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 façade 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.