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This etext was prepared from the 1920 Macmillan and Co. edition by
David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk.





THE ROMANTIC ADVENTURES OF A MILKMAID

by Thomas Hardy




CHAPTER I



It was half-past four o'clock (by the testimony of the land-surveyor,
my authority for the particulars of this story, a gentleman with the
faintest curve of humour on his lips); it was half-past four o'clock
on a May morning in the eighteen forties. A dense white fog hung
over the Valley of the Exe, ending against the hills on either side.

But though nothing in the vale could be seen from higher ground,
notes of differing kinds gave pretty clear indications that bustling
life was going on there. This audible presence and visual absence of
an active scene had a peculiar effect above the fog level. Nature
had laid a white hand over the creatures ensconced within the vale,
as a hand might be laid over a nest of chirping birds.

The noises that ascended through the pallid coverlid were perturbed
lowings, mingled with human voices in sharps and flats, and the bark
of a dog. These, followed by the slamming of a gate, explained as
well as eyesight could have done, to any inhabitant of the district,
that Dairyman Tucker's under-milker was driving the cows from the
meads into the stalls. When a rougher accent joined in the
vociferations of man and beast, it would have been realized that the
dairy-farmer himself had come out to meet the cows, pail in hand, and
white pinafore on; and when, moreover, some women's voices joined in
the chorus, that the cows were stalled and proceedings about to
commence.

A hush followed, the atmosphere being so stagnant that the milk could
be heard buzzing into the pails, together with occasional words of
the milkmaids and men.

'Don't ye bide about long upon the road, Margery. You can be back
again by skimming-time.'

The rough voice of Dairyman Tucker was the vehicle of this remark.
The barton-gate slammed again, and in two or three minutes a
something became visible, rising out of the fog in that quarter.

The shape revealed itself as that of a woman having a young and agile
gait. The colours and other details of her dress were then
disclosed--a bright pink cotton frock (because winter was over); a
small woollen shawl of shepherd's plaid (because summer was not
come); a white handkerchief tied over her head-gear, because it was
so foggy, so damp, and so early; and a straw bonnet and ribbons
peeping from under the handkerchief, because it was likely to be a
sunny May day.

Her face was of the hereditary type among families down in these
parts: sweet in expression, perfect in hue, and somewhat irregular
in feature. Her eyes were of a liquid brown. On her arm she carried
a withy basket, in which lay several butter-rolls in a nest of wet
cabbage-leaves. She was the 'Margery' who had been told not to 'bide
about long upon the road.'

She went on her way across the fields, sometimes above the fog,
sometimes below it, not much perplexed by its presence except when
the track was so indefinite that it ceased to be a guide to the next
stile. The dampness was such that innumerable earthworms lay in
couples across the path till, startled even by her light tread, they
withdrew suddenly into their holes. She kept clear of all trees.
Why was that? There was no danger of lightning on such a morning as
this. But though the roads were dry the fog had gathered in the
boughs, causing them to set up such a dripping as would go clean
through the protecting handkerchief like bullets, and spoil the
ribbons beneath. The beech and ash were particularly shunned, for
they dripped more maliciously than any. It was an instance of
woman's keen appreciativeness of nature's moods and peculiarities: a
man crossing those fields might hardly have perceived that the trees
dripped at all.

In less than an hour she had traversed a distance of four miles, and
arrived at a latticed cottage in a secluded spot. An elderly woman,
scarce awake, answered her knocking. Margery delivered up the
butter, and said, 'How is granny this morning? I can't stay to go up
to her, but tell her I have returned what we owed her.'

Her grandmother was no worse than usual: and receiving back the
empty basket the girl proceeded to carry out some intention which had
not been included in her orders. Instead of returning to the light
labours of skimming-time, she hastened on, her direction being
towards a little neighbouring town. Before, however, Margery had
proceeded far, she met the postman, laden to the neck with letter-
bags, of which he had not yet deposited one.

'Are the shops open yet, Samuel?' she said.

'O no,' replied that stooping pedestrian, not waiting to stand
upright. 'They won't be open yet this hour, except the saddler and
ironmonger and little tacker-haired machine-man for the farm folk.
They downs their shutters at half-past six, then the baker's at half-
past seven, then the draper's at eight.'

'O, the draper's at eight.' It was plain that Margery had wanted the
draper's.

The postman turned up a side-path, and the young girl, as though
deciding within herself that if she could not go shopping at once she
might as well get back for the skimming, retraced her steps.

The public road home from this point was easy but devious. By far
the nearest way was by getting over a fence, and crossing the private
grounds of a picturesque old country-house, whose chimneys were just
visible through the trees. As the house had been shut up for many
months, the girl decided to take the straight cut. She pushed her
way through the laurel bushes, sheltering her bonnet with the shawl
as an additional safeguard, scrambled over an inner boundary, went
along through more shrubberies, and stood ready to emerge upon the
open lawn. Before doing so she looked around in the wary manner of a
poacher. It was not the first time that she had broken fence in her
life; but somehow, and all of a sudden, she had felt herself too near
womanhood to indulge in such practices with freedom. However, she
moved forth, and the house-front stared her in the face, at this
higher level unobscured by fog.

It was a building of the medium size, and unpretending, the facade
being of stone; and of the Italian elevation made familiar by Inigo
Jones and his school. There was a doorway to the lawn, standing at
the head of a flight of steps. The shutters of the house were
closed, and the blinds of the bedrooms drawn down. Her perception of
the fact that no crusty caretaker could see her from the windows led
her at once to slacken her pace, and stroll through the flower-beds
coolly. A house unblinded is a possible spy, and must be treated
accordingly; a house with the shutters together is an insensate heap
of stone and mortar, to be faced with indifference.

On the other side of the house the greensward rose to an eminence,
whereon stood one of those curious summer shelters sometimes erected
on exposed points of view, called an all-the-year-round. In the
present case it consisted of four walls radiating from a centre like
the arms of a turnstile, with seats in each angle, so that
whencesoever the wind came, it was always possible to find a screened
corner from which to observe the landscape.

The milkmaid's trackless course led her up the hill and past this
erection. At ease as to being watched and scolded as an intruder,
her mind flew to other matters; till, at the moment when she was not
a yard from the shelter, she heard a foot or feet scraping on the
gravel behind it. Some one was in the all-the-year-round, apparently
occupying the seat on the other side; as was proved when, on turning,
she saw an elbow, a man's elbow, projecting over the edge.

Now the young woman did not much like the idea of going down the hill
under the eyes of this person, which she would have to do if she went
on, for as an intruder she was liable to be called back and
questioned upon her business there. Accordingly she crept softly up
and sat in the seat behind, intending to remain there until her
companion should leave.

This he by no means seemed in a hurry to do. What could possibly
have brought him there, what could detain him there, at six o'clock
on a morning of mist when there was nothing to be seen or enjoyed of
the vale beneath, puzzled her not a little. But he remained quite
still, and Margery grew impatient. She discerned the track of his
feet in the dewy grass, forming a line from the house steps, which
announced that he was an inhabitant and not a chance passer-by. At
last she peeped round.



CHAPTER II



A fine-framed dark-mustachioed gentleman, in dressing-gown and
slippers, was sitting there in the damp without a hat on. With one
hand he was tightly grasping his forehead, the other hung over his
knee. The attitude bespoke with sufficient clearness a mental
condition of anguish. He was quite a different being from any of the
men to whom her eyes were accustomed. She had never seen mustachios
before, for they were not worn by civilians in Lower Wessex at this
date. His hands and his face were white--to her view deadly white--
and he heeded nothing outside his own existence. There he remained
as motionless as the bushes around him; indeed, he scarcely seemed to
breathe.

Having imprudently advanced thus far, Margery's wish was to get back
again in the same unseen manner; but in moving her foot for the
purpose it grated on the gravel. He started up with an air of
bewilderment, and slipped something into the pocket of his dressing-
gown. She was almost certain that it was a pistol. The pair stood
looking blankly at each other.

'My Gott, who are you?' he asked sternly, and with not altogether an
English articulation. 'What do you do here?'

Margery had already begun to be frightened at her boldness in
invading the lawn and pleasure-seat. The house had a master, and she
had not known of it. 'My name is Margaret Tucker, sir,' she said
meekly. 'My father is Dairyman Tucker. We live at Silverthorn
Dairy-house.'

'What were you doing here at this hour of the morning?'

She told him, even to the fact that she had climbed over the fence.

'And what made you peep round at me?'

'I saw your elbow, sir; and I wondered what you were doing?'

'And what was I doing?'

'Nothing. You had one hand on your forehead and the other on your
knee. I do hope you are not ill, sir, or in deep trouble?' Margery
had sufficient tact to say nothing about the pistol.

'What difference would it make to you if I were ill or in trouble?
You don't know me.'

She returned no answer, feeling that she might have taken a liberty
in expressing sympathy. But, looking furtively up at him, she
discerned to her surprise that he seemed affected by her humane wish,
simply as it had been expressed. She had scarcely conceived that
such a tall dark man could know what gentle feelings were.

'Well, I am much obliged to you for caring how I am,' said he with a
faint smile and an affected lightness of manner which, even to her,
only rendered more apparent the gloom beneath. 'I have not slept
this past night. I suffer from sleeplessness. Probably you do not.'

Margery laughed a little, and he glanced with interest at the comely
picture she presented; her fresh face, brown hair, candid eyes,
unpractised manner, country dress, pink hands, empty wicker-basket,
and the handkerchief over her bonnet.

'Well,' he said, after his scrutiny, 'I need hardly have asked such a
question of one who is Nature's own image . . . Ah, but my good
little friend,' he added, recurring to his bitter tone and sitting
wearily down, 'you don't know what great clouds can hang over some
people's lives, and what cowards some men are in face of them. To
escape themselves they travel, take picturesque houses, and engage in
country sports. But here it is so dreary, and the fog was horrible
this morning!'

'Why, this is only the pride of the morning!' said Margery. 'By-and-
by it will be a beautiful day.'

She was going on her way forthwith; but he detained her--detained her
with words, talking on every innocent little subject he could think
of. He had an object in keeping her there more serious than his
words would imply. It was as if he feared to be left alone.

While they still stood, the misty figure of the postman, whom Margery
had left a quarter of an hour earlier to follow his sinuous course,
crossed the grounds below them on his way to the house. Signifying
to Margery by a wave of his hand that she was to step back out of
sight, in the hinder angle of the shelter, the gentleman beckoned to
the postman to bring the bag to where he stood. The man did so, and
again resumed his journey.

The stranger unlocked the bag and threw it on the seat, having taken
one letter from within. This he read attentively, and his
countenance changed.

The change was almost phantasmagorial, as if the sun had burst
through the fog upon that face: it became clear, bright, almost
radiant. Yet it was but a change that may take place in the
commonest human being, provided his countenance be not too wooden, or
his artifice have not grown to second nature. He turned to Margery,
who was again edging off, and, seizing her hand, appeared as though
he were about to embrace her. Checking his impulse, he said, 'My
guardian child--my good friend--you have saved me!'

'What from?' she ventured to ask.

'That you may never know.'

She thought of the weapon, and guessed that the letter he had just
received had effected this change in his mood, but made no
observation till he went on to say, 'What did you tell me was your
name, dear girl?'

She repeated her name.

'Margaret Tucker.' He stooped, and pressed her hand. 'Sit down for
a moment--one moment,' he said, pointing to the end of the seat, and
taking the extremest further end for himself, not to discompose her.
She sat down.

'It is to ask a question,' he went on, 'and there must be confidence
between us. You have saved me from an act of madness! What can I do
for you?'

'Nothing, sir.'

'Nothing?'

'Father is very well off, and we don't want anything.'

'But there must be some service I can render, some kindness, some
votive offering which I could make, and so imprint on your memory as
long as you live that I am not an ungrateful man?'

'Why should you be grateful to me, sir?'

He shook his head. 'Some things are best left unspoken. Now think.
What would you like to have best in the world?'

Margery made a pretence of reflecting--then fell to reflecting
seriously; but the negative was ultimately as undisturbed as ever:
she could not decide on anything she would like best in the world; it
was too difficult, too sudden.

'Very well--don't hurry yourself. Think it over all day. I ride
this afternoon. You live--where?'

'Silverthorn Dairy-house.'

'I will ride that way homeward this evening. Do you consider by
eight o'clock what little article, what little treat, you would most
like of any.'

'I will, sir,' said Margery, now warming up to the idea. 'Where
shall I meet you? Or will you call at the house, sir?'

'Ah--no. I should not wish the circumstances known out of which our
acquaintance rose. It would be more proper--but no.'

Margery, too, seemed rather anxious that he should not call. 'I
could come out, sir,' she said. 'My father is odd-tempered, and
perhaps--'

It was agreed that she should look over a stile at the top of her
father's garden, and that he should ride along a bridle-path outside,
to receive her answer. 'Margery,' said the gentleman in conclusion,
'now that you have discovered me under ghastly conditions, are you
going to reveal them, and make me an object for the gossip of the
curious?'

'No, no, sir!' she replied earnestly. 'Why should I do that?'

'You will never tell?'

'Never, never will I tell what has happened here this morning.'

'Neither to your father, nor to your friends, nor to any one?'

'To no one at all,' she said.

'It is sufficient,' he answered. 'You mean what you say, my dear
maiden. Now you want to leave me. Good-bye!'

She descended the hill, walking with some awkwardness; for she felt
the stranger's eyes were upon her till the fog had enveloped her from
his gaze. She took no notice now of the dripping from the trees; she
was lost in thought on other things. Had she saved this handsome,
melancholy, sleepless, foreign gentleman who had had a trouble on his
mind till the letter came? What had he been going to do? Margery
could guess that he had meditated death at his own hand. Strange as
the incident had been in itself; to her it had seemed stranger even
than it was. Contrasting colours heighten each other by being
juxtaposed; it is the same with contrasting lives.

Reaching the opposite side of the park there appeared before her for
the third time that little old man, the foot-post. As the turnpike-
road ran, the postman's beat was twelve miles a day; six miles out
from the town, and six miles back at night. But what with zigzags,
devious ways, offsets to country seats, curves to farms, looped
courses, and triangles to outlying hamlets, the ground actually
covered by him was nearer one-and-twenty miles. Hence it was that
Margery, who had come straight, was still abreast of him, despite her
long pause.

The weighty sense that she was mixed up in a tragical secret with an
unknown and handsome stranger prevented her joining very readily in
chat with the postman for some time. But a keen interest in her
adventure caused her to respond at once when the bowed man of mails
said, 'You hit athwart the grounds of Mount Lodge, Miss Margery, or
you wouldn't ha' met me here. Well, somebody hey took the old place
at last.'

In acknowledging her route Margery brought herself to ask who the new
gentleman might be.

'Guide the girl's heart! What! don't she know? And yet how should
ye--he's only just a-come.--Well, nominal, he's a fishing gentleman,
come for the summer only. But, more to the subject, he's a foreign
noble that's lived in England so long as to be without any true
country: some of his letters call him Baron, some Squire, so that 'a
must be born to something that can't be earned by elbow-grease and
Christian conduct. He was out this morning a-watching the fog.
"Postman," 'a said, "good-morning: give me the bag." O, yes, 'a's a
civil genteel nobleman enough.'

'Took the house for fishing, did he?'

'That's what they say, and as it can be for nothing else I suppose
it's true. But, in final, his health's not good, 'a b'lieve; he's
been living too rithe. The London smoke got into his wyndpipe, till
'a couldn't eat. However, I shouldn't mind having the run of his
kitchen.'

'And what is his name?'

'Ah--there you have me! 'Tis a name no man's tongue can tell, or
even woman's, except by pen-and-ink and good scholarship. It begins
with X, and who, without the machinery of a clock in's inside, can
speak that? But here 'tis--from his letters.' The postman with his
walking-stick wrote upon the ground,

'BARON VON XANTEN'



CHAPTER III



The day, as she had prognosticated, turned out fine; for weather-
wisdom was imbibed with their milk-sops by the children of the Exe
Vale. The impending meeting excited Margery, and she performed her
duties in her father's house with mechanical unconsciousness.

Milking, skimming, cheesemaking were done. Her father was asleep in
the settle, the milkmen and maids were gone home to their cottages,
and the clock showed a quarter to eight. She dressed herself with
care, went to the top of the garden, and looked over the stile. The
view was eastward, and a great moon hung before her in a sky which
had not a cloud. Nothing was moving except on the minutest scale,
and she remained leaning over, the night-hawk sounding his croud from
the bough of an isolated tree on the open hill side.

Here Margery waited till the appointed time had passed by three-
quarters of an hour; but no Baron came. She had been full of an
idea, and her heart sank with disappointment. Then at last the
pacing of a horse became audible on the soft path without, leading up
from the water-meads, simultaneously with which she beheld the form
of the stranger, riding home, as he had said.

The moonlight so flooded her face as to make her very conspicuous in
the garden-gap. 'Ah my maiden--what is your name--Margery!' he said.
'How came you here? But of course I remember--we were to meet. And
it was to be at eight--proh pudor!--I have kept you waiting!'

'It doesn't matter, sir. I've thought of something.'

'Thought of something?'

'Yes, sir. You said this morning that I was to think what I would
like best in the world, and I have made up my mind.'

'I did say so--to be sure I did,' he replied, collecting his
thoughts. 'I remember to have had good reason for gratitude to you.'
He placed his hand to his brow, and in a minute alighted, and came up
to her with the bridle in his hand. 'I was to give you a treat or
present, and you could not think of one. Now you have done so. Let
me hear what it is, and I'll be as good as my word.'

'To go to the Yeomanry Ball that's to be given this month.'

'The Yeomanry Ball--Yeomanry Ball?' he murmured, as if, of all
requests in the world, this was what he had least expected. 'Where
is what you call the Yeomanry Ball?'

'At Exonbury.'

'Have you ever been to it before?'

'No, sir.'

'Or to any ball?'

'No.'

'But did I not say a gift--a present?'

'Or a treat?'

'Ah, yes, or a treat,' he echoed, with the air of one who finds
himself in a slight fix. 'But with whom would you propose to go?'

'I don't know. I have not thought of that yet.'

'You have no friend who could take you, even if I got you an
invitation?'

Margery looked at the moon. 'No one who can dance,' she said;
adding, with hesitation, 'I was thinking that perhaps--'

'But, my dear Margery,' he said, stopping her, as if he half-divined
what her simple dream of a cavalier had been; 'it is very odd that
you can think of nothing else than going to a Yeomanry Ball. Think
again. You are sure there is nothing else?'

'Quite sure, sir,' she decisively answered. At first nobody would
have noticed in that pretty young face any sign of decision; yet it
was discoverable. The mouth, though soft, was firm in line; the
eyebrows were distinct, and extended near to each other. 'I have
thought of it all day,' she continued, sadly. 'Still, sir, if you
are sorry you offered me anything, I can let you off.'

'Sorry?--Certainly not, Margery,' be said, rather nettled. 'I'll
show you that whatever hopes I have raised in your breast I am
honourable enough to gratify. If it lies in my power,' he added with
sudden firmness, 'you SHALL go to the Yeomanry Ball. In what
building is it to be held?'

'In the Assembly Rooms.'

'And would you be likely to be recognized there? Do you know many
people?'

'Not many, sir. None, I may say. I know nobody who goes to balls.'

'Ah, well; you must go, since you wish it; and if there is no other
way of getting over the difficulty of having nobody to take you, I'll
take you myself. Would you like me to do so? I can dance.'

'O, yes, sir; I know that, and I thought you might offer to do it.
But would you bring me back again?'

'Of course I'll bring you back. But, by-the-bye, can YOU dance?'

'Yes.'

'What?'

'Reels, and jigs, and country-dances like the New-Rigged-Ship, and
Follow-my-Lover, and Haste-to-the-Wedding, and the College Hornpipe,
and the Favourite Quickstep, and Captain White's dance.'

'A very good list--a very good! but unluckily I fear they don't dance
any of those now. But if you have the instinct we may soon cure your
ignorance. Let me see you dance a moment.'

She stood out into the garden-path, the stile being still between
them, and seizing a side of her skirt with each hand, performed the
movements which are even yet far from uncommon in the dances of the
villagers of merry England. But her motions, though graceful, were
not precisely those which appear in the figures of a modern ball-
room.

'Well, my good friend, it is a very pretty sight,' he said, warming
up to the proceedings. 'But you dance too well--you dance all over
your person--and that's too thorough a way for the present day. I
should say it was exactly how they danced in the time of your poet
Chaucer; but as people don't dance like it now, we must consider.
First I must inquire more about this ball, and then I must see you
again.'

'If it is a great trouble to you, sir, I--'

'O no, no. I will think it over. So far so good.'

The Baron mentioned an evening and an hour when he would be passing
that way again; then mounted his horse and rode away.

On the next occasion, which was just when the sun was changing places
with the moon as an illuminator of Silverthorn Dairy, she found him
at the spot before her, and unencumbered by a horse. The melancholy
that had so weighed him down at their first interview, and had been
perceptible at their second, had quite disappeared. He pressed her
right hand between both his own across the stile.

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