Nothing tended to dissipate the obscurity which veiled the life of the Baron2. The position he occupied in the minds of the country-folk around was one which combined the mysteriousness of a legendary3 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 inquiries4 will find existing there almost a superstitious5 feeling for the moody6 melancholy7 stranger who resided in the Lodge8 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 trite9 and homely10 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 drawn11 with any distinctness, the environment shading away to a blank.
He might have been said to resemble that solitary12 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, beholding13 the tawny14 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 willow15 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 folly16 or hasty act, that he had been wrongfully accused of some crime, thus rendering17 his seclusion18 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 tenant19 of a furnished house, just suited to the requirements of such an eccentric being as he.
Margery’s father, having privately20 ascertained21 that she was living with her grandmother, and getting into no harm, refrained from communicating with her, in the hope of seeing her contrite22 at his door. It had, of course, become known about Silverthorn that at the last moment Margery refused to wed1 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 tactician23 had all this while withdrawn24 from mortal eye to tear his hair in silent indignation and despair. He had, in truth, merely retired25 up the lonesome defile26 between the downs to his smouldering kiln27, and the ancient ramparts above it; and there, after his first hours of natural discomposure, he quietly waited for overtures28 from the possibly repentant29 Margery. But no overtures arrived, and then he meditated30 anew on the absorbing problem of her skittishness31, and how to set about another campaign for her conquest, notwithstanding his late disastrous33 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 riddle34 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. Descending35 to where Jim stood, he asked if there were not a short cut across that way to Tivworthy, where a fete 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 intercept36 the carrier on the highway.’
The nearest way was precisely37 in the direction of Rook’s Gate, where Margery, as Jim knew, was staying. Having some time to spare, Jim was strongly impelled38 to make a kind act to the lost musician a pretext39 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 standing32 fixed41, 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 ridiculed42 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 dwindled43 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 mischief44; 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, watchful45 characters who, without integrity, make good thieves; with a little, good jobbers46; with a little more, good diplomatists. Jim was honest, and he considered what to do.
Retracing47 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 den40 — to call on the Baron.
Meanwhile Margery had recovered her equanimity48, 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 incensed49 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 pervaded50 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 stagnant51 that great events are brewing52. 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 admiration53 rather than any positive passion existed in her breast for the Baron: she had of late seen too little of him to allow any incipient54 views of him as a lover to grow to formidable dimensions. It was an extremely romantic feeling, delicate as an aroma55, 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 infringing56 the letter of her promise? Thus unexpectedly had Jim’s manoeuvre57 operated.
Ten days passed. All she could hear of the Baron were the same words, ‘Bad abed,’ till one afternoon, after a gallop58 of the physician to the Lodge, the tidings spread like lightning that the Baron was dying.
Margery distressed59 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 awe60 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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1
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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3
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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4
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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5
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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8
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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9
trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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10
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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11
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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12
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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13
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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14
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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15
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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16
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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17
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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18
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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20
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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21
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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contrite
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| adj.悔悟了的，后悔的，痛悔的 | |
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tactician
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| n. 战术家, 策士 | |
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24
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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25
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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27
kiln
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| n.（砖、石灰等）窑，炉；v.烧窑 | |
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28
overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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29
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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30
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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31
skittishness
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| n.活泼好动；难以驾驭 | |
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32
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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33
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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34
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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35
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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36
intercept
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| vt.拦截，截住，截击 | |
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37
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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38
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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40
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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41
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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42
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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45
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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46
jobbers
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| n.做零活的人( jobber的名词复数 )；营私舞弊者；股票经纪人；证券交易商 | |
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47
retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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48
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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49
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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50
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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52
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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53
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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54
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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55
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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56
infringing
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| v.违反（规章等）( infringe的现在分词 )；侵犯（某人的权利）；侵害（某人的自由、权益等） | |
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57
manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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58
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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59
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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60
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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