Chapter 10 - Page 2

last moment Margery refused to wed 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
tactician had all this while withdrawn from mortal eye to tear his
hair in silent indignation and despair. He had, in truth, merely
retired up the lonesome defile between the downs to his smouldering
kiln, and the ancient ramparts above it; and there, after his first
hours of natural discomposure, he quietly waited for overtures from
the possibly repentant Margery. But no overtures arrived, and then
he meditated anew on the absorbing problem of her skittishness, and
how to set about another campaign for her conquest, notwithstanding
his late disastrous 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 riddle 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.
Descending 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 intercept the carrier on
the highway.'

The nearest way was precisely in the direction of Rook's Gate, where
Margery, as Jim knew, was staying. Having some time to spare, Jim
was strongly impelled to make a kind act to the lost musician a
pretext 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 standing fixed, 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