Book: The Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid

T >> Thomas Hardy >> The Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid




'My good maiden, Gott bless you!' said he warmly. 'I cannot help
thinking of that morning! I was too much over-shadowed at first to
take in the whole force of it. You do not know all; but your
presence was a miraculous intervention. Now to more cheerful
matters. I have a great deal to tell--that is, if your wish about
the ball be still the same?'

'O yes, sir--if you don't object.'

'Never think of my objecting. What I have found out is something
which simplifies matters amazingly. In addition to your Yeomanry
Ball at Exonbury, there is also to be one in the next county about
the same time. This ball is not to be held at the Town Hall of the
county-town as usual, but at Lord Toneborough's, who is colonel of
the regiment, and who, I suppose, wishes to please the yeomen because
his brother is going to stand for the county. Now I find I could
take you there very well, and the great advantage of that ball over
the Yeomanry Ball in this county is, that there you would be
absolutely unknown, and I also. But do you prefer your own
neighbourhood?'

'O no, sir. It is a ball I long to see--I don't know what it is
like; it does not matter where.'

'Good. Then I shall be able to make much more of you there, where
there is no possibility of recognition. That being settled, the next
thing is the dancing. Now reels and such things do not do. For
think of this--there is a new dance at Almack's and everywhere else,
over which the world has gone crazy.'

'How dreadful!'

'Ah--but that is a mere expression--gone mad. It is really an
ancient Scythian dance; but, such is the power of fashion, that,
having once been adopted by Society, this dance has made the tour of
the Continent in one season.'

'What is its name, sir?'

'The polka. Young people, who always dance, are ecstatic about it,
and old people, who have not danced for years, have begun to dance
again, on its account. All share the excitement. It arrived in
London only some few months ago--it is now all over the country. Now
this is your opportunity, my good Margery. To learn this one dance
will be enough. They will dance scarce anything else at that ball.
While, to crown all, it is the easiest dance in the world, and as I
know it quite well I can practise you in the step. Suppose we try?'

Margery showed some hesitation before crossing the stile: it was a
Rubicon in more ways than one. But the curious reverence which was
stealing over her for all that this stranger said and did was too
much for prudence. She crossed the stile.

Withdrawing with her to a nook where two high hedges met, and where
the grass was elastic and dry, he lightly rested his arm on her
waist, and practised with her the new step of fascination. Instead
of music he whispered numbers, and she, as may be supposed, showed no
slight aptness in following his instructions. Thus they moved round
together, the moon-shadows from the twigs racing over their forms as
they turned.

The interview lasted about half an hour. Then he somewhat abruptly
handed her over the stile and stood looking at her from the other
side.

'Well,' he murmured, 'what has come to pass is strange! My whole
business after this will be to recover my right mind!'

Margery always declared that there seemed to be some power in the
stranger that was more than human, something magical and compulsory,
when he seized her and gently trotted her round. But lingering
emotions may have led her memory to play pranks with the scene, and
her vivid imagination at that youthful age must be taken into account
in believing her. However, there is no doubt that the stranger,
whoever he might be, and whatever his powers, taught her the elements
of modern dancing at a certain interview by moonlight at the top of
her father's garden, as was proved by her possession of knowledge on
the subject that could have been acquired in no other way.

His was of the first rank of commanding figures, she was one of the
most agile of milkmaids, and to casual view it would have seemed all
of a piece with Nature's doings that things should go on thus. But
there was another side to the case; and whether the strange gentleman
were a wild olive tree, or not, it was questionable if the
acquaintance would lead to happiness. 'A fleeting romance and a
possible calamity;' thus it might have been summed up by the
practical.

Margery was in Paradise; and yet she was not at this date distinctly
in love with the stranger. What she felt was something more
mysterious, more of the nature of veneration. As he looked at her
across the stile she spoke timidly, on a subject which had apparently
occupied her long.

'I ought to have a ball-dress, ought I not, sir?'

'Certainly. And you shall have a ball-dress.'

'Really?'

'No doubt of it. I won't do things by halves for my best friend. I
have thought of the ball-dress, and of other things also.'

'And is my dancing good enough?'

'Quite--quite.' He paused, lapsed into thought, and looked at her.
'Margery,' he said, 'do you trust yourself unreservedly to me?'

'O yes, sir,' she replied brightly; 'if I am not too much trouble:
if I am good enough to be seen in your society.'

The Baron laughed in a peculiar way. 'Really, I think you may assume
as much as that.--However, to business. The ball is on the twenty-
fifth, that is next Thursday week; and the only difficulty about the
dress is the size. Suppose you lend me this?' And he touched her on
the shoulder to signify a tight little jacket she wore.

Margery was all obedience. She took it off and handed it to him.
The Baron rolled and compressed it with all his force till it was
about as large as an apple-dumpling, and put it into his pocket.

'The next thing,' he said, 'is about getting the consent of your
friends to your going. Have you thought of this?'

'There is only my father. I can tell him I am invited to a party,
and I don't think he'll mind. Though I would rather not tell him.'

'But it strikes me that you must inform him something of what you
intend. I would strongly advise you to do so.' He spoke as if
rather perplexed as to the probable custom of the English peasantry
in such matters, and added, 'However, it is for you to decide. I
know nothing of the circumstances. As to getting to the ball, the
plan I have arranged is this. The direction to Lord Toneborough's
being the other way from my house, you must meet me at Three-Walks-
End--in Chillington Wood, two miles or more from here. You know the
place? Good. By meeting there we shall save five or six miles of
journey--a consideration, as it is a long way. Now, for the last
time: are you still firm in your wish for this particular treat and
no other? It is not too late to give it up. Cannot you think of
something else--something better--some useful household articles you
require?'

Margery's countenance, which before had been beaming with
expectation, lost its brightness: her lips became close, and her
voice broken. 'You have offered to take me, and now--'

'No, no, no,' he said, patting her cheek. 'We will not think of
anything else. You shall go.'



CHAPTER IV



But whether the Baron, in naming such a distant spot for the
rendezvous, was in hope she might fail him, and so relieve him after
all of his undertaking, cannot be said; though it might have been
strongly suspected from his manner that he had no great zest for the
responsibility of escorting her.

But he little knew the firmness of the young woman he had to deal
with. She was one of those soft natures whose power of adhesiveness
to an acquired idea seems to be one of the special attributes of that
softness. To go to a ball with this mysterious personage of romance
was her ardent desire and aim; and none the less in that she trembled
with fear and excitement at her position in so aiming. She felt the
deepest awe, tenderness, and humility towards the Baron of the
strange name; and yet she was prepared to stick to her point.

Thus it was that the afternoon of the eventful day found Margery
trudging her way up the slopes from the vale to the place of
appointment. She walked to the music of innumerable birds, which
increased as she drew away from the open meads towards the groves.

She had overcome all difficulties. After thinking out the question
of telling or not telling her father, she had decided that to tell
him was to be forbidden to go. Her contrivance therefore was this:
to leave home this evening on a visit to her invalid grandmother, who
lived not far from the Baron's house; but not to arrive at her
grandmother's till breakfast-time next morning. Who would suspect an
intercalated experience of twelve hours with the Baron at a ball?
That this piece of deception was indefensible she afterwards owned
readily enough; but she did not stop to think of it then.

It was sunset within Chillington Wood by the time she reached Three-
Walks-End--the converging point of radiating trackways, now floored
with a carpet of matted grass, which had never known other scythes
than the teeth of rabbits and hares. The twitter overhead had
ceased, except from a few braver and larger birds, including the
cuckoo, who did not fear night at this pleasant time of year. Nobody
seemed to be on the spot when she first drew near, but no sooner did
Margery stand at the intersection of the roads than a slight crashing
became audible, and her patron appeared. He was so transfigured in
dress that she scarcely knew him. Under a light great-coat, which
was flung open, instead of his ordinary clothes he wore a suit of
thin black cloth, an open waistcoat with a frill all down his shirt-
front, a white tie, shining boots, no thicker than a glove, a coat
that made him look like a bird, and a hat that seemed as if it would
open and shut like an accordion.

'I am dressed for the ball--nothing worse,' he said, drily smiling.
'So will you be soon.'

'Why did you choose this place for our meeting, sir?' she asked,
looking around and acquiring confidence.

'Why did I choose it? Well, because in riding past one day I
observed a large hollow tree close by here, and it occurred to me
when I was last with you that this would be useful for our purpose.
Have you told your father?'

'I have not yet told him, sir.'

'That's very bad of you, Margery. How have you arranged it, then?'

She briefly related her plan, on which he made no comment, but,
taking her by the hand as if she were a little child, he led her
through the undergrowth to a spot where the trees were older, and
standing at wider distances. Among them was the tree he had spoken
of--an elm; huge, hollow, distorted, and headless, with a rift in its
side.

'Now go inside,' he said, 'before it gets any darker. You will find
there everything you want. At any rate, if you do not you must do
without it. I'll keep watch; and don't be longer than you can help
to be.'

'What am I to do, sir?' asked the puzzled maiden.

'Go inside, and you will see. When you are ready wave your
handkerchief at that hole.'

She stooped into the opening. The cavity within the tree formed a
lofty circular apartment, four or five feet in diameter, to which
daylight entered at the top, and also through a round hole about six
feet from the ground, marking the spot at which a limb had been
amputated in the tree's prime. The decayed wood of cinnamon-brown,
forming the inner surface of the tree, and the warm evening glow,
reflected in at the top, suffused the cavity with a faint mellow
radiance.

But Margery had hardly given herself time to heed these things. Her
eye had been caught by objects of quite another quality. A large
white oblong paper box lay against the inside of the tree; over it,
on a splinter, hung a small oval looking-glass.

Margery seized the idea in a moment. She pressed through the rift
into the tree, lifted the cover of the box, and, behold, there was
disclosed within a lovely white apparition in a somewhat flattened
state. It was the ball-dress.

This marvel of art was, briefly, a sort of heavenly cobweb. It was a
gossamer texture of precious manufacture, artistically festooned in a
dozen flounces or more.

Margery lifted it, and could hardly refrain from kissing it. Had any
one told her before this moment that such a dress could exist, she
would have said, 'No; it's impossible!' She drew back, went forward,
flushed, laughed, raised her hands. To say that the maker of that
dress had been an individual of talent was simply understatement: he
was a genius, and she sunned herself in the rays of his creation.

She then remembered that her friend without had told her to make
haste, and she spasmodically proceeded to array herself. In removing
the dress she found satin slippers, gloves, a handkerchief nearly all
lace, a fan, and even flowers for the hair. 'O, how could he think
of it!' she said, clasping her hands and almost crying with
agitation. 'And the glass--how good of him!'

Everything was so well prepared, that to clothe herself in these
garments was a matter of ease. In a quarter of an hour she was
ready, even to shoes and gloves. But what led her more than anything
else into admiration of the Baron's foresight was the discovery that
there were half-a-dozen pairs each of shoes and gloves, of varying
sizes, out of which she selected a fit.

Margery glanced at herself in the mirror, or at as much as she could
see of herself: the image presented was superb. Then she hastily
rolled up her old dress, put it in the box, and thrust the latter on
a ledge as high as she could reach. Standing on tiptoe, she waved
the handkerchief through the upper aperture, and bent to the rift to
go out.

But what a trouble stared her in the face. The dress was so airy, so
fantastical, and so extensive, that to get out in her new clothes by
the rift which had admitted her in her old ones was an impossibility.
She heard the Baron's steps crackling over the dead sticks and
leaves.

'O, sir!' she began in despair.

'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.'

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