A fine-framed dark-mustachioed gentleman, in dressing-gown and slippers, was sitting there in the damp without a hat on.With one hand he was tightly grasping his forehead, the other hung over his knee.The attitude bespoke with sufficient clearness a mental condition of anguish.He was quite a different being from any of the men to whom her eyes were accustomed.She had never seen mustachios before, for they were not worn by civilians in Lower Wessex at this date.His hands and his face were white--to her view deadly white--and he heeded nothing outside his own existence.There he remained as motionless as the bushes around him; indeed, he scarcely seemed to breathe.
Having imprudently advanced thus far, Margery's wish was to get back again in the same unseen manner; but in moving her foot for the purpose it grated on the gravel.He started up with an air of bewilderment, and slipped something into the pocket of his dressing-gown.She was almost certain that it was a pistol.The pair stood looking blankly at each other.
'My Gott, who are you?' he asked sternly, and with not altogether an English articulation.'What do you do here?'
Margery had already begun to be frightened at her boldness in invading the lawn and pleasure-seat.The house had a master, and she had not known of it.'My name is Margaret Tucker, sir,' she said meekly.'My father is Dairyman Tucker.We live at Silverthorn Dairy-house.'
'What were you doing here at this hour of the morning?'
She told him, even to the fact that she had climbed over the fence.
'And what made you peep round at me?'
'I saw your elbow, sir; and I wondered what you were doing?'
'And what was I doing?'
'Nothing.You had one hand on your forehead and the other on your knee.I do hope you are not ill, sir, or in deep trouble?' Margery had sufficient tact to say nothing about the pistol.
'What difference would it make to you if I were ill or in trouble?
You don't know me.'
She returned no answer, feeling that she might have taken a liberty in expressing sympathy.But, looking furtively up at him, she discerned to her surprise that he seemed affected by her humane wish, simply as it had been expressed.She had scarcely conceived that such a tall dark man could know what gentle feelings were.
'Well, I am much obliged to you for caring how I am,' said he with a faint smile and an affected lightness of manner which, even to her, only rendered more apparent the gloom beneath.'I have not slept this past night.I suffer from sleeplessness.Probably you do not.'
Margery laughed a little, and he glanced with interest at the comely picture she presented; her fresh face, brown hair, candid eyes, unpractised manner, country dress, pink hands, empty wicker-basket, and the handkerchief over her bonnet.
'Well,' he said, after his scrutiny, 'I need hardly have asked such a question of one who is Nature's own image...Ah, but my good little friend,' he added, recurring to his bitter tone and sitting wearily down, 'you don't know what great clouds can hang over some people's lives, and what cowards some 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.
