the minds of the country-folk around was one which combined the mysteriousness of a legendary character with the unobtrusive deeds of a modern gentleman.  To this day whoever takes the trouble to go down to Silverthorn in Lower Wessex and make inquiries will find existing there almost a superstitious feeling for the moody melancholy stranger who resided in the Lodge some forty years ago.

Whence he came, whither he was going, were alike unknown.  It was said that his mother had been an English lady of noble family who had married a foreigner not unheard of in circles where men pile up ‘the cankered heaps of strange-achieved gold’—that he had been born and educated in England, taken abroad, and so on.  But the facts of a life in such cases are of little account beside the aspect of a life; and hence, though doubtless the years of his existence contained their share of trite and homely circumstance, the curtain which masked all this was never lifted to gratify such a theatre of spectators as those at Silverthorn.  Therein lay his charm.  His life was a vignette, of which the central strokes only were drawn with any distinctness, the environment shading away to a blank.

He might have been said to resemble that solitary bird the heron.  The still, lonely stream was his frequent haunt: on its banks he would stand for hours with his rod, looking into the water, beholding the tawny inhabitants with the eye of a philosopher, and seeming to say, ‘Bite or don’t bite—it’s all the same to me.’  He was often mistaken for a ghost by children; and for a pollard willow by men, when, on their way home in the dusk, they saw him motionless by some rushy bank, unobservant of the decline of day.

Why did he come to fish near Silverthorn?  That was never explained.  As far as was known he had no relatives near; the fishing there was not exceptionally good; the society thereabout was decidedly meagre.  That he had committed some folly or hasty act, that he had been wrongfully accused of some crime, thus rendering his seclusion from the world desirable for a while, squared very well with his frequent melancholy.  But such as he was there he lived, well supplied with fishing-tackle, and tenant of a furnished house, just suited to the requirements of such an eccentric being as he.


Margery’s father, having privately ascertained that she was living with her grandmother, and getting into no harm, refrained from communicating with her, in the hope of seeing her contrite at his door.  It had, of course, become known about Silverthorn that at the last moment Margery refused to wed Hayward, by absenting herself from the house.  Jim was pitied, yet not pitied much, for it was said that he ought not to have been so eager for a woman who had shown no anxiety for him.

And where was Jim himself?  It must not be supposed that that tactician had all this while withdrawn from mortal eye to tear his hair in silent indignation and despair.  He had, in truth, merely retired up the lonesome defile between the downs to his smouldering kiln, and the ancient ramparts above it; and there, after his first hours of natural discomposure, he quietly waited for overtures from the possibly repentant Margery.  But no overtures arrived, and then he meditated anew on the absorbing problem of her skittishness, and how to set about another campaign for her conquest, notwithstanding his late disastrous failure.  Why had he failed?  To what was her strange conduct owing?  That was the thing which puzzled him.

He had made no advance in solving the riddle when, one morning, a stranger appeared on the down above him, looking as if he had lost his way.  The man had a good deal of black hair below his felt hat, and carried under his arm a case containing a musical instrument.  Descending to where Jim stood, he asked if there were not a short cut across that way to Tivworthy, where a fête was to be held.

‘Well, yes, there is,’ said Jim.  ‘But ’tis an enormous distance for ’ee.’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied the musician.  ‘I wish to intercept the carrier on the highway.’

The nearest way was precisely in the direction of Rook’s Gate, where Margery, as Jim knew, was staying.  Having some time to spare, Jim was strongly impelled to make a kind act to the lost musician a pretext for taking observations in that neighbourhood, and telling his acquaintance that he was going the same way, he started without further ado.

They skirted the long length of meads, and in due time arrived at the back of Rook’s Gate, where the path joined the high road.  A hedge divided the public way from the cottage garden.  Jim drew up at this point and said, ‘Your road is straight on: I turn back here.’

But the musician was standing fixed, as if in great perplexity.  Thrusting his hand into his forest of black hair, he murmured, ‘Surely it is the same—surely!’

Jim, following the direction of his neighbour’s eyes, found them to be fixed on a figure till that moment hidden from himself—Margery Tucker—who was crossing the garden to an opposite gate with a little cheese in her arms, her head thrown back, and her face quite exposed.

‘What of her?’ said Jim.

‘Two months ago I formed one of the band at the Yeomanry Ball given by Lord Toneborough in the next county.  I saw that young lady dancing the polka there in robes of gauze and lace.  Now I see her carry a cheese!’

‘Never!’ said Jim incredulously.

‘But I do not mistake.  I say it is so!’

Jim ridiculed the idea; the bandsman protested, and was about to lose his temper, when Jim gave in with the good-nature of a person who can afford to despise opinions; and the musician went his way.

As he dwindled out of sight Jim began to think more carefully over what he had said.  The young man’s thoughts grew quite to an excitement, for there came into his mind the Baron’s extraordinary kindness in regard to furniture, hitherto accounted for by the assumption that the nobleman had taken a fancy to him.  Could it be, among all the amazing things of life, that the Baron was at the bottom of this mischief; and that he had amused himself by taking Margery to a ball?

Doubts and suspicions which distract some lovers to imbecility only served to bring out Jim’s great qualities.  Where he trusted he was the most trusting fellow in the world; where he doubted he could be guilty of the slyest strategy.  Once suspicious, he became one of those subtle, watchful characters who, without integrity, make good thieves; with a little, good jobbers; with a little more, good diplomatists.  Jim was honest, and he considered what to do.

Retracing his steps, he peeped again.  She had gone in; but she would soon reappear, for it could be seen that she was carrying little new cheeses one by one to a spring-cart and horse tethered outside the gate—her grandmother, though not a regular dairywoman, still managing a few cows by means of a man and maid.  With the lightness of a cat Jim crept round to the gate, took a piece of chalk from his pocket, and wrote upon the boarding ‘The Baron.’  Then he retreated to the other side of the garden where he had just watched Margery.

In due time she emerged with another little cheese, came on to the garden-door, and glanced upon the chalked words which confronted her.  She started; the cheese rolled from her arms to the ground, and broke into pieces like a pudding.

She looked fearfully round, her face burning like sunset, and, seeing nobody, stooped to pick up the flaccid lumps.  Jim, with a pale face, departed as invisibly as he had come.  He had proved the bandsman’s tale to be true.  On his way back he formed a resolution.  It was to beard the lion in his den—to call on the Baron.

Meanwhile Margery had recovered her equanimity, and gathered up the broken cheese.  But she could by no means account for the handwriting.  Jim was just the sort of fellow to play her such a trick at ordinary times, but she imagined him to be far too incensed against her to do it now; and she suddenly wondered if it were any sort of signal from the Baron himself.

Of him she had lately heard nothing.  If ever monotony pervaded a life it pervaded hers at Rook’s Gate; and she had begun to despair of any happy change.  But it is precisely when the social atmosphere seems stagnant that great events are brewing.  Margery’s quiet was broken first, as we have seen, by a slight start, only sufficient to make her drop a cheese; and then by a more serious matter.

She was inside the same garden one day when she heard two watermen talking without.  The conversation was to the effect that the strange gentleman who had taken Mount Lodge for the season was seriously ill.

‘How ill?’ cried Margery through the hedge, which screened her from recognition.

‘Bad abed,’ said one of the watermen.

‘Inflammation of the lungs,’ said the other.

‘Got wet, fishing,’ the first chimed in.

Margery could gather no more.  An ideal admiration rather than any positive passion existed in her breast for the Baron: she had of late seen too little of him to allow any incipient views of him as a lover to grow to formidable dimensions.  It was an extremely romantic feeling, delicate as an aroma, capable of quickening to an active principle, or dying to ‘a painless sympathy,’ as the case might be.

This news of his illness, coupled with the mysterious chalking on the gate, troubled her, and revived his image much.  She took to walking up and down the garden-paths, looking into the hearts of flowers, and not thinking what they were.  His last request had been that she was not to go to him if be should send for her; and now she asked herself, was the name on the gate a hint to enable her to go without infringing the letter of her promise?  Thus unexpectedly had Jim’s manœuvre operated.

Ten days passed.  All she could hear of the Baron were the same words, ‘Bad abed,’ till one afternoon, after a gallop of the physician to the Lodge, the tidings spread like lightning that the Baron was dying.

Margery distressed herself with the question whether she might be permitted to visit him and say her prayers at his bedside; but she feared to venture; and thus eight-and-forty hours slipped away, and the Baron still lived.  Despite her shyness and awe of him she had almost made up her mind to call when, just at dusk on that October evening, somebody came to the door and asked for her.

She could see the messenger’s head against the low new moon.  He was a man-servant.  He said he had been all the way to her father’s, and had been sent thence to her here.  He simply brought a note, and, delivering it into her hands, went away.

Dear Margery Tucker (ran the note)—They say I am not likely to live, so I want to see you.  Be here at eight o’clock this evening.  Come quite alone to the side-door, and tap four times softly.  My trusty man will admit you.  The occasion is an important one.  Prepare yourself for a solemn ceremony, which I wish to have performed while it lies in my power.

Von Xanten.

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