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MARGERY’Si_|OMANCE.
By THOMAS HAEDY.
CHAPTER L
IT half put fiveo'clock, on tbs morn
ing of the sth of Mar. A Scum white fog
bang ovar the valley of the Kwena, and
apread np the hills on eit.ier eide.
Bat though nothing In the vale coaid be
naen from higher ground, note, of differing
kind* gave pretty clear Indication. that
buetUng phasee of life had ex.xtence there.
The audible pretence and viauul ahranco of
an active eecne war very peculiar. Ma
ture had laid a white hand over the cj Ba
tura* enaconced within the vale, u a hand
might be laid over a nest of chirping
bird*.
The noitee that ascended through the
pallid coverlet were perturbed lowing!,
mingled with human voice! in sharps and
flats, and the bark of a dog. These, fol
lowed by the slamming of a gate, explained
u well ax eyesight could have done, to any
Inhabitant of the and strict, that Dairyman
Tucker's under-milker was driving the cows
from the meads into the Stalin When a
rougher accent Joined in the vociferations
of nnn and beast, that same Inhabitant
would hare distinguished that Dairyman
Tucker himself bod come out to meet the
cows, pall in hand, and white pinafore on;
and when, moreover, some women's voices
Joined In the chorus, tiiat the cows w, re
stalled, and proceedings about to commence.
A comparative hush followed, the atmos
phere being so stagnant that the milk could
be hoard turning into the pails, together
with tl> iitbi of the milkmaids and men
whenut,i -hoy spoke above goseipping
tones.
"Don't ye bide about long upon the road,
Margery. You can be back again by skim
ming time."
The rough voice described as Dairymen
Tucker's was the vehicle of this remark.
Then the barton gate slummed again, and
In two or three minutes a something be
came vi dble, rising out of th > fog in that
quarier.
First, the shape revealed Itself as that
of a woman. Next, the gait, which was
the gait of one young and agile. Next,
the colors and other details of her drew—a
bright pink cotton frock, because winter
was over; a small woolen shawl of shop
herd's pluid, because summer was uot
coma; a white handkerchief tied over her
head gear, because It was so foggy, so
dump, uud so early; and a straw bonnet
and ribbons peeping from under the hand
kerchief, 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 exprewloq, perfect In hue, and some
what irregular in feature. Her eyes were
of a liquid brown. On her arm she carried
a withy basket, In which lay several but
-ter-rulls in a nest of wet cabbage leavea
She was, no doubt, the "Margery” of the
voice, who had been told noi to “bide
about lung upon tho road."
i She went on her way across the flelda,
not much perplexed by the fog, except
when the tr ick wa* so Indefinite that it
erased to boa guide to the next stila She
carefully avoided treading on the innumer
able oari.li w, rma that lay in couples across
—<!)• path till, startled ovou by her light
tread, they wlthd -ew suddenly Into their
Aiolea She kept dear of all treea Why
was thatl There was uo danger of light
ing on su -h a morning as thia But
though the roads were dry, the fog had
C it bored 111 the bough., causing them to
tup such a dripping as would go clean
through the protecting handkerchief like
bullete, end spoil the ribbons beneath. The
beech and a*h were particularly tliuuued,
for tbuy dripped more maliciously than
any. It was an Instance of woman's koau
appreciativeness of nature’s moods and
peculiarities; a man crossing those fields
•Juigbi bar ly have perceived that the treea
dripped at a U.
In lees than an hour abe had traversod a
distance of four miles, and arrived at a
latticed cottage in a secluded spot. An
elderly woman, scarce awake, answered her
knocking. Me gery delivered up the but
ter, and said, "How la Granny this morn
ing! I can't stay to go up t<> her, but tell
her I have returned what we owed her."
Her grandmother was no worse tbim usu
al; and receiving leek the empty basket,
the girl proceeded to carry out some inteu
tiou which had been included In her orders.
Instead of returning to the light labors of
shimming-time, she hastened on, her direc
tion being toward a little neighboring
town. Before, however, Margery had pro
ceeded fer, she met the postnmu, laden to
the neck with letter-bags, of which he had
not vet deposited one.
"Are the shope upon yet, Samuel!" she
Mid.
“Oh no," replied that stooping pedes
trian, not waiting to stand upright. “They
won’t be o|wu yet this hour, except tho
saddler and ironmonger and little
tacker-haired machine-man for the
farmer folk. They downs their shut
ters at half past tlx, thru the baker’s
at half past seven, then the drapers at
eight”
"Oh, the drapers at eight" It was
plain that Margery wanted the draper’s
The postman turned up a side path, and
the young girl, as though deciding within
herself that if she lould uot go shopping at
once she might as well get ha k for the
skimming, retraced her steps. The public
road home (rout the poin. to which she had
arrived was easy of access, but devious.
By far the nearest way was by gatting over
a fence adjoining, and crossing the private
grounds of a pictures ,e old country house,
whoso chimneys were .ust visible through
the trees. As the house had been shut up
for many months, the girl derided to take
the straight cut Siie pushed her wav
through the laurel bu.-hes. sheltering her
bonuet with the shawl as an additional
safeguard, scrambled over the wire bound
ry, weut eioug tlu-ough thore shrubberies,
nd stood ready to emerge upon the open
*wn. Befuti doing so she looked around
liu the warv maimer of a poacher. It was
not the limt time that sh had broken fence
in her life, but somehow, and all of a sud
den, she had felt herself top near woman
bood to indulge in such practices with free
dom. However, she moved forth, and the
house front stared her in the face, unob
•vured by the fog because does at hand.
It was a building of the medium sire,
and uupretending. the facade being of
•tone, and of tho Italian elevation made
familiar by the works of Inigo Jones. There
was a doorway to the lawn, standing at
the head of a flight of step* The shutters
of the house we/e closed, and the blinds of
the bed rooms drawn down. Hur percep
tion of the fac* that no crusty care-taker
could. ee her fioui the windows led her at
once to alaekon her pack , aud Htroll through
the flower beds cooly. A house unblinded
Is a possible spy. and must be treated ac
cordingly; a house with the shutter* closed
is an Insen ak heap of stone and mortar,
to be faced with indifference*
On tlm other side of the house the green
sward rose to an eminence, whtivou stood
one of those curious summer shelters that
sue sometimes erected on exposed points of
#—
view, colled an all-the-year-round. In the
present case it consisted of four walls ra
diating from a center 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 the erection. At ease
as to being watched and scolded as an in
truder, 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. Home
one was in the all-tbe-year-round, appar
ently 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 in
truder she was liable to be called back and
questioned upon her business there. Ac*
cordingly she crept softly up and sat in the
seat behind, intending to remain there un
til her companion should leave.
This he by no means seemed in a hurry
to do. What could possibly have brought
him there, wbat could detain him there,
at six o'clock on a morning of dense mist
when there was nothing to be seen or en
joyed, puzzled her not a little. Hut he re
mained quite still, and Margery grew im
patient. She discerned tho tra:k of his
feet in the dowy grass, forming a line from
the house steps, which announced that be
was au inhabitant and not a chance pa scr
by. At last she peeped round.
CHAPTER IL
A fishe-framed dark mustacbed gentle*
man, in dressing-gown and slippers, was
sitting there in the fog without a hat on.
With one hand be was tightly grasping his
forehead, with the other his kuee. The
attitude bespoke with sufficient clearness a
certain mental condition—anguish. He
wai quite a different being from any of
the men to whom Iter eyes were aocum*
touted. His hands and his face were
white—to her view deadly white—and he
heeded nothing outddo his own existence.
There he remained as motionless as tha
unwafted bushes around him; indoed, Uo
scarcely seemed to breathe.
Having imprudently advanced thus far,
Margery’s wish was to get back again in
the sumo unseen maimer; but in moving
her foot for the purpose it grated slightly
on the gravel. He started up with au air
of bewilderment, and slipped something
into the pocket of his dressing gown. The
pair then stood looking blankly at each
other.
“Who are youf he at langth oaktwl,
sternly, and with not altogether au English
articulation. “What do you do her*?"
Margery had already begun to Iw fright
ened at her own boldness in invading the
lawn and pleasure-seat. Th* house had a
master, and she had not known of it. “My
name is Margaret Tucker, sir,'’ she said,
meokly. “My father is Dairyman Tucker.
We live at Htickleford Dairy-house.**
“What were you doing here at this hoar
of the morning/"
She told him, even to the fact that she
had climbed over the fence.
“And what umde you peep roaud at
mar"
“I taw you** elbow, sir; and I wondered
wbat you were doing."
“And what was 1 doing?"
“Nothing. You had one hand on your
forehead And tha other on your knee. Ido
hope you be not 111, sir, or in deep trouble?"
“What difference would it make to you
if I were ill or in trouble? You don’t know
me, and can not care for me."
She returned no answer, feeling that she
might have taken a liberty in expressing
sympathy. But looking furtively up at
him, she diaeernod 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 affectionate lightness of man
nor, which, even to her, onljr rendered
more apparent the real gloom UweatU. “I
have not slept this just night. I suffer
from sleeplessness. Probably you don’t."
Margery laughed a little, and he glanced
with interest at tho comely picture she pre
sented: her fresh face, brown hair, candid
eyes, uupractlced maimer, country dre,
pink hands, empty wicker baeket, and the
handkerchief over her bonnet.
“Well,’’ he said, after kb scrutiny, “I
need hardly have asked such a question of
one who is Nature's own image. Ah,
but, my good little friend," be added, re
curring to his hitter 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 iu
country sports. But here it is so dreary
and tho fog was horrible this morning*"
“Why, this is only the pride of the
morning:” said Margary, brightly. “Bjr
aud by it will boa beautiful day."
Bhe was going on her way forthwith,
but he detained her—detained her with
words, talking on every little innocent sub
ject he could think of. The feint of this
was so transparent that one thing was be
yond question: he had an object in keeping
Her there more eerious than his words
would imply. It was as if he feared to bj
left alone.
While they stood the misty figure of the
postman, whom Margery had left a quarter
of an hour earlier to follow his sinuous
course, crossed tho grounds below them ou
bis way to the house. First signifying to
Margery by a wave of his hand that she
was to step back out of sight in the hinder
angls of the shelter, the gentleman beck
oned to the postman to bring the bag to
where he stood. The man, wno recognized
him, did so, and again resumed his jour
ney.
The stranger unlocked the bag and threw
It on the seat, having takeu one letter from
withiu. This he read attentively, and his
conn ten iv ice ©hanged.
The effect was as if the sun had burst
through the fog upon that face; it became
clear, bright, almost radiant. The change
was almost phantasmagorial; yet it was bul
a change that may take place in the com
monest human being, provided his counte
nance bo not too wooden, or his artifice
have not grown to second nature. H
turned to Margery, who was again edging
off, aud seizing her hafad, appeared a>
though he was about to embrace her.
Checking his impulse, he said. “My guard
ian angel—my good friend—you have
saved me!"
“What from?" she ventured to ask.
“That you may never know " he replied,
solemnly.
She guessed that the letter he had just
received had been the means of effecting thit
change for the better in his mood, but
made no observation till he went on to say,
“What did You tell me was your name,
dear girl f"
She repeated her name.
“Margaret Tucker." He stopped, am!
pressed her hand. “Sit down for a mo
ment—one moment," he said, pointing t<
the end of the seat, and taking the ex-
tremest furtt*en 4 for himself, not to die
compose flhe sat down.
“It is to ask a question," be went on,
“and there zx&ist be confidence between us.
You have saved me from indescribable
folly! What can Ido for you f"
“Nothing, sir."
“Nothing?"
“Father is very wall off, and we don’t
want anything."
“But there must be some service that I
can render, some kindness I can bestow,
some votive offering which I can make,
and so imprint on your memory as long
as you live that I am uot an ungrateful
min.”
“Why should you bo 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 pretense 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.
“V T ery well—don’t hurry yourself. Think
it over all day. I ride this afternoon. You
live—where?"
“Htickleford Dairy-house."
“I will ride that way homeward this
evening. Do you consider by eight o’clock
wbat little article, what Uttle treat, you
would most like of any."
“I will, sir," said Margery, now warming
up a little to the idea. “And where shall
1 meet you? Dr will yo# call at the house,
sir?"
“Ah—no. I should nr-* wish the circum
stances to be kuowa out of which our ac
quaintance arose. It would be more
proper—but no,”
Margery, too, seemed other anxious that
ho should not calL “I could come out,
sir," she said. “My fatt ur is odd-tempered,
and perhaps —"
It was ultimately agreed that she should
look over a stile at the lop of her father'*
garden, aud that be should ride along s
bridle-path without, to receive her answer.
“Margery," said the gentleman in con
clusion, “now that you have discovered me
under peculiar conditions, are you goiug to
reveal them, and make me an object for the
gossip of the curious?"
“No, uo, sir," she replied, earnestly;
“why should I do that?"
“You will never tell?"
“Never, never will I tell what has hap*
pened here this morning."
“Neither to your father, nor to your
frionds, nor to any oner"
“To no one at all," she said a little puz
zled.
“It is sufficient," he answered. “You
mean wbat you say, my dear maiden. Now
you want to leave roe. Good-bye.”
Bbe descended tlie hill walking with
some awkwardness, for she felt the strati -
ger’s eyes were upon her, till the fog had
enveloped her from his gaze. Hbe took no
notice now of the dripping from the trees;
•ho was lost in thunght in other things.
How had shu saved this handsome, melan
choly, sleepless foreign gentleman who had
had a trouble on his mind till the letter
came? What had he been going to do?
Margery did not know. Strange as the in
cident had been in herself, to her It had
seemed stranger even than it wss. Con
trasting colors heighten each other by
being juxtaposed; it is the same with con
trasting liv4k
Reaching tho opposite side of the park,
there appeared before her for the third
titttf that littly oki man, the foot-post As
the turnpike rOfiia nfcli, the post USaa's beat
was twelve mile* a day, six mtivs out from
Anglebury and six miles back at night;
but what zigzags, devious ways, offsets to
country seats*, horseshoe curves to farm*,
looped course i and isoceles triangles to out
lying hamlets, the ground actuailj* ixmrod
by him was nearer one and iweuty miles.
Hence it was that Margery, who had come
straight, was still abreast of hint, despite
her long paue.
The weighty eons© that she was mixed up
in a tremendous and tragical secret with
an unknown, mysterious and handsome
stronger prevented her joining very readily
In chat with the postman for some time.
But a keen interest in her ad venture 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 woulrln t ha' met me here. Well,
somebody hev took the old place at last. ’’
lu acknowledging her route Margery
brought herself to ask who the new gentle
men might be.
“Guide the girl's heart, what don’t she
know* And yet how should yef—he's only
just a come. Well, primary, he’s a fish
ing gentleman, come for the summer only.
Then, more to the subject, as a foreigu
noble that's lived in England so long as to
boa kind of mule as to country; some of
his letters call him Baron, some Squire, so
that ’a must be born to something that
didn’t come by reason. But to return to
the real compass of this matter, whether
Vs a rich man in my eye and a poor man
in's owu, or a rich man i u his own and
mine too. I can’t interpret no more than
Pharaoh. *A was out this morning
a-watching the fog. * Postman,’ 'a said,
'give me the bag,' quite easy like. Oh.
yes, 'a’s civil, genteel noble enough, that's
true.”
“Took fhe house for fishing, did be!”
“Well, that's what they say. and as it
ran’t be for nothing else, I suppose it’s
true. But, iu final, his health’s not good,
*ab*lieve;and ha• been living too rkhe.
The Loudon smoke got into his keakhorn,
till ’a couldn't eat However, I srumldut
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 scholar
ship. It Iwgtot with X, and who, without
the machine) y of a clock in's inside, can
speak that? But here ’tis—from hts let
ters." The poHtman with his walking stick
wrote upon the ground:
“babon vox xantxx."
CHAPTER IIL
Thu day, as she had prognosticatei,
turned out tiue; for weather-wisdom was
Unbilled along with thetr milksops by the
children of Bweun Vale. The impending
meeting moved Margery deeply, and she
performed her daily duties in her father's
house with mechanical unconsciousness.
Milking, skimming, cheese-making, wsre
done. Her father was asleep iu 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, aud
looked over the stile. The view was east
ward, and a great moon hung before her in
a sky which had not a cloud. Nothing was
moving except on the minutest scale, aud
she remained leaning over, the night jar
souuding bis rattle from the bough of au
Lola ted tree on the open hill-side.
Here Margery waited till the appointed
time had passed by three-quarters of an
hour; but no foreign baron came. She was
full of an idea, and her heart souk witb
disappointment. And then at last the
pacing of n horse became audible ou tlu>
soft path without, leading _up from the
water-meads, simultaneously with whieb
fbe beheld the form of the stranger draw*
itg near. He was riding home.
The moonlight so flowed her face as to
make her very conspicuous in the garden
gap. “Ah, Margery!” he said, starting.
“How came you here? But of course Ire -
member—vre were to meet. And it was to
be at eight— prok pudori—l have kept you
waiting!"
“It doesn’t matter. Fre 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 re-
C“" *d, collecting his thought;. “I remem
to have had good reason for gratitude
to you." He placed his hand to bis brow,
and in a minute alighted, and came v.p to
her with the bridle in bis hand. “Iv vto
give yon a treat or a present, and you
could not think of one. Now you have
done so. Let me hear what it is, ard 1111l 1 11
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 is what he had at least ex
po ded. “Where is what you call the'Yeo
manry Ball?"
“At Casterbridge."
“Have you ever been to it before?*
“No, sir."
“Or to any ball?"
“No."
“But did I not say a present?*
“Or a treat."
“Ah, yes, or a treat,” he echoed, with
the air of one who finds himself in a slight
fix. “Bat with whom would you propose
to go F’
“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 1 Hiked at the moon. “No one
who can dance," *he said, adding, with
hesitation, “1 was thinking that perhaps—"
“But, my dear Margery," he said, stop
ping her, a? if be half divined what her
simple dream of a cavalier had teen, “it i*
very odd that you can think of nothing else
than going to a Yeomanry Bail. Think
again. You are sure thero’s nothing else/”
“Quite sure, sir," she decisively an
swer© J. At first nobody would have no
ticed in that pretty young face any sign of
such decision; yet it was discoverable.
The mouth, though soft, was firm in line;
the eyebrows were distinct, aud extended
near Vi each other. “1 have thought of it
all day," she continue 1, sadly. *‘tit ill.
sir, if yon are sorry you offered me any
thing, 1 can let you off "
“Sorry? Certainly not, dear Margery.**
he said, rather nettled. “I’ll show you
that whatever hopes I have rained in your
breast 1 am honorable enough to gratify.
If it lfc> in my power,” he added, with
sudden firmness, ‘ you fh.nl go to the
Yeomanry Ball. In what building is it to
be held?"
“In the Assembly Room*."
“And would you be likely to be recog
nized there? Do you know many people:"
“Not many, sir. None, 1 may say. I
know nobody who goes to Italia"
“Ah, well; you must go, since you wbfc
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 I can dance.”
“Oh, yes, sir; I know that, aud I thought
vou might offer to do it. But would you
bring mo back again?"
“Of course I’ll bring you back. But, by
tho bye, ran t 'ou tL;o oef"
<4 Y*e jig*, and country dance*
like the ‘New-rigjod Snip,’and ‘Follow my
Lover,’ and ‘Haste to the Wedding,* a id
the ‘College Hornpipe,’ and the ‘Favorite
Quickstep,’ aud ‘Captain White s Dane*’ **
“Not a bad list; but unluckily I fear
they don’t dance any of tbeje now'. But if
you have the iustinct, we may soon cure
your ign<*ranc. Let me see you dance a
moment. ”
•She glanced around ami saw nobody.
“You will promise not to tell, sir?"
“Can you ask it? Have you not some
secret of mine?”
She stood out into th? garden path, the
stile being still between them, and seizing
a side of her skirt with each hand, per
formed the movements which are even yet
far from uncommon in the dances of the
villagers of merry England But her mo
tions, though graceful,’ were not precisely
those which appear in the figures of a
modern ball-room.
“Well, ray friend, it in a very pretty
sight,” be said, warming up to the proceed
ings. “But you dance too well—you dance
all over your person—and that’s too thor
ough a way for th • present day. I should
say it was exactly how they danced in the
time of the poet Chaucer: but as people
don’t dance like it now, we must consider.
First 1 must inquire more about this ball,
and then I must soo you again.”
“If it is a great trouble to you sir, in—"
“Ob, 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 bis horse and rode
away.
On the next occasion, which was just
when the sun was changing places with the
moon as an illuminator of Stickle ford
Dairy, she found him at the spot before
her. and unincumbered by a horse. The
melancholy that had so weighed him down
at their first interview, and had been per
ceptible at their second, hod quite disap
peared. He pressed her right baud between
both his own across the stile.
“My dear girl, God bless you!” said he,
warmly. “I can not help thinking of that
morning. 1 wax too much overshadowed
at first to take in the whole force it.
You don’t know all, but your presence was
a miraculous intervention. Now to more
cheerful mat l on. I have a great deal to
tell—that is, If your wish about the ball
be still the smuef
“Oh, yes, sir-if you don't object,” said
the persistent maiden.
“Never think of my objecting. What
I have found out is something which sim
plifies matters amazingly, lu addition to
your Y eom&nry Balt at Casterbridge.
there is also to be oue 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 Biakemore’s,
who is colonel of the regiment, and who, I
suppose, wishes to please the yeomen be
cause his brother is going to stand for the
county. Now 1 find I could take you there
very wall, and the great advantage of that
ball over the Yeomanry Ball In this county
is that there you would bo absolutely un
known, and I too. But do you prefer
your own county f *
“Oh, no. sir. “It’s a bail I long to see—
-1 don't know what it is like. It does not
matter where.”
“Then I shall lie able to make much mors
of you there, where there is no possibility
of recognition. That being settled, the
next thing is the dancing. Now reels and
such things won’t do. For think of this—
there is anew dance at Almack’s and
everywhere else, over which the world ha
gone crazy.”
“How dreadful!"
“Ah—but that is a mere expression
gone mad. It is 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 Conti
nent in one seasex"
“Wbat is its name, sir?"
“The polka. Young people, who always
lanoe, are ecstatic about it, and old people,
who have not danced for years, have begun
to dance again on its account. Ali 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 dan :e
will bo enough. They will dance scarce
anything else at that balL While, to crowr
all, it is the easiest dance in the world, and
os I know it quite well, I can practice you
in the step. Suppose vrt try?*
Margery showed some hesitation before
crossing the stile: it wota 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. Bhe crossed the stile.
Withdrawing with her to a nook where
two hedges met, and where the grass was
elastic and dry, he lightly rested his arm
on her waist, and practiced with her the
new step of fascination. Instead of music
he whispered uumbt.rs, and she, as may be
supposed, showed n> slight aptness in fol
lowing his instructions. Thus they moved
round together, tie moon shadows from
the twigs racing ox or their forms as they
turned.
The interview lasted about half an hour.
Then he somewhat abruptly handed her
over tho 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 iny right mind."
Margery (to whose recollections the
writer is indebted for the details of this in
terview) always declared that there seemed
to b© some power In the stranger that was
more than human, something magical and
compulsory, when he seized her and gently
trotted her round. But the lap*e of many,
many years may have led her memory to
play prauks with the scene, and her vivid
imagination at that youthful age must be
token into account in believing her. How
ever, 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 moon
light at the top of her father’s garden, as
was proved by her possession of knowledge
on the subject that could have been ac
quired in no other way.
His was of the first rank of commanding
figures, she was one of the most graceful 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 geutlemau were a wild
olive tree or not, it was questionable if the
acquaintance would lead to happiness. “A
fleeting romance aud a possible calamity"—
thus it might have been summed up by the
practical.
Margery was in a paradise; and yet she
was not distinctly in love with the stran
ger. What she felt was something more
mysterious, more of the nature of veuera
tiou. 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 uty best friend. I have thought
of the ball dress and of other thing* ala”
“And is my dancing good enough?”
“Quite —quite.” He paused, lapsed into
thought, and looked at her. “Margery,*
ho sai l, “Uo you trust yourself unreserved
ly to me?"
“Oh, yes, sir,* she replied, brightly; “if
lam not too much trouble; if I am good
enough to be seen in your society."
The Baron laughed iu 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 Thurs
day week: and the only difficulty about
the dross is the size. Suppose you leud mo
this?" An ihe touched her ou the shoulder
to signify a tight little jacket she wore.
Margery was all obedience. Fho took it
off and banded it to hiiu. The Baron
rolled and compressed it with all his force
till it was about as large as a criokel ball,
and put it into his joweL
“The next thing.’ he said, “is about get
ting the consent of vour frionds to your
going. Have you thought of this.'"
“There is only my lather. 1 can tell
him l am invited to a party, and 1 don’t
think ho 11 utind. Though 1 would rulher
not tell him."
“But it strikes ms that you roust inform
him something of what you intend. 1
would strongly ail vise you to do so.” He
spoke as if rather perplexed a, to the
probable custom or 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
bail, the plan I have arranged is this: The
direction to Lord Biakemore’s being the
other way from my house, you must meet
me at Three-Walks End in Chiliington
Wood, two miles or more from here. You
know the place? Good. By meeting there
we shall save five or six miles journey—a
consideration, as it is a long way. Now
for the last time: are you still firm in
your wih for this particular treat and no
other? It is not too late to give it up.
Can not you think of something else—some
thing better useful household arti
cles you requiref"
Margery’s countenance, which before had
been beaming with expectation, lost its
brightness, her eyes became moi<t. and her
voice broken. ‘‘You have offered to take
me, and now—”
“No, uo, no." he said, patting her cheek.
“We will not think of anything else. You
shall go."
[to be continued.]
1885.
Harper’s Younec People.
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