It is hard to say what made Dan so excited. Usually he was a self-contained young man, who but seldom gave vent to his high spirits. On this morning, however, he was fairly carried away by the exuberance of his animal nature. He urged Simon to a gallop along the shining sands, and shouted out any poetry that came into his head. There was nobody to listen to him save a gull or so, therefore he indulged himself to the full in such nonsense. "Dulce est desipere in loco," and why not?
Whether it was the brisk air, the roaring waves, or the sight of that beautiful face, he could not tell, but there was no doubt he was nature-mad, and pranced Simon about till the steady old roadster wondered what could be the matter with his usually sedate master. Peter enjoyed the excitement, and barked till he was hoarse. He was more in sympathy with such moods than Simon.
The beach was a goodly length of sand, and at the end there was a cluster of rocks which afforded privacy. Not a soul was in sight, for, with the exception of "t' doctor's lass," none of the Farbis folk patronized the seashore at so early an hour. Dan tied up Simon, and behind the rocks stripped off his clothes. These he left Peter to guard, jumped, naked as he was, on horseback, and went off to frolic in the water. Here was primevalism with a vengeance. It is hard to say whether Dan or Simon most enjoyed the bath. They both splashed about in the waves till the blood sang in their veins. Some distance out Dan slipped off and ducked under and rolled over till he was tired. He could not go far enough out to swim, as he had to hold Simon by the reins. At length man and beast emerged thoroughly refreshed.
Having donned his clothes, Dan once more made a racecourse of the beach, and finally trotted campward through the Gates of Dawn. Alas! no beauty awaited him this time. The sun was fairly up, and Aurora's services not being needed, she had disappeared. On his way through the village Dan had quite a crowd to look at him; but they only grinned, and did not volunteer a remark. At the Red Deer he drew rein for a tankard of ale. The landlord, stout and cheerful (as landlords should be), himself brought the frothing pot, and spoke so respectfully that Dan again felt that he was found out. What is the use of wearing shabby clothes and driving a caravan, and camping gipsy-fashion in a dell, if people will persistently say "sir" and touch their hat--or forelock, if uncovered? Dan remonstrated.
"Why do you call me 'sir,' landlord? I'm only a cheap-jack."
"That yew bain't, zur," replied the landlord, with respectful contradiction. "Aw knows gentry when aw sees 'um."
"But I'm not a gentleman, confound you."
"Aw've been tu Lunnon, zur, an' ses I when I sees 'um, 'Thet's gentry, fur zure.'"
Dan contradicted him again, but receiving nothing but an obstinate shake of the head, rode off on his bare-backed steed, followed by the "Marnin', zur," of the landlord and attendant satellites. As a would-be tramp he was a distinct failure.
"There's nothing for it," said Dan, as Simon climbed the hill; "I must get an accent of some sort. Perhaps Mother Jericho will teach me how to patter. They don't teach the rural accent at Oxford, more's the pity. I must say 'marnin'' and 'zur' and 'oi,' or they'll see through my disguise at once. What the deuce made me come on this wild-goose chase? I don't say it's not amusing, but I'm such a palpable fraud that I can't even gain the confidence of the lower orders. They all call me 'zur' and grin, and expect to be tipped. Hang it, no; as a cheap-jack I bar tipping. Puh! Here's the top of the hill at last. Tired, Simon?"
Simonwastired, and intimated as much by refusing to move an inch for a few minutes. During the continuance of this fit of obstinacy his master gazed at the Gates of Dawn, and his thoughts reverted to the vision of sunrise.
"I wonder who that girl can be? I must see her again, if only to feast my eyes on the loveliest face I ever saw in my life. 'T' doctor's lass!' I'll get an ache or a pain, or something, and call on that doctor. I hope I won't be such a fool as to fall in love with Aurora! It would never do. You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, and rustic beauty does not look at home in the silks and farthingales of London. That old woman said I should meet my fate at the Gates of Dawn. Is that wild rose my fate, and if so, is----? Pshaw! I'm talking nonsense, and breakfast is waiting! Move on, Simon."
From this speech it will be seen that Dan was by no means the person he represented himself to be. He spoke of London, of Oxford, of silks, satins, and tipping. Cheap-jacks are ignorant of such things. Even in looks he failed to impose on the rural population. Borrow, the glorious Bohemian, never would have recognized so arrant an impostor as one of the "fancy." Altogether Dan was rather crestfallen at his attempt to act the part of a cheap-jack, but could not help laughing at his own failure. To reverse the fable, this peacock could not strut in jackdaw plumes.
The fire was nearly out when he reached the camp, but an armful of sticks soon made it blaze merrily again. All was exactly as he left it, and Dan could espy no thievish footsteps about his caravan. The taboo of Mother Jericho was evidently efficacious, or her people were exceptionally honest. Knowing somewhat of the gipsy nature, Dan held to the former opinion.
"I wonder if the old lady will pay me another visit?" said Dan, as he busied himself getting breakfast; "she said something about coming here at noon. Or was it another person she mentioned? Well, I don't much care who it is, so long as they can instruct me as to the name and identity of Aurora. 'And Joy comes up through the Gates of Dawn.' What a pretty song she sang, and what a voice she has! and why don't you be sensible, Dan, and drop talking nonsense?"
He took his own advice, and ceased to soliloquize. Indeed, his culinary cares did not permit him to continue it. With a dexterity begotten by long practice, he soon prepared the meal. Eggs and bacon, fragrant coffee, and bread and butter. O Lavengro, think of such a meal in the wilderness! What pioneer is this, to feed on such dainties! Lucullus should not tramp the country with his kitchen on his back.
Peter had some dog-biscuits soaked in milk, and likewise devoured such scraps of bacon as were left. He fared badly in this respect, as Dan scraped the platter clean. Simon partook of oats and hay, after which he returned to his grazing. The grass was succulent, and Simon hungry, so he wished for nothing better than to be left alone.
After breakfast, Dan washed up his crockery and cutlery, then lighted his beloved pipe. At peace with himself and the whole world, he sat by the fire and put Peter through a few tricks. Peter objected, and retreated with his tail--or what was called by courtesy his tail--between his legs; so, failing to find further diversion, Dan got out his diary.
"I'm afraid this doesn't look like a cheap-jack," said he, sharpening a pencil; "they don't keep diaries, as a rule. There are many things to be set down this morning: Mother Jericho's visit, her prophecy and its fulfilment at the Gates of Dawn. I would I were an artist, to sketch that face. Talk about the Madonna type! Ah me!"
He sighed as a tribute to the absent beauty, and busied himself in writing up the events of the last two days. Beyond the noting of a few facts, he had nothing whatever to write about. Such thoughts as he had were not worth committing to paper. And what, indeed, is the use of a healthy young man setting down immature fancies? Youth can write poetry, which is purely inspirational; but not novels or essays, both of which imply a long experience of human nature. Up to the age of thirty, unless gifted with the faculty of observance, youth is too interested in itself to concern itself with other people. It certainly troubles about the gentler sex, but they defy analysis, and he is a bold man who limns you a portrait in pen and ink with the remark, "This is a woman I once knew." Did you meet the original, you would find her vastly different. Women have as many sides to their characters as a diamond has facets, and never show the same side twice to one person. In such "weathercockisms"--to coin a word--lies their greatest charm.
This is all very well, but has nothing to do with Dan in his camp. It were wiser not to digress, but to keep to the subject-matter in hand. Therefore to return to Dan and his scribbling. He wrote down his adventures, tried to recollect the words of Aurora's song, and finally, dropping pencil and book, fell to meditating on her beauty. In truth, he could think of nothing else.
Now, the question is, Was he in love? Impossible! He knew nothing of the girl, he did not even know her name, so it was impossible that love could be born of a brief glance. Even Romeo's passion for Juliet had the advantage of a few hurried words. No! Dan was not in love, yet he felt strange sensations in the region of the heart when that face floated cherub-fashion--i.e. without body--before his mind's eye. Perhaps this was because the words of the red-cloaked sibyl had predisposed him to take special notice of the girl, and think of her as a possible factor in his life. Was she indeed his fate? He determined to question Mother Jericho closely the next time he saw her.
What with writing and idling and smoking, the morning passed very quickly, and the sun, pouring its rays vertically on the dell, warned him that it was noon. At that time Mother Jericho had promised that he should receive a visitor, so Dan packed away his diary and kept a sharp look-out on the road. Meanwhile he felt too restless to sit still, and walked up and down the limited area of the hollow.
Who he was, and what he was, and why he came to be camping in so solitary a place, will be told in due course. At present you can see that he is merely a rover of thirty, bent upon making holiday and getting the best out of life. What his name is matters not at present. He chose to call himself Dan, which is short for Daniel, but the name did not suit him in the least. He looked quite unlike a Daniel. There is a fitness in names as in other things.
The promised visitor did not arrive at the appointed hour, and Dan became impatient. He had longing thoughts in the direction of his midday meal, and, indeed, was about to see after it, when Peter's sharp bark announced the approach of the expected visitor. It was not Mother Jericho, but a tall and powerfully built man.
He strode boldly down the road and into the dell. Dan made a step forward to greet him, but the other drew back and looked at him carefully. Apparently the stranger was satisfied with his scrutiny, for he advanced with smile and outstretched hand. Not knowing whether to be pleased or angry, Dan gave his own reluctantly.
"What is your name?" said he.
"Tinker Tim," replied the other gruffly. "I come from Mother Jericho."
"'And there were giants on the earth in those days,'" quoth Dan, eyeing the mighty bulk of his visitor. "Can you box, my friend?"
"Try me," said Tinker Tim, putting up his fists.
Here was a polite reception to give a guest. It is not the custom in civilized society for the host to invite the stranger within his gates to a bout of fisticuffs. But this was not polite society, and Dan had retrograded to primevalism. In the days of old, when fighting was hand to hand, and not conducted at long range, men usually commenced their friendships by thrashing one another. Robin Hood is an excellent example of this. In Merry Sherwood he beat the stranger, or the stranger beat him, either with fists or at quarter-staff, and afterwards the combatants fraternized. Each wished to see if the other was a man, before admitting him to his friendship. Dan was of this way of thinking, and eyed his opponent like a fighting-cock.
If there was one thing he loved, it was a bout with the gloves, and Tim was apparently of the same mind. They were quite amicable, and disposed to be friendly with each other, but the friendship had to be cemented with blows and blood. The scent of battle--of friendly battle, to couple incongruous terms--was in the air. Dan was of goodly stature, and ready with his fists. He prided himself on his long reach of arm and quickness of eye. In the parts from which he came, few men cared to stand up to him, for he had been victorious times without number. His victories were so many and so easy that he longed to meet a dogged foe who could hold his own; therefore his mouth watered when he saw the thews and fists of his guest. They were eloquent of a prolonged battle, and Dan promised himself a happy morning.
Tim was a son of Anak, six and a half feet high, and big in proportion. Not an ounce of superfluous flesh on his bones; nothing but tanned hide and swelling muscle. His face was burnt brown by the sun and reddened by the wind; and he wore a bushy black beard, which was slightly streaked with grey. His bold black eyes looked defiance, while the gold rings which adorned his ears added to his already barbaric appearance. A swarthy malcontent he seemed at first sight, a cut-throat of the Spanish main, a piratical desperado; yet, on a closer inspection, his good-humoured smile did away with such bloodthirsty appearances. He, too, counted his victories by the score, and sighed, like Alexander, for fresh worlds or men to conquer. Dan could not have given him a better welcome than that invitation to battle, and his eye sparkled with pleasure at the prospect. Each saw that the other was a man, and wished to decide which was the better. A fit of Berserk fury was on them both.
"Come on, rye," said Tim, eager for the fray. "I'll fight you for a fi'-pun note."
"I cannot wager so large an amount," replied Dan, gravely. "I am a poor man."
Tim glanced at the caravan, and laughed hoarsely. He had his own opinion on the matter, or else had taken his cue from Mother Jericho. However, he was too bent on fighting to argue, and his face grew impatient as he poised himself lightly in an attitude of defence with scientifically placed fists.
"Ain't you goin' to put 'em up?" said he, sharply.
"Not without the gloves, friend. I've no notion of letting those sledge-hammer fists of yours spoil my beauty."
"Ho! Women like to see men mashed a bit. Them's the kind they love best."
"That may be! Women are all hero-worshippers. All the same, I wish my face to remain as it is. A broken nose may be heroic, but it isn't pleasing to the eye."
And with such speech he disappeared into the caravan, whence he emerged with the boxing-gloves. Throwing a pair of these to Tim, he put on his own, and in a minute or so the two men were warily circling round one another. Peter was the only spectator of this famous fight, and he encouraged the combatants with sharp barks when the blows fell unusually thick.
"Here is Lavengro again," thought Dan, aiming a blow at the jaw of his opponent. "I have dropped across the Flaming Tinman."
And Lavengro alone could have fully described that Homeric contest. There was no hesitancy or half-heartedness about it. They pounded one another whenever they got the chance, and sent the blows straight from the shoulder. Thrice was Dan toppled over like a ninepin, and twice did Tim measure his length on the grassy sward. If one had the greater weight, the other had the quicker eye. Tim's leg-of-mutton fists did terrific damage when they got home on Dan's body, but for the most part they descended innocuously, so dexterously did the latter guard. At first they smiled, but soon their blood warmed and their faces set. Strength and agility were fairly matched, so that though the battle raged for close on an hour, each managed to hold his own. Dan could make no impression on the elephantine frame of Tim, and the tinker grew weary of trying to hit a flash of lightning in the person of the vagrant. It was as pretty a sight as a man might see in a day's walk, but so equal were both boxers that the contest seemed likely to last till sunset. The account of such a combat should roll off the tongue in blank verse or leaping hexameter, and be chanted by some noble minstrel. Nothing meaner can suffice! It is impossible to play an oratorio on a penny whistle.
At length, when Dan had a bleeding nose and Tim a swelling eye, they threw down their gloves by mutual consent and declared it a drawn battle. On such result they shook hands like the manly pair they were, and Tim vented his emotion in a mighty oath which here need only be paraphrased.
"By the ghost of Black Ben the Bruiser," said he, clapping his friendly antagonist on the shoulder, "you're a man, you are! None other shall have her, I swear."
"Have whom?" asked Dan, bathing his crimsoned nose in the bucket.
"Never you mind, rye," replied Tim, ambiguously; "that's neither here nor there. It might be Mother Jericho, for all you know."
Not particularly attentive to this speech, Dan went on splashing up the ice-cold water; and Tim, with his black beard clutched in one begrimed hand, sat looking steadily at him. The vagrant seemed to find favour in his eyes, for during his scrutiny he grunted once or twice as though satisfied. It was evidently something more than personal prowess that recommended Dan to the gipsy giant. What it was must remain locked up in Tim's brain for the present.
"Why didn't Mother Jericho come with you, Tim?"
"She's got the rheumatism, rye, and sits in her tent squeaking like a trapped rabbit. 'Twas she who told me to look ye up."
"Wanted to know the result of her prophecy, I suppose?"
"Ay, ay! She told your fortune, did she? A good un for charming brass out of pockets, she is. Maybe she promised ye a wench, lad?"
"That she did. Two wenches! I met one this morning."
"Did ye, now? And where, my brave rye?"
"'Joy comes up through the Gates of Dawn,'" hummed Dan, wiping his face.
This mystical utterance was of course unintelligible to Tim, who looked up as though about to demand an explanation; but on second thoughts he threw himself down for a rest. He was not so young as he had been, and the violent exercise of the last sixty minutes had told slightly on his iron frame.
"That was a good un, rye," said he, referring to the combat; "but you're too much of the eel for me. It ain't at sixty years that a man should mash round after a slippery chap like you."
"Are you sixty years of age?" exclaimed Dan; and as Tim nodded, he continued, "Well, you don't look it, my man."
"Open air and exercise, plain fare and daily change," replied Tim, glibly running off his lists of arts for circumventing the enemy Time; "but I'm beginning to get on, brother. There's a hole as I'll fall into afore long. Yet there's work to be done and wrongs to be righted afore I am tripped up. When all's square, I'll tumble into Mother Earth's arms with the rest."
Engaged in getting victuals from the caravan, Dan did not at once comment on this mournful speech. When he did speak, his remark was more practical than sympathetic.
"No doubt you're hungry after that tussle, Tim."
"Ay, and thirsty. What have you to drink?"
"Bottled beer. Here! don't spoil your dinner by smoking."
Tim rapped the ashes out of his pipe, and with an assenting grin restored it to his pocket. Then he fell to caressing Peter.
"A fine leetle dawg, squire!"
"Pedigree dog! Kennel Club," replied Dan, curtly.
"Ho, ho!" laughed the tinker, hoarsely, "and you call yourself a crocus! My Sam! You're a gentleman, you are--a great gentleman."
"Pish! Do I look like a great gentleman in these rags?"
"Ay, that you do, and burn him who says nay," replied Tim, emphatically. Whereat Dan laughed in a somewhat embarrassed fashion, and by way of changing the subject, intimated that the meal was ready.
A meal he called it--by Vesta, goddess of the spit, it was a lordly banquet to which they sat down. Cold beef and pickles, bottled beer and cheese, with a plentiful supply of fresh bread. Can you ask anything better than to eat such victuals in the open air on a warm summer day, with voices of bird and bee, and sigh of wind, and roar of ocean, around? To feed in an airless dining-room were less conducive to appetite.
The pair ate as they had fought, with a will, and the fragments of the feast would scarcely have filled one basket, let alone a dozen. Tim did most of the talking, and Dan could not help noticing that his speech was much more refined than was his appearance. This incongruity he touched on during the progress of the meal.
"Where did you learn to speak so Well, Tim?"
"Do I speak well, rye?" demanded the tinker, with marked surprise. "Well, ye see, I'm a Romany, I am, and we generally speak better than the lower orders of your natives. We have our own tongue, you know--the black language--and speak that among ourselves. But I've been among the Gorgios, rye, in my time, and maybe have picked up their way of talking."
"Were you always a tinker?"
"Ay! And my father and grandfather before me! We Romany follow the trades of our ancestors, and have our pride, though you Gentiles think us beasts of the field. But never mind my chatter, rye! I don't ask to know your business, so let mine be."
After the fight, in which he had proved himself capable of holding his own, Dan could afford to let this reproof pass without the imputation of cowardice, so merely laughed at Tim's asperity, and lighted his pipe. The tinker, restored to good humour by this silent acquiescence, did the same, and the pair were soon puffing amicably together. There is no peacemaker like tobacco.
"Who is t' doctor's lass, Tim?" asked Dan, suddenly.
"Ho, ho! Have you run her to earth, rye? Isn't she a beauty?--eyes like stars, and hair like midnight!"
"You know her, then?"
"Every one for ten miles round knows her. She's out on the moors from dawn till sunset. A born Romany she is, though coming of Gorgio stock. And where did you clap eyes on her, rye?"
"Coming up through the Gates of Dawn at sunrise."
"Ay! Been swimming, I guess!"
"Can she swim?"
"Like an otter. And ride, and shoot, and fish, and tramp her thirty miles a day."
"Quite a Diana!"
"I don't know about no Diana," retorted Tim, gruffly; "but she's a clipper, and no mistake. Her fist is as ready as her tongue."
"Borrow's Isopel in the flesh!" thought Dan, who listened eagerly to this account of his unknown nymph. "And what is the name of this Amazon?" he asked aloud.
"Meg Merle. She's the daughter of Dr. Merle, who lives in Farbis village. An old fool he is, who sleeps and dreams and shuts his eyes to her beauty."
"She is beautiful," said Dan, reflectively; "very--very beautiful!"
Tim looked at him suspiciously and frowned. An unpleasant thought had just crossed his mind.
"She's as good as she's beautiful, rye," he growled, "and can look after herself, I reckon. I shouldn't like to be the man who put an insult on her. I'd smash him," added the tinker, bringing down his huge fist with terrific force--"I'd smash him!"
"Is that meant for me?" asked Dan, sharply, noting the suspicious look in the eyes of his guest.
"Them as the cap fits can wear it, rye! You're a gentleman, though you don't choose to call yourself one, and gentlemen think country girls fine game; so----"
"That's quite sufficient, my friend," cried the vagrant. "I know what you are about to say. Don't bellow out your warning. Gentleman or no gentleman, she has no need to fear me."
Tim eyed him narrowly, and then, rolling over, gripped Dan's hand in his own huge paw. It was his way of apologizing for his unjust suspicions.
"I trust ye! I trust ye! A man who can use his mauleys like you ain't a cur to play tricks on women. If I've offended you----"
"You haven't offended me, friend. Say no more about it."
So speaking, he rose abruptly and walked to the other side of the dell. Though he denied being angry, he was in reality rather indignant at Tim's imputation of libertinism. No man likes to be thought a scoundrel, and Dan did not like it. Yet he saw that the warning was dictated in a friendly spirit, so his wrath evaporated by the time he returned to the fire. At once he began to speak on a different subject, and Tim, seeing he was annoyed, gladly fell in with his humour.
"I must come over to your camp, Tim. Where is it?"
"Down yonder on the edge of the moor. We'll make ye as welcome as the dawn."
"I'll come over, if only to find out why Mother Jericho coupled my name with that of this girl."
"It wasn't Mother Jericho, but Fate," said Tim, with great simplicity. "If it be as she's to be your wife, there's no way out of it."
"Pish! I'll never set eyes on her again, Tim. I leave this place to-morrow."
"Not if Mother Jericho read your hand truly."
There was no combating this obstinacy, as Tim was evidently a firm believer in palmistry. As a gipsy, he could not in reason be otherwise. Dan did not attempt to argue the matter, and after a few more words they parted, as Tim had business on hand.
"I'm off tinkering to a village ten miles from here, rye," said he; "but don't 'ee forget to come to our camp when it suits you. I'll be proud to put on the gloves with you again." And with this pugilistic invitation he parted from his late antagonist.
Dan remained lying where he was, and bearing in mind Tim's warning, made up his mind to baffle Mother Jericho's forecast if possible. But Fate proved too strong for him. Before the week was out, he met again with her whom he ironically christened the "Diana of Farbis."
Dear Jack,
Not wishing to cut myself off entirely from civilization, I write to apprise you of my adventures while exploring England. I am in the wilds--that is, in a lonely village surrounded by moors, and twenty miles from the nearest town. A ragged boy on a ragged pony carries letters to and fro from this place--Farbis it is called--twice a week. Other communication with the world there is none, so you see I am sufficiently isolated from the influences of the nineteenth century.
Of course you knew my intention of coming here, therefore you can express no surprise at the name of the village. I have seen the Court at a distance--a red-brick structure embosomed in pine woods--but as yet I have not called on the old lady who lives there. I cannot very well present myself in my character of a vagabond, as you may suppose; and, moreover, this wild life is so delightful that I wish to keep to myself as much as possible.
When I think of you dawdling in park and club, I pity you heartily. I, too, have been in--shall I call it Arcady?--and suffered the ennui of the season. Now I live, not in your artificial manner, but after a hale and lusty fashion which precludes weariness. I rise with the lark, and retire with the dicky birds. For the most part my bed is a fur rug beside a roaring fire under the stars, and I am thoroughly enjoying myself. This last statement appears extraordinary, but it is precisely true.
I begin to think civilization is a mistake, and that a cultivated man does not get so much out of his life as does the untutored savage. This is a somewhat quixotic way of looking at things, I admit; but, having tried both existences, I heartily pronounce in favour of the latter. I have an appetite which Gargantua might envy; I feel the blood rush through my veins; and I enjoy my life with a zest of which you, puny club-lounger, can have no conception. Such primevalism suits me, and I can well understand the fascination it has for so many men. I protest, Jack, that I never truly appreciated the history of the Scholar Gipsy till I read Arnold's poem by the light of my camp-fire. You get at the inmost soul of the thing from such circumstance.
And talking about gipsies, I am at present fraternizing with a tribe of genuine vagrants who have pitched their ragged tents close at hand. When I go there and see their Eastern looks, I feel as though some genie had transported me to an encampment of Bedouins in Arabia. My location is in a dell almost hidden by overhanging trees, but on occasions I descend through the pine woods to see my brother-vagrants on the edge of the moor. Though I do not know a word of Romany, and am clearly an alien, they receive me most amicably, which says much for their innate good breeding. Were I but a proficient in their tongue, no doubt they would call me "brother" and "Romany Rye," as their grandparents did Borrow.
"Lavengro" is another work which can only be appreciated in these surroundings. I have read it at least six times since leaving London, but it never palls on my taste, never grows dull, and exercises the same fascination as on the first perusal. Nay, more; Fate has taken a leaf from that glorious book and bestowed on me an adventure or so in the Borrovian style. My dell is a replica of that famous Dingle, and--would you believe it?--I have done battle with an individual like the Flaming Tinman. He also is a tinker and a bruiser, but here the resemblance ends. He is not a brute, and has no doxy trailing at his heels. Nor, alas! did he bring me an Isopel to whom I could teach--say French, in place of Armenian. One can say many pretty things in French, and the verbs lend themselves as readily to a philological flirtation as does the more recondite language of Lavengro. But I have no Isopel--at present.
I see you raise your eyebrows at those two last words. You are wrong to suspect evil where none exists. It is true that there is a nymph of these parts--but I had better tell you the beginning of the story. On the night of my arrival in this dell, there came to me a red-cloaked hag who prophesied like a veritable Deborah. Only one scrap of her jargon do I recollect--that Joy should come up through the Gates of Dawn. These same gates are two giant cliffs that stand sentinel at the entrance to Farbis valley. I went down for a swim next morning, and when the sun rose out of the ocean and poured his beams through this chasm, it looked not unlike the Gates of the Day. The name is a poetical one, and pretty. I can quite understand some mute inglorious Milton having so christened this natural entrance. Here I saw Joy coming up as predicted, in the person of a lovely young woman, whom I at first took to be a mermaid, but the sight of whose bare feet dispelled the illusion. I caught but a glimpse of her face, and----
Now, don't finish the sentence for me by saying I lost my heart. I did no such thing; but I own that a very clear picture of this stray Nereid is imprinted on my mind. I have not seen her since that morning, so, to convince myself that she was of mortal mould, I asked my friend the tinker about her. It seems she is the daughter of a Dr. Merle, and leads a kind of huntress-life in the woods and on the moors. Tim--my reality of the Flaming Tinman--waxed enthusiastic over her knowledge of wood-lore, her perfect swimming, her straight shooting, and various other accomplishments less feminine than masculine. He concluded by warning me not to fall in love if I did not mean to marry her. Did you ever hear such rubbish?--as though I were a wolf in disguise, on the prowl for maidens of tender years! I doubt whether I shall ever see her again, and I can only remember her as Aurora coming up through the Gates of Dawn. No! I have not the slightest wish to play the part of Tithonus, though I swear she is lovely enough to snare a less inflammable person than myself.
To speak seriously, I should like to see this girl again. She must be a very original creature to lead the life she does. I detest masculine women. Yet this Diana of Farbis piques my curiosity. Still, I shall not go out of my way to court Fate. If I meet Diana, it must be by chance; but, as I leave here in three days, I doubt whether I shall set eyes on her again. If I see her, if I fall in love with her, if I marry her, what would you say? But then, you see, I say "if"! "Much virtue in that little word," as sage Touchstone remarks.
If you remember, we jested on the probability of my meeting with a wife on my travels. What if this unknown nymph should prove to be my fate in the marriage-market? Mother Jericho, the gipsy sybil, hinted pretty strongly that she whom I met at the Gates of Dawn would become my wife. Well, I met this Diana, this Rosalind, this Meg--not Merrilies, but Merle--the doctor's daughter. There is not the slightest chance of my introducing her to you in such arôle, I assure you. I have no belief in palmistry, nor, for the matter of that, inmésalliances.
But enough of women and love and guesses at the future. I must tell you of my fight with the tinker--or, rather, I would tell you had I the genius of Homer or the pen of Lavengro. I have neither. I fought a battle with him out of sheer love of fighting. There was no ill will on either side. We simply put on the gloves for a jest, and he was as eager as I to see who was the better man. Neither of us won, so I suppose we are about equal. Some fine day I'll have another bout with him, and see if I can't come off victorious. Tim is no mean foe, I assure you.
These are all the adventures I have to tell you at present, but you must own that they are sufficiently exciting for these prosaic days. If you yawn over this letter and scoff in your superfine way at my Tinker, my Diana, my red-cloaked Witch, I will never again put pen to paper for your pleasure. If my correspondence is not so exciting as the romances of Dumas, it has at least the merit of being perfectly true, which is more than you can say for the glibly uttered lies of a thousand bragging Bobadils who have been to Africa and shot mythical elephants.
In my next letter I will narrate my departure from this place, and my touching farewells of my gipsy friends. After all, I am not sure that I won't travel with them. They are a fascinating lot, though rather in want of soap and water. I may as well play my part of vagrant thoroughly, though, I must confess, I have hitherto been a dismal failure. Evidently I have not dressed the character properly, for the most addle-headed yokel calls me "zur," and looks expectant of a shilling. I am trying to get up an accent, but it's mighty difficult. Greek, which the monks said was an invention of the devil, is easy compared with this lingo.
You can write me a letter in reply to this, addressed to "Dan, Post Office, Farbis," and I'll call for it. Dan is my travelling name. It is, I think, admirably suited to me, and I like it better than the one given to me by my godparents. Peter is quite well, and sends his love. He is having a glorious time, and actually got within a yard of a rabbit the other day. Simon is sleek and steady, and holds his tongue, which is more than I can say of Peter. And now, my friend, I must close this letter, for which you ought to be very grateful, as it is written under great difficulties, with a bad pencil, in a bad light. To keep up the spirit of the thing, I sign my travelling name, and take leave of you so.
Dan,
Proprietor of caravan, horse, and dog, at present encamped at Farbis.
P.S.--Should I meet with Diana, I will give you a full account of the interview. What she said, what I said, how we met and how we parted, and all the rest of it.
The determination of Dan to remain at Farbis did not result in any immediate reward for such aiding of Destiny. Not a glimpse did he obtain of Meg Merle, and he began to think her invisible, after the fashion of the nameless nymph in "Lamia." Sometimes he heard her singing in the distance; but, though he followed the sound of her voice, he never succeeded in casting eyes on her face. It might be that she evaded a meeting, for while searching he caught at times the echo of a laugh. Then her singing would recommence further off, and he would again be lured onward, only to be disappointed anew. She flitted through the pine wood like a spectre, and though her voice filled it with music, she was as hidden as any bird. Were she viewless Echo herself, she could not have been more invisible.
This feminine caprice angered Dan, and piqued his curiosity. He felt as though he were in a fairy wood, searching for some princess, spellbound by a powerful magician. Search as he might, the result was always the same. After a time he waxed sulky, and stayed persistently by his camp-fire, hoping that, if Destiny willed this phantom beauty to be his wife, she would come in due time into his presence. Not that he really believed in such fatalism, but the prophecy of Mother Jericho was not without a certain influence on his mind. He was of a somewhat impressionable nature, and at a rather impressionable age; so it might be that the fulfilment of one prediction led him to attach more value to the others than they deserved. Perhaps, also, he hoped to baffle Fate by remaining snug in his dell; but if so, the hope was vain, for in due course came the hour of fulfilment, and with it the woman.
In the gipsy camp he found a new phase of life which amused him exceedingly, and was not sparing of his company to the gentle Romany. No more hospitable hosts could have been found than those ragged wanderers who made the world their home. They invited him to dip into their stew-pot, danced for him by the red firelight, sang wild gipsy songs to him in unknown tongues, and, miracle of miracles, were scrupulously honest in regard to his goods and chattels. Mother Jericho and Tim in command of the tribe, were his firm friends, else he might have found these vagrants less inclined to keep their thievish fingers from his belongings. As it was, he lost not so much as a stick, and began to think that the magpie propensities of the gipsies had been somewhat overrated.
This wild life among wild people pleased him, and he found the days pass rapidly in the indulging of such simple pleasures. Every morning he rode Simon to the seashore for a matutinal swim, but never did he meet Joy in the person of Meg "coming up through the Gates of Dawn," though he kept a sharp look-out for a recurrence of the phenomenon. On his way back to camp he bought eggs and milk and bread, so as to lay in a stock of provisions for the day. For the rest of the golden hours he philandered about the woods in chase of that invisible mockery, or paid an idle visit to gipsydom. When all other pleasures palled, he sat smoking in the sunshine and read "Lavengro." The book never failed to enchain his fancy.
On the fourth day, so restless is human nature, he began to weary of dell, of gipsies, of his own company, even of the book of books. A spirit of wandering seized on him fiercely, and this nostalgia of the road made him think seriously of once more putting Simon between the shafts of his caravan. There was nothing to see in the slatternly village, and comparatively little to interest him on the moors. Had he brought a gun, he might have sought relief in shooting rabbits, of which there were plenty about. But having no gun, he simply idled on the heath and set Peter after the bunnies, a task to which the terrier was by no means averse. But never by any chance did Peter catch a rabbit.
It was during one of these excursions that he fell in again with Meg Merle. Looking down on Farbis Vale, and wondering how its people managed to support such isolation, he saw a rabbit scuttle past his feet. The next moment there was a sharp report, and it rolled over with a piteous squeal. Startled by the danger of the shot, and congratulating himself that Peter was safe, Dan turned round sharply to remonstrate with the reckless sportsman. The next moment, with cap in hand, he was bowing before Diana of Farbis.
Evidently she had just returned from a shooting excursion, for two dead rabbits hung at her girdle, and she advanced to pick up the third. In a short dress of rough serge, a cap of the same material, gaiters and boots, she presented a somewhat uncommon appearance--rather masculine, to speak the truth, but on the whole not unpleasing. Dan thought of Di Vernon, of Atalanta, of the Lady of the Lake, and mythical Artemis, but in his heart acknowledged that none could have been so fair as she whom he beheld.
She was in the spring of womanhood, a very Hebe for girlish grace, a very type of incarnate purity. Her face was one of those provoking countenances winch baffle description. Can one hope, by stringing together items of grey eyes, red lips, rosy cheek, or pearly teeth, to describe the looks of a fair woman? As soon expect poetry in an auctioneer's catalogue. The soul looking out of the clear eyes, the piquant expression of the curved lip, the ineffable charm of virginal purity,--who can hope to analyze such things? Not Dan, for one. Without attempting to reduce the component parts of this loveliness to dry facts, he simply stared spellbound at this fresh girlhood. Rosy as the dawn, full of life as a young roe, instinct with vitality and grace, she was like some beautiful wild creature of the woods. One such as the Greeks feigned haunted springs as nymphs, and boles of trees as dryads.
Their eyes met as he took off his cap, in homage at once to beauty and purity and womanhood. Her looks charmed his eye and struck hard at his heart, as to capture it in one dash. She spoke first, and turned the dream to reality.
"What do 'ee want messing about this yer plaace?" said the dream-maiden with the broadest accent. "It be 'mazing theng aw didn't shoot 'ee."
With great self-control Dan managed to suppress the exclamation of surprise which arose involuntarily to his lips. That this fairy princess, this invisible nymph, this phantom of delight, should speak the coarse country dialect, came on him like a douche of cold water. He gasped and stared, and opened his mouth without speaking. The reaction was too terrible for mere speech.
"Whoy doan't 'ee saay summat?" demanded the girl, with a twinkle in her eye. "Bean't 'ee----"
"Don't," murmured Dan, faintly--"don't speak. It's too horrible!"
To his surprise she began to laugh gaily, and when her hilarity had somewhat subsided, addressed him in the purest English with a noticeably refined accent.
"You do not care for our country way of talking," said she, putting a rebellious curl in its place.
"Not from your lips," he answered, after recovering from his second shock. "Who cares to hear Venus mouth the Scythian tongue?"
She looked puzzled at the grandiloquence of this speech, and shifted her gun to the other arm. Dan saw that she was surveying him with the deepest interest, and, being a modest young man, blushed at such persistent scrutiny.
"So you are the gentleman who fought with Tim?"
"I am the vagrant who fought with the tinker," corrected Dan, smiling. "Why do you call me gentleman?"
"Because Sir Alurde Breel was a gentleman, and you are just like him."
"Indeed! I am much flattered by the comparison. Does Sir Alurde Breel live in these parts?"
"He did, but died three hundred years ago," replied Meg, dryly. "His picture is in the gallery at Farbis Court. He is an ancestor of the present Lord Ardleigh who owns the Court."
"Does his lordship live there?"
"No! He is in London, I believe. Farbis Court is let to Miss Linisfarne. But these things do not interest you. Please pick up that rabbit."
"You have had bad sport to-day," said Dan, hastening to obey this order.
"Very bad! Still I have three rabbits to take home. Would you like one?"
"I adore rabbit stew, Miss Merle."
"Then keep that last one I shot. I see you know my name."
"I do! Tinker Tim told me all about you."
Meg frowned and then laughed. Her mirth was very musical.
"Tim has a very long tongue, Mr. Dan."
"Don't call me Mr. Dan."
"Then don't you call me Miss Merle!" she said saucily.
"Everybody else does," said Dan, unwilling to take advantage of such innocence; "and you see I can hardly call you Meg. I am a stranger to you."
"Oh no! I have heard all about you from Tim and Mother Jericho. Besides, you are so like Sir Alurde that I seem to know you quite well."
"A thousand blessings on the resemblance. I shall at once take advantage of your kind permission. Do you go often to Farbis Court--Meg?"
"Very often, Dan. Miss Linisfarne is very kind to me."
"Oh, the lady who lives at the Court in place of its owner! Where is Lord Ardleigh?"
"In London, I believe," she said rather contemptuously. "I have no doubt he is one of those finical fine gentlemen of whom Miss Linisfarne talks."
"That is not a flattering portrait," said Dan, smiling.
"Probably not; but I have no doubt it is a true one."
"Are you sure of that, Miss Merle?"
"I told you I am not Miss Merle, Mr. Dan."
"Then address me as Dan, if you want me to be less formal."
"Of course I shall call you Dan," said she, opening her eyes in feigned surprise. "What else should I call you?"
"Sir Alurde!"
Meg laughed at this sally. They were getting very friendly, much to Dan's delight. All at once, as though recollecting herself, she ceased laughing and made as if to go. Dan stepped eagerly forward.
"Let me carry your gun, Meg."
"What for? I can carry it myself," she replied bluntly.
"I would rather relieve you of the burden."
"Very well, Dan. Take those other two rabbits; but I'll carry my own gun, thank you. What queer ideas you have! Just like those of Miss Linisfarne."
"Does she carry your burdens?" asked Dan, gravely.
They were now walking down the winding road to the village.
"I should think not," replied Meg, laughing at the bare idea. "But you have the same manners as she has."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Oh no! It is the truth. My father is not at all like you, nor is Mr. Jarner, the vicar. I have never seen any one like you," she finished, looking at him with great interest.
"Not even Sir Alurde?"
"Oh, don't talk any more of that picture, or I shall be sorry I spoke of it."
She was quite unsophisticated, and frankly uttered the thoughts that came into her mind. Hence the flimsy dialogue which ensued between them. Dan, unused to such candour, could not help feeling charmed at the purity of the soul thus laid bare to his gaze.
"I saw you at the Gates of Dawn," said she, with an evident desire to change the subject. "Were you not very shocked at my appearing with bare feet?"
"I was charmed."
"Nonsense, Dan! It was an accident. I was swimming, and the tide carried away my shoes and stockings. I did not mind it much till I saw you. Then I felt dreadfully ashamed."
"Why should you? 'Beauty unadorned is adorned the most!'"
"You speak like Sir Charles Grandison," said Meg, with a blush at the compliment.
"Ah! you have read that book?"
"Yes. I like it very much. Miss Linisfarne has many old novels in her library, but she will not let me read all of them."
"It is best to rely on her taste," said Dan, not relishing the idea of this innocent reading Richardson's contemporaries. "Are you fond of reading?"
"Not very. I prefer fishing or shooting."
"Who taught you to fish and shoot?"
"Tim and Parson Jarner. You don't know him, do you? He's a dear old man, and so fond of dogs and horses."
"Rather peculiar tastes for a clergyman."
"Why so?"
She opened her eyes wide at his remark, and as he had no wish to be the first to teach her worldly wisdom, Dan dismissed the subject.
"Never mind," said he, ambiguously; "I'll tell you another time. Don't you find it dull here?"
"Not at all! Why should I? There is always plenty to do. I swim and ride, and fish and shoot. I go across the moors with Parson Jarner; and I visit Miss Linisfarne two or three times a week. Besides, there are many things in the pine woods to give me pleasure."
"What kind of things?"
"Birds, and beasts, and spiders, and flowers. If you have sharp eyes, you can see all manner of queer things."
"A female Jefferies!" thought Dan; then aloud, "You must teach me your woodcraft. I cannot see the marvels you describe."
"How strange! Yes, I'll teach you with pleasure. I shall come to your dell and look at your caravan. Now we must part, Dan. My father expects me home."
"You won't forget your promise," said he, clasping her hand.
"No; I'll come when I can. Goodbye, Dan."
"Goodbye, Meg."
And then they parted. But one, at least, looked forward eagerly to their next meeting. Needless to say, that one was Dan.