The Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid | Page 6

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