"The third meeting will be fatal," said Dan to himself as he climbed the hill. "At the first I liked her beauty; now I am charmed with her innocence and candour. When I meet her for the third time, it may be a case of love."
It was indeed astonishing how persistently the face and speech of Meg haunted his mind. She was so unconscious of her own beauty, so free from affectation, that he could not help admiring her simplicity of character. He was not of a particularly inflammable nature, and hitherto had shut his heart to the allurements of the other sex. The ladies with whom he was acquainted, though refined in every sense of the word, annoyed him by their persistent artificiality and their insincerity. But this wild rose was free from such taints, and in her conversation she displayed perfect candour. To Dan she was like the inhabitant of another planet, and she had for him all the charm of novelty. Without being a prophet, he could foresee that a few weeks in her company would chain him for ever to her side. She was ignorant of her power to do this, and in such unconsciousness lay a goodly portion of her fascination. In sober earnest, the girl puzzled him. By her own confession, she haunted the hills from morning till night, and by rights should be an uncouth creature, a female barbarian. Yet her accent and manners were both refined, and she had an evident acquaintance with literature, though not of the newest. Dan supposed that she owed such culture and polish as she possessed to Miss Linisfarne; but if that lady took an interest in her, he could not understand why she permitted the girl to roam the moors and woods at will. It was certain that Meg was in no way conscious of her own beauty, or she would have taken better care of her appearance, her dress, and her complexion. She apparently cared nothing for these things, and let the sun brown her face and the brambles scratch her hands without giving the matter a thought. Such negligence was not without its charm.
After that second meeting, Dan made up his mind to see her again; but though he watched the whole of the next day, he caught not a glimpse of his charmer. He had no excuse for calling on Dr. Merle, else he might have taken advantage of it, and so passed at least a few minutes by her side. It then struck him that Mother Jericho might know her haunts, and he was on his way to the gipsy encampment for the purpose of inquiry, when Fate provided him with an excuse for calling at the doctor's house. On the path through the pine wood he picked up a red coral necklace which he had noticed her wearing. She had doubtless lost it on one of her excursions.
"Good!" said Dan, slipping it into his pocket; "with this I can call on Dr. Merle and find out more about the huntress. If I introduce myself to the father, he may ask me to renew my visit, though I'm afraid my position does not warrant such a hope. However, I'll try; at least, I shall see her again."
Contrary to her promise, Meg had not been near the dell, so Dan supposed that she had told her father of the invitation, and had been forbidden to accept it. When he saw Dr. Merle, this idea was dispelled. No one had less influence over his daughter than her surviving parent. But Dan did not come to this conclusion for some weeks.
The doctor's house was built of grey stone, and placed as it was among the sombre pines, looked singularly funereal. It was not even enclosed by a fence, nor was there the slightest attempt at cultivating a garden. There it stood, square and gloomy, as though dropped suddenly into that savage solitude. It could be easily seen that the owner had no care for his surroundings.
"If the father is so careless, I do not wonder that the daughter is allowed to run wild," murmured Dan, as he came in sight of this mausoleum.
There was no bell, and though he knocked hard at the door, it was quite five minutes before it opened. A bent old man, dressed in dingy black, appeared, and, on being questioned, intimated in a surly voice that Meg was at the Court.
"Is Dr. Merle in?"
"A' be sleeping," was the crabbed response.
"Then wake him and say that I wish to see him," said Dan, enraged at this uncivil reception. "Don't close the door till you have delivered my message."
Somewhat startled by this determined bearing, so different to that of the meek Farbis folk, the surly Cerberus shuffled away, and returned in a few minutes with the information that the doctor would receive him in his study. Dan followed his guide, who led him into a dark apartment like a cell, and, pushing him in, the man shut the door as though to prevent his escape.
"Well, what is it?" said a querulous voice at the other end of the room. "Why do you come at this hour? Don't you know it is my time for sleeping?"
"Sleeping at three o'clock!" said Dan, with great astonishment.
There was a rustle in the darkness, and a little man came forward. He did not recognize the voice, but guessing from its refinement that his visitor was a gentleman, he pulled up the blind to see who had thus roused him. A pale light filtered in through the dirty windowpanes, and Dan saw before him a small and neatly made person clothed in a ragged dressing-gown and carpet slippers. He was still handsome, and not more than fifty years of age, but his waxen skin had an unhealthy appearance, as though in want of fresh air and sunlight. His black hair and beard, both streaked with grey, were dishevelled, and his brown eyes had a vacant expression, as though his thoughts were far away. Altogether he did not look the kind of man likely to cure a sick person. Dan towered above him, and as he considered the little figure and the darkened room, he was reminded of Stanley's account of the African pygmies in their sunless forest.
It took Dr. Merle some time to grasp the fact that his visitor was a stranger, and he peered curiously at him, with one little hand raking his untidy beard. So long did he look without speaking, that Dan felt rather embarrassed, and hardly knew how to begin a conversation. Merle saved him the trouble by speaking first.
"Who are you?" he asked, still in the same querulous voice. "What do you want here? Physic?"
"Never took a drop of physic in my life, sir," answered Dan, good-humouredly. "As to my name, it is Dan."
"Dan what?"
"Dan nothing," responded the other, with great coolness--"simply Dan. I am camping in the pinewood dell up yonder, and there I picked up this necklace. I think it belongs to your daughter."
Dr. Merle took the corals and turned them over in a dazed fashion. He seemed to be half asleep, and started peevishly when his visitor's hearty voice rang through the room. The man's nervous system was out of order.
"It is Miss Merle's, is it not?"
"Yes, yes; thank you for bringing it back. I have no doubt she would say the same herself, but that she is with Miss Linisfarne at Farbis Court."
"In that case I need not wait," said Dan, turning his back.
The doctor stopped him before he could reach the door.
"Don't go yet. I see so few people. I should like to have a talk with you."
Seeing a chance of gaining information about Meg, the young man, nothing loth, sat down. His face was to the light, and Merle, who had shrunk back into the shadow, eyed him curiously.
"You are not a common man," he said nervously.
"That depends upon what you call common, sir. I certainly don't swear or get drunk, or wear my hat while in the house, or----"
"Yes, yes! I understand all that. But you are travelling for pleasure?"
"That's so, sir."
"An American?" asked the doctor, noting the last reply.
Dan laughed. "No," he said; "but I have been in the States. No doubt I have picked up a few flowers of American speech."
"In short, you are a gentleman masquerading under the name of Dan?"
"I don't think I am bound to answer that question," replied the other, with marked significance.
Merle apologized at once. "Forgive me for being so curious. I do not seek to know your secret, but my daughter Margaret was talking about you, and I wondered who you were."
"I hope Miss Merle is well," said Dan, evading a direct reply.
"She is never ill. Strong as a young colt. That comes of her open-air life."
"Do you think it is quite safe for her to wander on these moors alone?"
"Of course I do! Every one knows her. I should be sorry for the man who insulted Meg. She can hold her own. Why do you laugh?"
"It seems such a strange up-bringing for a young lady."
"True, true!" muttered the little doctor, with a frown; "but what can I do? I am very poor. I make barely enough to live. I can do nothing--nothing."
"But Miss Linisfarne might; she is a rich old maid with no relatives."
"Miss Linisfarne!" said Merle, in tones of deep sorrow.
"Yes, she might adopt her."
Dan said the words carelessly enough, and was quite unprepared for their effect on his host. Merle sprang out of his seat. He had grown deadly white, and he seized Dan's arm with a shaking hand. He looked like a man thoroughly terrified, and could hardly articulate a word.
"Did--did Tim the Tinker--say--say--anything?"
"What do you mean?" asked Dan, with surprise.
Merle looked at him steadily for a moment, and then turned away, wiping his forehead with a hankerchief.
"It's all right," Dan overheard him mutter; "he knows nothing--nothing."
The visitor began to think his host mad or drunk, and arose smartly to his feet for the second time. Again Merle stopped him.
"No, no! Don't go yet. I am subject to these--these attacks." Then, with a sudden burst of hospitality, "Won't you have a glass of wine?"
Dan's eyes wandered towards the writing-table, on which stood a decanter apparently containing wine.
"Not that--not that," muttered Merle, hastily putting it in a cupboard; "that is medicine for my attacks."
He averted his face from Dan, but the young man had already guessed his secret. Shaking hand, glazed eye, retiring manner,--the inference to be drawn from these was only too plain. Dr. Merle was a laudanum-drinker, and the decanter so hurriedly removed contained the fatal drug.
"No, thank you, doctor; I will not take any wine," he said, disgusted with this discovery. "I must be off at once. Give my respects and the necklace to Miss Merle."
"You'll come again?"
"Certainly, in a day or so. Goodbye for the present."
With a sigh of relief, he found himself again in the open air, and looked back at the dismal house with a shudder.
"Poor girl!" he sighed, thinking of Meg; "what can she do with a father like that? A laudanum-drinker--a dreamer of dreams--a nervous fool. How, in the name of Nature, did he ever come to have that splendid creature as his child? I don't wonder she wanders about the hills. Anything would be better than that dark room and its unwholesome occupant."
When he returned to his camp and had despatched his midday meal, Dan had a meditative smoke. There was no chance of his being interrupted, as Tinker Tim had gone on business to a neighbouring hamlet, and Mother Jericho was confined to her tent with rheumatism. It was just as well that he was left to his own thoughts, as he wished to think out the position in which he now found himself. Dan was a very masterful and practical person, and when he came to the conclusion that anything was wrong, always wished to remedy it at once. Not long after he left Merle's house, he decided that there was something very wrong indeed in the parish of Farbis, and that the something was connected with Meg.
Recalling his conversations with Mother Jericho, Tinker Tim, and the doctor, it seemed to him as though they all had more or less of an understanding with one another. He was satisfied that the gipsies did not know him, and yet it appeared strange that they should be so friendly. Mother Jericho had prophesied that he should meet his fate at the Gates of Dawn. The very next morning he met with Meg. After his fight with Tim, that pugilist had remarked ambiguously, "None other shall have her;" and reading this mystical utterance by the light of recent events, Dan decided that it referred to Meg. Lastly, when he suggested that Miss Linisfarne should adopt the girl, Merle had come out with that curious remark anent Tinker Tim. Taking all these things into consideration, Dan saw a connection between them which seemed to hint at some mystery regarding Meg. This being the case, he also, from the promptings of his heart and the utterances of the gipsies, was implicated in some way unknown to himself.
"They can't possibly know who I am," he said, filling a fresh pipe; "no one but Jack knew of my idea of the caravan. I don't suppose those carriage-builders would say a word. If, then, the old man and the tinker only know me as 'Dan,' why are they always hinting and talking about Meg? So far as I can see, they wish me to marry the girl, but for what reason? Merle has an understanding with these vagrants, or he would not have mentioned Tim. And why did he turn pale when I suggested Miss Linisfarne as an adopted mother? There's something wrong here, I'm certain; but what it is I can't make out."
He eyed Peter in an absent manner, and Peter, meeting his eye, began to slink off, thinking he had done something wrong. Dan raised himself with a laugh at Peter's fears, and called back the conscience-smitten terrier.
"Come here, you fool dog," he said, catching him by the scruff of the neck; "I wish to talk to you. Sit up and cross your paws, sir."
Peter, noting a twinkle in his master's eyes, sat up laboriously and stared meekly in front of him. Having thus procured a listener, Dan addressed him, emphasizing his remarks with the stem of his pipe.
"Peter," said he solemnly, "I am very much afraid that I take a greater interest in Diana of Farbis than is advisable. I am not in love with her, because a man of thirty is scarcely fool enough to fall in love with a woman he has only seen twice. But I take an interest in her, Peter, because I pity her wasted life. And if you think pity is akin to love, Peter, you think wrongly. This is a matter of head and heart. We had intended to go away to-morrow, Peter; but I have decided to stay and find out what all this is about. I don't like mysterious gipsies hatching plots against me, and prophesying me into marriage. You and I, Peter, will turn detectives, and ferret out the meaning of these things. Therefore, Peter, as a first step we will go into the village and listen to public opinion concerning Dr. Merle and his daughter. The audience is at an end, you rascal, so sit down."
Peter dropped like a shot and yawned. He did not understand a word of this long speech. How could he? There was not a word about bones in it from beginning to end. When Dan put on his cap and picked up his stick, the actions were more intelligible to Peter than the previous words, and he whirled frantically before Dan in token of his delight at the prospect of a walk. Simon only tossed his head and looked. He had been down to the seashore that morning, and took no interest in anything save grass. Having thus ascertained the feelings of his four-footed friends, Dan cast a farewell glance around to see that everything was in good order, and strode off, followed by the barking terrier.
All that afternoon Dan pottered about the village. He talked to stray labourers of crops and weather, artfully leading the conversation round to the gentry question; he gossiped with voluble women, on the plea of seeking a laundress for his linen, and learned indirectly their opinion of the doctor. It did not appear to be a very high one.
"Th' ould doctor bean't nowt but a sleepy-head," they said contemptuously. "'A ain't vit vur nowt. 'A gits oop, 'a lies down--aw ain't niver no good. That 'a bean't!"
From which speeches Dan gathered that Dr. Merle was not highly prized as a physician in Farbis. He stayed in his dismal house and soddened himself with laudanum. His patients resented the little interest he took in them, and proclaimed their views boisterously in broad rural dialect. It took all Dan's time to fathom the meaning of some of their words.
In process of time he drifted into the Red Deer, more to quench his thirst than for any other reason, but found an unexpected mine of information in the landlord. That worthy brought him a tankard of ale with a jolly smile, and when Dan mentioned casually that he had been to see the doctor, burst out with unlimited information.
"'A has nowt, zur," said the host; "'a stuck-up un, 'a be."
"Is he a good doctor?"
"Aw yis! 'A be mazing clivir, but thur bean't no use fur un; folk doan't git ill here. Look at t' doctor's lass, measter. She be vine an' strong."
"Yes; a splendid-looking girl! Is she not a great friend of Miss Linisfarne?"
The landlord nodded, and went into a long story about Miss Linisfarne's kindness to Meg. How Dr. Merle had neglected his daughter to shut himself up in seclusion, and how the lady at the Court had taken upon herself to look after the neglected girl. Mr. Jarner, the parson, was also mentioned by the host as one who had interested himself in the matter. He knew more about the gentry than any one else, and had been rector of the place for over a quarter of a century.
Dan cut short the landlord's eloquence by asking where he could see Mr. Jarner and have a chat with him. He was directed to the vicarage, which was on the other side of the church, and, thinking that it would be as well to have an intelligent person to talk with, went off to seek the rustic divine.
Farbis Church and graveyard were much neglected. The long grass grew nearly as high as the weather-stained tombs, and these in many cases had fallen down. The tower was in a most dilapidated condition, and though it had a clock and Chimes, the first had stopped and the second were silent. An air of mournful decay pervaded the whole place, and it could be easily seen that the present incumbent was not an energetic man. Certainly the place itself was not conducive to work.
Not being pressed for time, Dan did not immediately repair to the vicarage, but sauntered idly through the churchyard, reading the quaint epitaphs, and watching the swallows wheeling round the hoary tower. Judging from the grass-grown pathway from lych-gate to porch, the Farbis folk did not come often to their devotions. The whole village--its wretchedness, its somnolence, its isolation--was typified by the shabby church. It was as though the place had gone to sleep in the Middle Ages, and had not yet been wakened by the tumult of the nineteenth century. Such infinite dreariness made Dan feel wretched.
Not being able to take Peter inside the church, he set him to guard his cap in the porch by way of keeping him quiet. It may be here stated that the front of this cap--which was not the one he usually wore--was embroidered with the arms of Magdalen College, Oxford. Considering his pretence of vagrancy, it was foolish for Dan to decorate himself with so damning a piece of evidence regarding his worldly position. Nevertheless, being busied with his new thoughts of a possible conspiracy, he unthinkingly snatched up the cap before leaving the dell, and thus set Peter to watch it at the church door. Such negligence led to his undoing, and he recognized his carelessness when it was too late.
Quite unaware of what awaited him, he examined the interior of the church, and found it in a similar condition to the graveyard. There were one or two painted windows and a finely carved reredos, but the first were broken in several places, and the second was spoilt by the damp. As usual, there was a collection of mouldy old tombs, which Dan, for reasons of his own, examined with great interest. Among them he found a crusading ancestor of Lord Ardleigh, carved in alabaster, with crossed legs and a formidable sword. Beside him lay Joan, his wife, with prayerful hands and monstrous head-dress. Faded scutcheons bedecked the worn sides of the tomb, and a long Latin oration, which nobody had the patience to decipher, set forth the many virtues of the deceased pair. Poor dead folks, resting so quietly in that dreary church, who thinks of you now?
Afterwards Dan explored the leper chapel near the high altar, where those wretched pariahs heard the blessed mutter of the mass through a chink in the wall. The lepers were gone now, as were crusading lord and lady, and the high altar itself with its gold and silver and tall candles. A plain deal table, covered with a red cloth, whereon were set a cross and two bunches of flowers, did duty for the communion-table. The Vicar of Farbis was evidently in sympathy with Low Church doctrines, for there was no attempt at the sweeping or cleansing or garnishing of the house of prayer.
From the contemplation of these melancholy things he was called to the porch by the furious barking of dogs. He recognized Peter's voice, and knew that the terrier was in trouble. At the door he found a large burly man thrashing two fox-terriers who had attacked Peter. It was a task of some difficulty, for all three dogs were determined to enjoy themselves. At length Dan picked up Peter by the scruff of the neck, and, assisted by the burly man, kicked away the assailants. When quiet was restored, the two had leisure to examine one another. At a glance Dan recognized the parson, and saw with dismay that he was holding that tell-tale cap with the Magdalen badge.
The Rev. Stephen Jarner was tall and ponderous, with a red face and heavy jowl. To the waist he was a parson in orthodox collar, hat, and coat, but his nether limbs, invested in breeches and high boots, had a decidedly sporting appearance. He was a parson of the old school, fond of a good glass of wine and a well-spread board, but still fonder of dogs and horses. A hunting-crop was tucked under his arm, and the fox-terriers, eyeing Peter in Dan's embrace, sat at the feet of their clerical master. Dan was much amused at the group.
"Here's a character," he thought. "A doctor addicted to opium, a pair of gipsies, a recluse lady, a lovely huntress, and a sporting parson. Decidedly I have got among queer folk!"
In his hand this remarkable-looking cleric still held Dan's cap. He looked at the badge and nodded his head towards the young man in a friendly fashion.
"So you are a Magdalen man, sir," said he, in a full rich voice. "I too am of that college.Et ego in Arcadia fui. 'Addison's Walk' by the Cher is dear to me."
Dan took his cap with a smile. The badge had unmasked him as an Oxonian, so that he could no longer pass himself off as cheap-jack of the caravan.
"Yes, I belonged to Magdalen, sir," he owned up, stepping out of the porch and covering his head. "Had you not seen this, I would not tell you so much. I am in a different walk of life at present, Mr. Jarner, and my name is Dan."
The clergyman looked at him with a slightly satirical expression on his full lips, and nodded. He quite understood the significance of the speech.
"Keep your secret, friend Dan. I too have heard the chimes at midnight. You are at a frolicsome age, and why should not a man play the fool when the blood sings in his veins? But within reason--within reason."
"Pagan sentiments, Mr. Jarner."
"Pish, my dear sir! The sentiments of every healthy-minded man. So you are Dan? I have heard of you and of your caravan in the dell. Come across and crack a bottle with me."
"What! port at four o'clock in the afternoon, and after the Red Deer ale? Do you take me for a four-bottle man, sir?"
Jarner cracked his whip at the dogs, who all three set up a barking chorus. Bent upon offering hospitality, he was not to be daunted by the first refusal.
"Then I'll give you good ale. That won't hurt you. By St. Beorl who built this church, I must have a chat with you. For thirty years I have been buried here, and not once have I met with a student of my old college. This day shall be marked with a white stone. That is Horace, sir, but I won't give you the Latin of it, as my classics, like my manners, have become somewhat rusty."
Considerably diverted by the speech of this hospitable divine, Dan accepted the invitation, and they walked across to the vicarage. The door was wide open, and, followed by the dogs (who evidently had the right of entry), Jarner led his guest into a snug little room filled with old-fashioned furniture. There was a wide casement, in the depths of which was a parlour seat. The fireplace was large and old-fashioned, the shelves round the walls were filled with books in a more or less tattered condition, and there was a mahogany table ringed over with the bottoms of tumblers. Evidently that table had seen some hard drinking in the long winter nights. Over all there was a jovial air of untidy hospitality. Even before he spoke, Dan guessed that his new friend was unmarried. That parlour was eloquent of the absence of the female element at the vicarage.
"Bachelor Hall, sir," said the parson, casting hat and hunting-crop into a corner. "Sit in that chair by the window. It is the most comfortable, and is only permitted to be used by favoured guests."
"And why am I thus favoured?" replied Dan, dropping into a chair.
"Because you are a nursling of Magdalen, sir," thundered the divine, with a laugh on his jolly red face. "There is Alma Mater herself over the fireplace--the quadrangle, and the tower askew. Ah me!" continued he, shaking his head pensively at the picture, "what days those were thirty years ago! Where are all the good fellows with whom I consorted in the time when Plancus was consul, and still---- But here comes the ale, Dan! Let me froth you a tankard, and we'll drink to the old college, sir, and to our better acquaintance."
Not feeling equal to the task of emptying the silver pot presented to him, Dan bravely drank half, but Jarner did not set down his tankard till it was empty. Then he sighed, thumped himself with vigour, and nodded towards the mantelpiece.
"Try a churchwarden," said he, persuasively.
"Thank you, sir, I'll stick to my briar," answered Dan; and each having chosen his pipe, they smoked amicably together.
"Briars smoke sweet," observed the former, using his little finger as a stopper, "but to my mind they don't come up to a churchwarden. I always smoke churchwardens, for," he added, with a twinkle in his little eyes, "being a clergyman, it is but right that I should affect a pipe with a clerical name."
As in duty bound, Dan laughed at the old gentleman's joke, and then began to put cautious questions with a view to finding out all he could about Meg and her father. Jarner was very communicative, and replied frankly. The discovery that Dan was an Oxonian like himself warmed his heart towards the young fellow, and he did not regard him quite in the light of a stranger, though he knew nothing about him. Dan might have been an unconscionable scamp, and Jarner would not have seen through him. He was a simple, kindly old fellow, in spite of his strong ale and terriers and bluster. See, then, what freemasonry there is in Oxonianism. A coined word is necessary here, as no other can adequately describe the parson's attitude towards the tramp.
"You have lived here for thirty years, Mr. Jarner?"
"For thirty years, sir. I have charge of three parishes within a radius of twenty miles, and ride over to preach in one of them every second and third Sunday; the first I keep for Farbis."
"How do the people live in this outlandish place?"
"By weaving. Have you not seen the looms at work in the cottages?"
"Well, yes; but I did not----"
"See how inobservant is youth!" laughed Jarner, filling himself another tankard. "Don't be alarmed at my thirst, young man. I have been in the saddle for five hours to-day, over the hills at Silkon, where I met a friend of yours."
"Indeed! I didn't know I had friends here."
"Pooh! What about Tinker Tim? He is a warm admirer of you, sir, and thinks you a pretty light-weight fighter. Tim gave me a description of your battle in the dell. It was glorious--glorious! I should like to have been present."
"Come to my camp, then, and I'll put on the gloves with you."
"Not me--not me!" said Parson Jarner, wagging his large head. "Too old; and besides, I'm a vicar--must respect the cloth, young man!"
"Well, to continue about Farbis. How do they get their bales of cloth away?"
"There's a road over the hills by Farbis Court. The weavers here are a poor lot, and an infernally irreligious set. God forgive me for swearing!"
"They seem healthy enough."
"Oh yes 1 The air is good. They don't bother the doctor much."
"Dr. Merle! I saw him the other day."
Jarner faced round suddenly with a grave look on his face.
"What do you think of him?" he asked doubtfully.
"I think it is a pity he doesn't take example by De Quincey, and put away that decanter."
"Oh, you saw that, did you? You have sharp eyes, young man. Yes, yes! it's a great pity. I've tried to break him off that laudanum-drinking, but it's no use; the man's a slave to the vice. I've straightened him out a dozen times, and he always doubles up again. Lord forbid that I should speak ill of my fellow-creatures, but Richard Merle's a poor white mouse of a creature!"
"It is more than his daughter is."
"Ta, ta! Hey! Have you met her?"
"Two or three days ago."
"She is a fine girl, sir. As honest and simple as can be. I am a hardened old bachelor, Dan, but my heart aches for the future of that poor creature."
"Her father----"
"Pooh, pooh! Tush! Don't talk to me, sir. He is worse than useless. The girl would have been ruined body and soul had she trusted to his fatherly care. I can say, without praising myself and Miss Linisfarne, that we have done our best for her. She is a noble creature, sir," continued the parson, vehemently, "and should be the mother of brave men and chaste women. But there, there! in this waste corner of the earth who is there to mate with her?"
He sighed and finished his beer, then continued his speech after such pause.
"I have often thought of asking Miss Linisfarne to take the lass to London and aid her to----"
"No, no!" interrupted Dan, smartly, "do not let her go to town. A season would spoil her. It would destroy her charm of simplicity and candour. Believe me, my dear Mr. Jarner, it is best to let this woodland flower bloom here, and not to thrust it into the hothouse of an artificial civilization."
"You take a great interest in the young lady, sir," said Jarner, dryly.
"Do you think so, sir? It is pure philanthropy on my part, I assure you."
Jarner looked steadily at him, but Dan met his eyes with so frank a face that he seemed satisfied of the young man's intentions. Nevertheless he tapped his breast meaningly.
"Don't lose that, sir! Take care--take care!"
"If you mean my heart, Mr. Jarner, there is no danger of my being so foolish. I can look after myself, and so can she. But to speak in a more general way--do you know if Dr. Merle has any dealings with Tim the Tinker?"
"No, I can't say that I do. Why do you couple their names together, young man?"
Dan meditated a few moments before replying. He was not prepared to communicate his suspicions to Jarner until he knew more about him. Unlike the confiding country divine, this haunter of cities was more cautious in unfolding himself to a new acquaintance.
"I cannot answer your question at present, Mr. Jarner," he said at length, with some hesitancy; "but if you will do me the honour to visit my camp, I will explain myself, and ask your opinion on a certain matter."
"Does it concern Meg?" asked Jarner, rendered serious by this speech.
"Yes; it concerns Meg and--myself. No! pray don't ask me if I am in love with her. To-morrow I will tell you all."
"At what hour shall I come?"
"Say at noon. I am generally alone at that hour."
Jarner accepted the invitation, and shook hands with his strange guest. Politeness forbade him to ask questions, else he might have done so. The whole tone of Dan's conversation was so mysterious that the simple gentleman was greatly puzzled and disturbed.
The house built on the side of the hill was a dreary-looking place, standing in a park of no very great extent. Gloomy pine-woods rose above it, and the grounds appertaining to the mansion stretched below in a gentle slope towards the village. So sheltered was the park from sea-winds by reason of the depression of the ground, that therein flourished quite a forest in wild luxuriance. Oak, and sycamore, and beech, and elm, all lifted their giant boughs in the genial atmosphere, and formed a wood round the Court similar to that said to have environed the palace of the Sleeping Beauty. It was almost as impenetrable, and quite as wild in growth.
Here the fecundation of Nature went on incessantly, unrestrained by the hand of man. Nothing was kept within bounds; so, untended and untouched, the forest--for, though of limited extent, it could be called by no other name--relapsed into its wild state. The trees crowded so thickly together that they almost excluded the sunlight. Parasites grew unchecked round the aged boles; wan grasses, uncoloured by the sun, sprang high and thick; while groves of saplings made the wood well-nigh impassable. Wild creatures dwelt in the undergrowth, undisturbed by sportsman or poacher, and overhead flocks of birds made the forest musical from sunrise to sunset. Here and there spread stagnant pools of water, choked with weeds, and almost hidden by broad-leaved lilies. And there were winding paths, overgrown with moss and grass, blocked by fallen tree-trunks, and barred to the most resolute pioneer by brushwood and tangled briars. Desolation ruled supreme throughout the deserted domain.
From the rusty iron gates at the termination of the avenue up to the house itself stretched this jungle, and egress could only be obtained by means of the carriage-drive, which was in fairly good repair. Woods, and lawns, and flowerbeds, and paths were allowed to go to rack and ruin. For half a century Nature had done as she liked, with the result that Farbis Park became a wilderness. Only in tropical Africa could such savagery be paralleled.
Nor was the house much better as regards care. Its long façade of red brick was reared on a substructure of terraces, whence wide flights of steps led downward to neglected lawn and gloomy forest. The trees had almost pushed their way to the balustrade of the terrace, and looked as though anxious to stifle the mansion in their close embrace. There were ranges of staring windows, turrets and gables and towers, sloping roofs and twisted chimney-stacks. Moss grew in the chinks of the bricks, many of the windows were broken, and here and there a crazy shutter swung noisily by one hinge. The coat of arms over the porch was mouldering and defaced; the steps leading to the iron-bound door were broken and timeworn. But that smoke issued from the chimneys in the daytime, and that lights gleamed from the windows by night, one would have deemed the great mansion uninhabited. Yet Miss Linisfarne dwelt therein. But her existence was one of more than conventual seclusion, and she herself decayed with the decaying woods and house.
Long since had the Farbis folk ceased to wonder who she was, and why she had buried herself in so lonely a dwelling. Many of the villagers remembered that stormy December day, more than twenty years ago, when a travelling carriage crossed the moors, and brought a handsome young woman to that ill-omened house. From the time she arrived at Farbis, Miss Linisfarne had never left it again, but dwelt at the Court in solitary state, unfriended, almost unvisited. Parson Jarner and Meg were alone permitted to cross her threshold. No villager was invited to the kitchen of Farbis Court, nor did the servants mix with those who dwelt without the gates. It was surmised that there was some mystery connected with the persistent seclusion of Miss Linisfarne, but no one was clever enough to guess what the mystery might be. The general opinion was that the tenant of the Court had committed a crime, and had of her own free will condemned herself to a solitary life in expiation thereof. But this was a mere rumour, and unsupported by facts.
If, as it was hinted, Parson Jarner knew the reason for this penitential life, never by word, or deed, or look did he reveal such unholy knowledge. No Sphinx could be more secretive than this simple divine when it so pleased him, therefore the villagers had little chance of having their curiosity gratified in that direction. The vicar paid frequent visits to the recluse, and always returned therefrom with a meditative air and frowning brow. His flock wondered at this, wondered at Miss Linisfarne's seclusion, wondered at everything connected with the Court, till after the lapse of a decade the novelty of the thing wore itself out, and they ceased wondering altogether. Yet they were constantly on the watch for the happening of some untoward event, and hoped, not without reason, to some day know the truth.
Miss Linisfarne, being an invalid, was usually confined to one apartment--a great drawing-room which overlooked the terrace. During the early years of her exile--for so she termed it--she had enjoyed perfect health, and then drove frequently through the village on her way up the winding road to the moors. She had even strolled about the park, in those places where the savage wildness of the place permitted her to walk with comparative ease. Now all was changed. She never went beyond the gates, nor did she walk in the grounds, but when not lying on her couch, paced languidly up and down the terrace, or, if the weather was bad, exercised her feeble limbs in the picture-gallery. Can you conceive a more pitiful picture than that of this lonely figure wandering through the corridors, and galleries, and vast rooms of this desolate house?
With such a tenant dwelling amid such surroundings, it was little to be wondered at that the Court gained the reputation of being haunted. Miss Linisfarne was reported to be wealthy, but not all the treasures of Solomon would have tempted a Farbis man to penetrate the mansion after dark. And this same superstition preserved the Court from the intrusion of the villagers either as visitors, beggars, or burglars. They dreaded even to pass the gates after dusk, and with fertile imagination began to weave strange stories of the lonely lady in the lonely house. Parson Jarner discouraged these tales, and reproved the tellers, but notwithstanding his prohibition, Farbis folk still held to their opinions. They declared that the Court was haunted, that Miss Linisfarne was a witch, that orgies were held in the empty rooms at midnight, and that cries of tortured women and of dying men could be heard at night. With such fancies did the villagers beguile the winter evenings over their fires. Superstition was strangely ingrained in the nature of the Farbis folk, and all Parson Jarner's arguments failed to eradicate their deeply rooted beliefs.
The drawing-room, wherein Miss Linisfarne was generally to be found, was a vast apartment in the right-hand corner of the house. Eight French windows opened on to the front terrace, and five oriels at the side overlooked a sea of green, for here the forest rolled its leafy waves up to the very walls of the mansion. This apartment possessed a polished floor, which was strewn with bright-hued mats from the looms of Ispahan. Scattered sparsely through the room were chairs with cushions of faded satin, oval tables of rosewood and walnut, laden with books long since out of print; also with strange carvings in ivory by Chinese artificers, pots of dried rose-leaves, and glass-shaded wax flowers. Sofas of classical shape, designed during the first Empire of France, were stiffly set against the walls. Overhead the oval roof was frescoed with paintings of mythological subjects, and on the walls hung dark oil pictures and gilt-framed mirrors. Faded curtains draped the windows, and so excluded the light that the vast room was constantly filled with shadows. Over all lay the grey dust undisturbed for years. It was an eerie-looking place, and there was something terrifying about the large hollow empty space. Ghosts only could fitly inhabit its gloom and desolation.
Near one of the oriel windows Miss Linisfarne lay on her couch. Here there was an attempt at comfort. A square of carpet faced the sofa, and was met at its outer borders by a gaudy Japanese screen, which converted the spot into a tiny room. A work-table stood close at hand, and near it an armchair was placed, while a revolving bookcase gave a touch of modernity to the nook. Here, in this oasis of comfort, Miss Linisfarne worked, and read, and fretted, and thought. It was at once her home and her prison.
At times her hands would fall idly on her lap, and her eyes would wander from book or work to gaze out of the oriel at the green ocean of trees which isolated her dwelling. God alone knows what were her thoughts during those melancholy musings. Of nothing bright, you may be sure, for Mariana in her Moated Grange was less solitary than this woman with the sad eyes. A cloud of mystery, of dread, of horror, hung over the house and its occupant. No wonder the superstitious villagers avoided the unholy spot. House and women were accursed.
Look at her as she lies there, with the light of the afternoon on her countenance. Can you not see how she has suffered--how mental torture has worn her face thin; how it has imprinted lines upon her brow, and laced her golden hair with threads of grey? She can count but forty-seven years, and yet she is an aged woman; for grief is even more powerful to destroy than time. The light has long since left those mournful eyes, the roses have long since faded from those worn cheeks, and the mouth is now set in fretful lines which were not there in early days. The features alone retain their beauty. Her straight nose, curved lips, firmly moulded chin, and high forehead are as if carved in ivory, for long seclusion from fresh air and tinting sunlight has imparted a yellowish hue to the skin. And the countless wrinkles round the mouth, under the eyes, and across the forehead, tell their own tale of mental agonies, of tearful hours, of sleepless nights. Sorrow had set her unmistakable seal on the face, and had rendered it haggard before its time. Wan countenance, inert figure, listless hands, and hopeless looks--a mournful spectacle this of sadness and despair.
Yet she was still careful of her dress. No fault could be found with the grey silk tea-gown, adorned with lace at wrists and throat, or with the dainty slipper on the slender foot. Grey as was her hair, yet the undying coquetry of the feminine nature impelled her to coil it smoothly, and scatter it in crisp curls. When her hands moved, diamond rings glittered on the fingers, and her lean wrists were encircled with costly bracelets. She was aged before her time, she was lonely, she was filled with despair; but the woman in her still bade her tire her head, deck herself with gems, clothe herself in rich garments, and make the most of what was left to her.
Meg sat in the armchair close to the couch. A greater contrast than the exuberant vitality of this girl, beside the etiolated looks of the elder woman, can scarcely be imagined. Bright eyes, rosy cheeks, restless hands--there was life in every movement; while Miss Linisfarne, listless and weary, looked as though the blood were stagnant in her veins. The girl still wore her rough serge dress, and her heavily shod feet looked clumsy beside the dainty slimness of Miss Linisfarne's slippers. Her hair was roughened by the wind, her hands were brown and scarred, and she spoke in a clear hearty voice, which contrasted strongly with the faint tones of her hostess. She brought into the room a breath of the woodlands, an odour of earth, of pine, of salt wave, and breezy down. Her very presence seemed to invigorate the pale invalid, who looked at her so kindly. As Antæus drew vigour from his parent earth, so did Miss Linisfarne draw fresh vitality from the animal healthfulness of her visitor.
They were talking together on an interesting subject, and as the conversation went on, a flush crept into the cheeks of the elder woman, her eyes grew brighter, and her lips parted in a faint smile. The vitality diffused by Meg stirred the blood in her veins, and quickened the wan life to a semblance of health. So might Eurydice have regained health and life and sprightliness with every step she took from the kingdom of the dead.