Chapter 8

Notwithstanding a press of business, Jim went and did his duty in
thanking the Baron. The latter saw him in his fishing-tackle room,
an apartment littered with every appliance that a votary of the rod
could require.

'And when is the wedding-day to be, Hayward?' the Baron asked, after
Jim had told him that matters were settled.

'It is not quite certain yet, my noble lord,' said Jim cheerfully.
'But I hope 'twill not be long after the time when God A'mighty
christens the little apples.'

'And when is that?'

'St. Swithin's--the middle of July. 'Tis to be some time in that
month, she tells me.'

When Jim was gone the Baron seemed meditative. He went out, ascended
the mount, and entered the weather-screen, where he looked at the
seats, as though re-enacting in his fancy the scene of that memorable
morning of fog. He turned his eyes to the angle of the shelter,
round which Margery had suddenly appeared like a vision, and it was
plain that he would not have minded her appearing there then. The
juncture had indeed been such an impressive and critical one that she
must have seemed rather a heavenly messenger than a passing milkmaid,
more especially to a man like the Baron, who, despite the mystery of
his origin and life, revealed himself to be a melancholy, emotional
character--the Jacques of this forest and stream.

Behind the mount the ground rose yet higher, ascending to a
plantation which sheltered the house. The Baron strolled up here,
and bent his gaze over the distance. The valley of the Exe lay
before him, with its shining river, the brooks that fed it, and the
trickling springs that fed the brooks. The situation of Margery's
house was visible, though not the house itself; and the Baron gazed
that way for an infinitely long time, till, remembering himself, he
moved on.

Instead of returning to the house he went along the ridge till he
arrived at the verge of Chillington Wood, and in the same desultory
manner roamed under the trees, not pausing till he had come to Three-
Walks-End, and the hollow elm hard by. He peeped in at the rift. In
the soft dry layer of touch-wood that floored the hollow Margery's
tracks were still visible, as she had made them there when dressing
for the ball.

'Little Margery!' murmured the Baron.

In a moment he thought better of this mood, and turned to go home.
But behold, a form stood behind him--that of the girl whose name had
been on his lips.

She was in utter confusion. 'I--I--did not know you were here, sir!'
she began. 'I was out for a little walk.' She could get no further;
her eyes filled with tears. That spice of wilfulness, even hardness,
which characterized her in Jim's company, magically disappeared