If Dan had hoped to lead a solitary life he found out his mistake at the end of his first week's camping. It became known far and wide that he was of a hospitable nature, with the result that the dell was visited frequently by all the idle scamps in the neighbourhood. Some came with aggressive looks and demanded money, and food, and clothes, and Heaven only knows what else; but Dan disposed of these folk by offering to fight them. As they rarely cared to accept the challenge, they left speedily, with many curses, and those who did engage were thoroughly thrashed, so in the end such ruffians gave the dell a wide berth. Never was the Augean stable swept cleaner than was the dell of bullies and rogues and would-be thieves, by its muscular occupant.
The gipsies often looked in to see how he was getting on, but these were privileged guests. Dan had partaken of their bread and salt, so was by no means chary of his own; moreover, they were instinctively polite, and never by any chance stole his belongings. He was therefore glad to see their brown faces, and made them heartily welcome. They were charmed to think that the great gentleman--as they insisted on calling Dan--should affect the life of the road, and, had he but known the Romany tongue, would doubtless have accepted him as their brother. But Dan had other things to think of besides learning the black language, and so there remained a gulf between him and the vagrants. He was with them but not of them.
When the villagers straggled up from Farbis, with looks of dull surprise at his comfortable camp, Dan did his best to put them at their ease. But the bucolic character does not lend itself readily to friendly intercourse, and he gave up the task in despair. They ate and drank at his expense, grinned and wondered, but never ventured to offer an opinion. Between such and the keen-faced gipsies there was a difference as wide as that between eagle and barn-door fowl. Dan grew weary of their dull company, and gave them to understand as much, so they gradually ceased to persecute him with visits.
Mother Jericho, Tim, and Parson Jarner were constantly in the dell both by day and by night; but Meg never came, though over four days had elapsed since their meeting. At length she made her appearance late in the afternoon, and found Dan making ready to visit the gipsy camp. When he saw her coming down the path he changed his mind, and, cap in hand, went forward to receive her with all honour.
"Welcome to the dell, Meg," said he, extending a hand ceremoniously; "permit me to lead you to a seat by the fire."
"I thank you greatly, Sir Charles Grandison," she answered gravely, accepting the offer; and in such formal fashion was conducted to the log, where she sat down, and laughed.
"Are you surprised to see me, Dan?"
"Not at all! You promised to pay me a visit."
"So I did; but I nearly changed my mind for lack of a chaperon."
"What do you know of chaperons?" said Dan, with an amused smile. "We don't require such spoil-sports here."
"Miss Linisfarne said it was wrong for me to visit you without an elderly lady to take charge of me," said the visitor, demurely.
"Indeed!" replied Dan, feeling unaccountably nettled at this uncalled-for interference. "Then why did she not come herself?"
"She never goes anywhere--poor soul," said Meg, with a sigh; "you must not be angry at her. I was only joking about a chaperon; I rather think I can look after myself."
"I rather think so too," answered her host, glancing at the proud face of the young girl; "but, to quieten your scruples, let us call this dell Arcady. In Arcady chaperons are unneeded and unknown."
"I hope tea and bread-and-butter are not unknown," said Meg, quaintly; "for I have been on the moors all day, and came here for the selfish purpose of begging a meal."
"You shall have one fit for a queen. Order what you like, and I shall place it before you."
"You are, then, the Genie of the Ring?" retorted Meg, laughing; "but I think I can place you at a disadvantage. Suppose I call for champagne and oysters?"
"Oh, come, now, you must be reasonable. Though, indeed," added Dan, with a sudden remembrance of his cellar, "I can supply you with champagne. Oysters I have not--not even tinned ones."
"No, no!" cried Meg, as he advanced towards the caravan. "Please do not trouble. I was only joking. I never tasted champagne in my life."
"All the more reason that you should begin now."
"Genie of the Ring," said Meg, gaily, "come back! I forbid you to give me anything stronger than tea. I shall have tea and bread-and-butter and jam."
"What kind of jam?" asked Dan, laughing.
"I like strawberry best."
"Good! I can provide you with that. We will have afternoon-tea, Meg, after the fashion of high society."
But no society tea could have been as pleasant as that meal in the open air beside the wood fire. The dell was filled with golden sunshine, and the blue sky arched itself like a hollow sapphire over the green trees. A gentle wind whispered through the leaves, and the drowsy voice of the distant sea boomed like the solemn notes of an organ. Singing birds were in the pine wood, swallows darted through the sky, and bees and grasshoppers and humming wasps made the dell vocal with murmurous sound. Dan counted that day as one of the most perfect of his life; one to be marked with a white stone.
Meg was hungry, and not afraid of displaying her appetite. She made the tea with the assistance of Dan, and cut a pile of bread-and-butter, which in conjunction with the strawberry jam vanished like snow before them. It was a happy meal, for during its progress host and guest jested and laughed as though they had known each other all their lives. When the meal was ended Dan lighted his pipe and threw himself at Meg's feet as she sat on the log. He looked up into her wonderful eyes and began to feel that he was falling in love with this child of nature. But she, yet fancy-free, smiled innocently at his ardent gaze, and, overflowing with life and happiness, burst into song.
"I was a maid of Arcady,And you a shepherd, brown and merry;We danced together o'er the lea,And plucked the rose and leaf and berry;For life was gay and sweet and freeWithin the vales of Arcady."But, ah! those days are over, dear,And you and I are sadly parted;No longer make we merry cheer,But wander lonely, broken hearted;For life is sad and dark to me,So far from happy Arcady."Yet, if the gods are kind, perchanceAgain will come the golden weather,And hand in hand we'll gaily danceWith love across the purple heather.Ah, joy, how happy shall we beWhen once again in Arcady."
"I was a maid of Arcady,
And you a shepherd, brown and merry;
We danced together o'er the lea,
And plucked the rose and leaf and berry;
For life was gay and sweet and freeWithin the vales of Arcady.
"But, ah! those days are over, dear,
And you and I are sadly parted;
No longer make we merry cheer,
But wander lonely, broken hearted;
For life is sad and dark to me,So far from happy Arcady.
"Yet, if the gods are kind, perchance
Again will come the golden weather,
And hand in hand we'll gaily dance
With love across the purple heather.
Ah, joy, how happy shall we beWhen once again in Arcady."
"Many thanks for so charming a song," murmured Dan, when she ended; "but why lament what is not? You are still in Arcady, remember."
"And you?"
"I have been away, but have returned. This is the golden weather, yonder is the purple heather, and you and I are together."
A flush overspread her face, and the laughter died from lips and eyes. Dan spoke more ardently than he intended, and his glance rested on her with such fire that she trembled. The song had revealed to Dan in one instant that he was in love with this dryad, and, in the sudden rush of passion to his heart, he hardly knew what he said or did. She sat with downcast eyes, and put out her hand with a sudden gesture as though to keep off something she feared. After that brief outburst of passion, which lent ardour to his words and fire to his glance, reason reasserted her sway, and Dan felt shame-faced at so far forgetting himself. With ready wit he turned off his speech as a jest, though the throbbing of his heart gave the lie to his utterance.
"Of course I speak in rhyme," he said, forcing himself to talk calmly, "and but repeat the sentiments of your song. Where did you find such pretty words?"
Meg by this time had recovered herself. The smile came back to her lips, the sense of dread passed away, and she was able to reply to his question in her usual spirit. Yet that moment left its effect behind it, and implanted in her heart a germ to grow and spread in the near future. She was ignorant of the change for the moment, yet even then felt vaguely that something had occurred to change the face of things.
"I found the words in an old book at Farbis Court," she replied quietly.
"A Carolian lyric, no doubt," said Dan, carelessly. "They have a slight flavour of Suckling and Rochester. Probably they are by some rhyming ancestor of the Breels."
"Perhaps Sir Alurde was the poet."
"Eh? You put the verses back to Elizabeth? No. They smack more of the Restoration than of Gloriana's reign. But, talking of Sir Alurde, when are you going to show me my double?"
"Come to-morrow to the park gates, at two o'clock, and I will take you to the picture-gallery."
"But Miss Linisfarne?"
"Oh, she will not mind! I told her all about you, Dan."
"I trust you drew a flattering portrait?"
"So flattering that I shall not repeat my description."
"From such reticence I guess what you have said," replied Dan, laughing. "Will I see Miss Linisfarne?"
"No. She never sees any one."
"Why not?"
"I cannot tell you. Perhaps it is because she has lost her beauty."
"Was she beautiful?"
"Oh, very, very beautiful!" said Meg, earnestly. "She showed me her portrait, and I never saw anything so lovely in my life."
"Ah! Then you have not looked in the glass lately," observed Dan, rashly.
Meg jumped up quickly, and frowned. Again that fear made itself felt.
"You should not jest with me. I don't like it."
"On my word of honour, I am not jesting."
His ardent gaze corroborated those words, and, with a sudden feeling of dread, she ran past him, and flitted rapidly up the path. Dan feared that he had offended her, and this fear became certainty the next moment. She fled like an angered goddess.
"Meg, Meg!" he cried earnestly; "don't run away! Don't be angry with me! What have I done?"
The girl turned at the top of the path, and the sunlight fell on her face. She looked rather scared than angry, but frowned when she saw him take a step forward as to follow. With an imperative gesture she bade him halt, and the next moment vanished from his sight. Then Dan raged at himself loudly.
"Oh, I am a beast and a brute and a dishonourable wretch!" said he, dashing down his cap. "How could I be such a fool as to frighten her? Yet how could I help it? The thing came on me all of a sudden. She won my heart from me with her song. I suspected this before, but now I am certain. Mother Jericho's prophecy is fulfilled. I am in love! I have met my fate!"
From the near wood floated the fragment of the song--
"Ah, joy, how happy shall we be,When once again in Arcady."
"Ah, joy, how happy shall we be,When once again in Arcady."
"It is an omen," said Dan, thankfully, and was greatly comforted.
Dear Jack,
Do not be surprised at getting a second letter from me before you have answered the first. This epistle is not so much a mark of friendship and remembrance as an outlet for the emotions of my soul. I want a sympathetic person to whom I can confide my thoughts, and as none is nearer than yourself, I make use of the penny post for the easing of my mind.
No doubt this beginning will astonish you greatly; but the end is still more astonishing, so hold yourself in reserve for the revelation of a startling secret. As yet it is only a few hours old, and you are the first person to whom it is to be confided. And rightly so, for to whom else would I reveal it but to you, my Jonathan, my Pylades--my--my--any other bosom friend, of whom history makes mention. Jack, I am in--but, no, let me break it gently, lest the shock prove too much for your nerves.
Have you read of the Lord of Burleigh, Jack? Do you know the legend of King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid? Of course you do, and have, with me, sneered at and disbelieved in the possibility of such love episodes. For my share in such doubts I am now being punished. I am hoist on my own petard. I am the eagle pierced by a shaft feathered from his own plumage. Call me no more Lord Ardleigh, but the Lord of Burleigh, and dub me Cophetua, for a jest, for I also have fallen a victim to cunning Cupid. She----
Now you can guess my secret from the last word. No need to burden you with explanations. You know all. Who else but a lover would say "She," and expect to be understood without further remark? Yes, Jack, it has come! I am in love. In love, Jack, with an angel--don't wrinkle your brows, cynic!--and her name is Diana of Farbis. I have seen her to-day for the third time, and, after a weak attempt to fight against Fate, I have succumbed. The gipsy hag is right! I have met my fate at the Gates of Dawn. Joy has come up through them, and I--unworthy creature that I am--am rewarded far beyond my deserts. I should here quote poetry, as prose is too feeble to express my meaning; but I refrain lest you should refuse to finish this letter. I know how impatient you are over rhyme sans reason.
In sober serious earnest, Jack, I am rather bewildered by the novel sensation of being in love. When I first met this girl, I simply caught a glimpse of a lovely face which I admired in an artistic way as one admires a fine picture or a perfect statue. At our second meeting she spoke to me, and I felt drawn towards her in the most extraordinary manner. She babbled little else than nonsense, yet I preferred such to the most sensible speeches. Thus does love make fools of us all. Not that I then believed myself to be in love--though I had a faint fear that it might be so. With the third meeting came the full knowledge of my passion. To-day, Meg--that is her name--came to my dell and had afternoon tea. We were in Arcady for the moment, and she sang some foolish strain of love and parting. When she finished I knew I was in danger. When she left me, after an interval of talk more or less idle, I recognized the truth--that I was in love.
Pray do not shake your head, and say that I have loved before. This is no counterfeit Eros, but the god himself, in all the glory of his divinity. It is not a subject to be laughed at, and if you do not sympathize with me at this crisis of my life, then never more be Pylades of mine. If she be all I take her to be--and I do not speak without due knowledge--then my quest is ended, and I have found the ideal woman of my dreams.
To revert a moment to the commonplace details of life. Did I tell you I have here met with a sporting divine! Well, then, I have; and he is one of the most delightful persons I have come into contact with outside a novel.
Trollope could have handled him with admirable skill, though I am afraid my rustic clergyman would have shocked Mrs. Proudie. He is the vicar of this place, and is a ponderous red-faced divine, after the style of Dr. Johnson. He shakes a large head, frowns with bushy eyebrows, and rolls out "sir" in the real Boswell style. Two fox-terriers attend him constantly, like familiar spirits, and he is learned in horse-dealing, in riding, in veterinary surgery, and other things relating to the equine part of creation. Peter introduced me to this prop of the Church by fighting with the ecclesiastical terriers. When the dogs were pacified, the masters, parson and vagabond, fraternized over foaming tankards of noble ale. He is a bachelor, and mostly dwells in an untidy back-parlour, which must have been taken from Tom Jones. I'll swear that Squire Western dwelt in such a one.
Mr. Jarner paid me a visit yesterday and told me all about Meg. She is aprotégéeof his, and I fancy he rather disapproved of the deep interest I manifested in the rustic beauty. To calm his apprehensions, I told him who I was, and assured him of my honesty of purpose. I declared myself an honest man. This last he considered was better than being a lord, and, to tell you the truth, I think so myself. Since I doffed my title, Jack, and consorted with my fellow-creatures, I have learned many things of which I would otherwise have been ignorant. If I woo Meg--and I intend to do so--it will be after the fashion of the Lord of Burleigh, not as a landscape painter, but as a simple gentleman rather out at elbows. As such I shall have at least a chance of being loved for myself.
I have many things to tell you, but shall reserve them till our meeting in the near future. Were I to commit them to paper this letter would never come to an end. There are certain mysteries connected with the girl I love, which I am trying to fathom. Jarner gives me his assistance, and I have a staunch friend in him. Whether we will be successful yet remains to be seen.
To-morrow I go to Farbis Court! No, I am not calling on Miss Linisfarne, as the old lady lives as secluded as a nun. I am going at the invitation of Meg, who proposes to show me the portrait of a certain Sir Alurde Breel, whom she says I greatly resemble. That is not inexplicable, seeing he is an Elizabethan ancestor of mine. Meg does not know this, and is greatly puzzled over what she considers a freak of nature. I believe she is half in love with Sir Alurde, and, as I resemble him so closely, the atavism may perhaps be a help to my wooing.
It is no light task I have undertaken, Jack. Meg is so innocent, so utterly simple, that it seems like a sacrilege to disturb her tranquillity with love tales. She has no more idea of love than had Miranda before she met Ferdinand. Yet, if my memory serves me, Prospero's daughter found no difficulty in loving the shipwrecked Prince. I don't suppose any woman does find a difficulty when the knowledge of the passion comes to her. How could they, when, as Horace says, they learn it before their A, B, C. But Horace is a wicked old pagan, and I blush to quote him in connection with my spotless Una.
Oh, Jack, if you only see what pretty ways she has, and how charmingly she can smile! "All heaven is in that smile." And her singing! Jack, she has a voice like a nightingale. Pshaw! no nightingale can trill like her. I am fathoms deep in love, Jack,--fathoms deep. I should like to tell her all I feel, yet must be wary and delicate in my attentions. She is as timid as a dove, and may fly like one, should I speak too boldly. Even the admiration in my eyes offended her to-day, though I swear I looked not with ruffian passion in her face. As soon would I think of killing myself in the midst of my newly found happiness, as of cherishing an unworthy thought of this Diana.
I must pause here, as my passion is carrying me beyond all bounds, and I wax poetical. I dare say you think it would be as well for me to talk less poetry and more common sense. You are right, and I will try to do so; but it is as hard for a lover to be practical, as it is for a poet to stay Pegasus when his wings are spread.
After love comes marriage, and I can fancy your grave looks at the idea of my making Meg Merle my wife. From a worldly point of view I admit that I might do better. She is only the daughter of a country doctor, and has not a penny to her name. But, Jack, she has more than money or rank. She has beauty, and honesty, and a noble soul. If you only heard the vicar talk about her! and, from what little I have seen, I endorse every word of his eulogy. Where would I meet with such another? Shall I discard this pearl simply because I gave myself the trouble to be born a lord? No, my friend, a thousand times no! I shall have many opportunities of seeing Meg, and if she is all Jarner says and all I take her to be, then will I make her Lady Ardleigh--that is, if she is willing to bless me with her hand and heart. As to the opinion of society, I care no more for that than you do. I have always gone my own way and done what I thought was right, even at the cost of being considered priggish and eccentric. I do not need more money, and would rather take a penniless wife like Meg than marry the artificial daughter of a millionaire. Marriage is a sacrament, not a compact. Would you have me give my title in exchange for filthy lucre, Jack? Perish the idea! Rather would I remain a bachelor for the rest of my life. My relations may shriek about misalliance, but what care I for their clamour? You stand by me, Jack, and I shall have no fear but that all will yet be well.
"And all this," say you, with a grin, "before he knows if the girl will take him." Ay! that's the rub. Remember, I woo unassisted by title or wealth. I woo as plain Dan of the caravan, and have to trust to my own tongue and overmastering passion. She may refuse me, but I don't think she will. Already she has hung out a red flag on her cheeks, and who knows but what my wooing may speed more merrily than I think? At all events, Jack, I have a staunch friend in old Jarner. He will help me win this shy nymph, if no one else will; but, on the whole, I prefer to trust to my unassisted self for success.
Here I must close; I could go on writing all night, but out of mercy for you I shall end. Read "Romeo and Juliet," and you will form some faint conception of my feelings. You laugh! He jests at scars who never felt a wound. Ha! ha! I had you in the trap there, friend Jack. But no more--this letter grows tedious, so I end it, and retire to dream of her who makes my hell a heaven.
Jack! Jack! you have lost the friend of your youth; for I am now stabbed by a wench's black eye. You, too, will go the same way, though you have railed at love as heartily as did--
Your friend ARDLEIGH.
P.S.--Jack, she is an angel. I am not good enough for her.
"Have you been waiting long?" asked Meg, swinging a large key.
"Close on an hour," replied Dan, ruefully; "I never passed so tedious a sixty minutes in my life."
Meg laughed, and clinked the key against the iron bars. She was on one side of the gate, and he was on the other, but they could see and smile, which was a better fate than befell Pyramus and Thisbe when divided by that cruel wall. Dan felt as though he were on the eve of storming an enchanted castle to release a spellbound princess. He mentioned this fancy to Meg, who raised her eyebrows.
"You must be thinking of Miss Linisfarne then," she said, "for no imprisoned princess would possess a key."
"Very well, Meg, let us change the fairy story, and say that you are Bluebeard's wife. She had a key, and made bad use of it. But are you going to keep me outside Paradise?"
"Paradise!" repeated Meg, not seeing the veiled compliment. "Why do you call the park Paradise?"
After his bad fortune of the previous day, Dan was careful not to hurt her susceptibilities, and explained his compliment in a most prosaic fashion. Were he to speak plainly, she might refuse him admittance.
"Paradise," said he gravely, "is a Persian word, and signifies a large enclosure filled with wild beasts."
"That is not a pretty thing to say, seeing that I am in this enclosure."
"Oh! if you want compliments, I----"
"No, no! I want no compliments," she cried hastily, putting the key in the lock; "you must not think I am so foolish as to believe all you say."
"Do I, then, talk such sad nonsense?"
"I'm afraid so. Pray do not talk any more, but enter into your wild-beast enclosure."
The heavy gates opened with a rumble, and Dan stepped in. When he was on the right side Meg locked the gates once more. He was rather amused at so useless a precaution.
"Are you afraid of thieves here?"
"No. But Miss Linisfarne does not like strangers to enter the park. She will let no one see her."
"A female veiled prophet! Why does she live so secluded?"
"I don't know!" said Meg, coldly; "she never told me, and I do not ask questions."
"That is a hint for me to be silent, I suppose. Well, I won't inquire further."
They were walking up the grass-grown avenue, and Dan was amazed at the savageness of the place. Meg was quite used to it, and saw nothing strange in the desolation. It did not seem to lower her spirits, but rather had the opposite effect, as she began to whistle. A very pretty whistle she had, and executed an operatic air with much precision and sweetness. Dan laughed. She was so unconventional that he could not help his merriment.
"Why do you laugh, Daniel?" said Meg, severely.
"I beg your pardon, but I never heard a young lady whistle before."
"Oh, I know it is wrong--Miss Linisfarne is always scolding me; but I cannot break off the habit. Are you shocked?"
"By no means. I am charmed."
"Another compliment. If you make any more I shall leave you, sir."
"What, in this tropical jungle! Do not be so cruel. Remember I am a stranger, and entitled to hospitality."
Meg looked at him doubtfully, not understanding such irony; but Dan looked so grave when he spoke, that she passed over his remark in silence.
"This is the house," she said, as they turned a corner and came within view of Farbis Court; "and yonder is Miss Linisfarne, walking on the terrace."
Before them stretched the long façade of Farbis Court, looking desolate and ruinous in the strong light of the afternoon. A figure in white was slowly pacing up and down the terrace, but as they advanced towards the steps vanished into the house. Dan turned to his companion for an explanation.
"She sees you are a stranger," said Meg, gravely, "and will now shut herself up in her own room till you leave."
"Has she---- Oh, I beg your pardon; I must not ask questions. But your Miss Linisfarne is a most mysterious lady. One would think she had committed a crime."
"Ah! You have been listening to foolish tales in the village."
"On my honour, I have not. It was a mere idea."
"Avery incorrect one," said the girl, who seemed offended at the imputation cast on her benefactress. "Do not say anything about Miss Linisfarne when you are inside. She may overhear you."
"Not if she stays in her room."
His guide laughed, but vouchsafed no explanation of her merriment. She knew perfectly well that Miss Linisfarne would be close beside them, to examine Dan thoroughly, but this information she did not think it wise to impart to her companion. Laying her finger on her lips to command silence, she led him into the dusky hall, and closed the great door with a resonant crash.
It was the first time that Dan had set foot in the house of his ancestors, and he looked curiously at his surroundings. The hall was flagged with black and white marble in a diamond pattern, and on all sides arose tall white pillars, which vanished in the obscurity of the roof. Indeed, the whole house was pervaded by a twilight atmosphere, which Dan guessed was caused by the dirty state of the windows and the lavish use of stained glass. It smelt mouldy, and their footsteps echoed in the large empty spaces in a most dreary fashion. One could well imagine it to be filled with ghostly company at night.
"Do phantoms haunt this place?" whispered Dan, as they ascended the wide staircase. "I can well imagine lords and ladies in silks and satins and powdered hair and slender canes coming out in the darkness."
"I never saw any of them," replied Meg, in a matter-of-fact tone; "and I have been all over the house at midnight. Surely you don't believe in ghosts!"
"No. But I could forgive any one who did while dwelling in this house."
"Itisrather dreary," said Meg, casting a careless look around. "I wonder Lord Ardleigh doesn't pull the place down. But I don't suppose he knows he possesses the mansion."
"Why not?"
"Because he would not neglect it so much if he did. Why doesn't he come down and stay here, and see what he can do to help the weavers of Farbis? He is very wealthy, you know."
"Is he, indeed?" said Dan, greatly amused at having himself discussed so openly.
"Very wealthy; but he wastes all his money in London."
"You do not care for him, I see."
"I think he ought to be more alive to the responsibilities of his position," said Meg, primly. "What are you laughing at now?"
"Is that sentiment your own?" said Dan, ignoring the question.
"No. It is Mr. Jarner's. But we can talk of this later on. Here is the picture-gallery."
It was a dreary-looking place; and Dan shuddered as he walked under the rows of frowning portraits. These were his ancestors--these men in armour, these stern-faced Puritans, these sad-looking ladies. Farbis Court and its desolation seemed to cast a shadow over all. He felt like a culprit under the menacing gaze of knight and dame.
"Upon my word, they are a melancholy lot!" said their graceless descendant. "I don't think they approve of my intrusion. I don't see a merry face among them."
"Sir Alurde is merry-faced."
"As I am his double, I am glad that he is. I should not care to wear such sour looks. Where is the gentleman?"
"You are standing close to him."
Dan turned with a start, as though he expected to find a ghost at his elbow, and beheld a picture of himself on the wall. The resemblance was very striking, and he wondered that Meg did not guess he was Lord Ardleigh, with such a proof before her.
"You might have sat for it," said Meg, looking from Sir Alurde to Dan.
"I am glad to hear you say so. I assure you I had no idea I was so good-looking."
"Oh, indeed, you are very good-looking, Dan."
The man of the world blushed at the praise of this rustic maiden, and held up a protesting hand. He was standing by a window, and the light striking on his face emphasised his resemblance to Sir Alurde in a startling manner.
"You will make me vain if you talk so," he said, smiling. "I see you admire Sir Alurde."
"I do; I am quite in love with him."
Before Dan could make capital out of this remark by introducing himself, he was startled by a long-drawn sigh which sounded close at hand.
"Is that you, Meg?"
"No; what do you mean?"
"Did you sigh?"
"Of course not. Why should I sigh?"
"Then it must have been one of those ghosts we were talking about. I certainly heard some one sighing."
Meg knew well enough that Miss Linisfarne was close at hand, and, fearful lest her companion should make some allusion to her, hastily beckoned him away.
"Come up here, Dan. I wish to show you a very pretty lady."
"Yourself?" said he, laughing; whereat she frowned and stamped her foot.
"Why will you talk so! It is a Lady Ardleigh of the Restoration. She is----"
"A doll," said Dan, contemptuously, looking at the simpering beauty,--"a china doll. Surely you don't think her beautiful! She has no soul."
"What do you mean?"
"Mean? Why, that she has never loved. You can see it in her face."
"I have never loved, Dan, and I don't think myself a china doll, I assure you."
"Oh, but you are a----"
The words died away on Dan's lips, as a tall figure advanced slowly down the gallery. It was a woman who had once been very beautiful, but who was now a wreck of her former self. She looked steadily at Dan, and then glanced at Meg.
"Miss Linisfarne!" said the girl, transfixed with astonishment.
For the space of a minute, or it might be more, they looked at one another--Miss Linisfarne at Dan, he and Meg at Miss Linisfarne. It was so contrary to her usual custom to thus show herself to a stranger, that Meg might well be excused for being tongue-tied with astonishment. The languid creature whom Meg knew and pitied had disappeared as by magic, and in her place stood a bright-eyed, cheek-flushed being, who had regained for the moment the lost loveliness of her prime. Unable to guess the reason of this rejuvenescence, Meg could only look at her benefactress with parted lips and amazed eyes.
Miss Linisfarne took no heed of her presence, but examined Dan in a leisurely manner, as though he were as indifferent to her regard as was Sir Alurde in his frame behind. Man of the world as Dan was, the eager scrutiny of this woman made him vaguely resentful, and he was amazed at the lack of delicacy which could permit her to signify so openly her admiration for a stranger. It seemed an insult to Meg that she should look at him with such brazen assurance; and, indifferently as he returned her gaze, he felt indignant at her demeanour. Meg was the first of the trio to break silence. She mistook Miss Linisfarne's examination of Dan for anger at his intrusion, and hastened to excuse him.
"Do not be angry, Miss Linisfarne," she said breathlessly. "I wished to show Dan the picture of Sir Alurde, and----
"I am not angry, child," interrupted Miss Linisfarne. "Why should I be angry? I gave you permission to show the gallery to this gentleman."
"Pardon me, madam, I do not claim to be a gentleman," said Dan, still resentful of her unwomanly scrutiny.
"That may be so, sir," answered Miss Linisfarne, coldly; "but you must permit me to form my own opinion. Keep your secret, if it pleases you to do so. In due time you will no doubt reveal your identity."
She spoke with such significance that Dan felt uneasy lest, owing to his resemblance to Sir Alurde, she should guess his name and rank. Gifted with a keener appreciation of culture than either Meg or the vicar, she saw at once through his flimsy disguise. She did not know he was Lord Ardleigh, but felt convinced that he was of gentle birth. He felt himself unmasked, yet was by no means ready to concede the point.
"You flatter me, Miss Linisfarne," said he, bowing. "I trust I shall continue to deserve your good opinion."
Miss Linisfarne smiled, but did not make any immediate reply to this ironic remark. The appearance of Dan and the evident mystery connected with his residence at Farbis piqued her curiosity, so she invented a pretext for getting Meg out of the way, in order to discover if possible who and what he was.
"Meg, my dear," she said, turning to the girl, "perhaps your friend would like a cup of tea. Tell the housekeeper to get it ready in my room."
Dan bowed his acceptance of this invitation, being as curious to talk with Miss Linisfarne as she was with him. The unusual hospitality added to Meg's perplexity, but, not daring to ask Miss Linisfarne's reasons, she tripped away to carry out the order. When her footsteps died away, Miss Linisfarne turned again towards Dan, and their eyes met. A duel of words was inevitable, as each wished to know the secret of the other. Conscious of this, Dan tried to gain the advantage by speaking first.
"It is very kind of you to ask me to sit down with you, Miss Linisfarne. May I ask you a question?"
She seated herself in the chair under Sir Alurde's picture, and signified her consent with a smiling nod. The coming war of words braced her nerves and aroused her from the lethargy of years. She felt like a new creature.
"Is it your custom to entertain all vagrants who come here?" asked Dan, with feigned simplicity.
"Yes, when they are vagrants like you, sir. Come, Dan--since it pleases you to call yourself by that hideous name,--let me know why you have come to Farbis."
"To see the portrait of Sir Alurde."
"You resemble it greatly," said Miss Linisfarne, annoyed at this evasion. "One would think you were connected with the Breels."
"You flatter me," said he again, feeling that this chance observation was too near the mark to be pleasant.
"Why will you not be candid with me?" asked Miss Linisfarne, in a vexed tone.
Dan hesitated. He was astonished at the way in which she threw off all reserve and spoke to him. It was on the tip of his tongue to point out that it was not her business to ask questions about a stranger; but she guessed his thoughts, and commented on them frankly.
"I see what is in your mind, sir. You think that I have no business to ask impertinent questions, but I assure you I have every right to do so."
"I do not understand. I am afraid I am dull."
"Not at all! You quite see my position. I am the chaperon, guardian, protectress--what you will--of Meg. She is an innocent girl, who knows nothing of the world, and it is my duty to look after her."
"Why should you impute unworthy motives to me?"
"I impute no motives," replied Miss Linisfarne, calmly; "but I ask myself, why is a gentleman philandering in this lonely place disguised as a vagrant? What reply can you make to that question, sir?"
"Simply that I travel for my pleasure, and do not feel inclined to reveal my name."
"Did you come down to Farbis with any purpose in your mind?"
"No; I did not know the place at all. I came by chance, and, as Farbis pleases me, I propose to stay here for a week or so."
"For what purpose?"
Dan shrugged his shoulders to intimate that his purpose was not worth mentioning. This was rude, but Miss Linisfarne invited the discourtesy by the persistency with which she sought to know what did not concern her. Perhaps the hint was taken, for, after a meditative pause, she apologized for her curiosity.
"The strangeness of our position must excuse the absence of the convenances, sir. It is not the custom for ladies and gentlemen to talk at the first meeting as we are now doing. But it is so rare to find a stranger in these parts, that you must excuse my very natural curiosity. Again, there is Meg to consider."
She waited for an answer, but none came. Dan was considering if it would be wise to confess that he loved the girl, but, on second thoughts, decided to postpone such information. It would seem ridiculous in the eyes of Miss Linisfarne that he should profess to love Meg when he had only seen her three times. On the face of it the statement was absurd. He did not think so, being intoxicated with love; but the cooler judgment of Miss Linisfarne might look at it in quite a different light, therefore he had sense enough to hold his tongue.
"You must not meet Meg any more," said Miss Linisfarne, seeing he did not reply.
"Can you not see?" was the impatient answer. "She is a child, and you a man of the world. If she falls in love with you it will disturb her peace of mind. Would it be fair to do so?"
"Can I not see Meg in your presence?"
"I shall think about it," said Miss Linisfarne, thoughtfully. "Meanwhile, now that we have met, you can call again if you choose to do so. I am a lonely woman, and your presence will give me great pleasure."
Dan felt rather embarrassed at this generous offer of friendship. He could not understand how Miss Linisfarne could be so rash in welcoming a stranger, who, for all she knew, might prove anything but a desirable acquaintance. He set it down to her long seclusion from the world, and a natural craving for society at any price. There was no hesitation on his part in accepting her offer, as he wished to see as much of Meg as he was able, and, as the girl was constantly at the Court, it would give him many opportunities of speaking with her.
"I shall be delighted to call, Miss Linisfarne; and I promise you I shall appear more respectably dressed when I again make my appearance."
"Will you leave your card on the occasion of your next visit?" she asked meaningly.
"I am afraid that would not be much use, madam," he answered, avoiding the trap so skilfully laid. "You know my name."
"Your travelling name only."
"It will suffice for Farbis."
"That may be, sir, but will it suffice for me?"
Pushed into a corner, Dan hardly knew what reply to make. She was evidently determined to force him to speak, but he was fully as obstinate as she, and doggedly refused to gratify her desire. Yet not wishing to appear rude, he temporized.
"In a week or so I shall tell you my name, if you still desire to know it, Miss Linisfarne."
"You promise that?" she said eagerly.
"I promise you faithfully," he answered, knowing well that did he wish to enlist her in his wooing it would be shortly necessary to confess all to her, as he had already done to Jarner. Then he tried to discover her secret, and, in his turn, asked questions. She proved to be as clever as he in baffling curiosity.
"Do you know Dr. Merle, madam?"
"Only by name. I have never seen him, though when ill I have frequently sent for him. I cannot understand his refusal to come, but put it down to the fact that he is as great an invalid as myself, and as rarely leaves his house."
"Have you met with Meg's friends, the gipsies?"
"No, sir. Do I not tell you that I never go beyond the park gates? I am dead to the world. As I asked you so many questions you have, perhaps, a right to retaliate, but I must request you to ask no more."
"I beg your pardon. As you observed, the strangeness of our meeting must excuse the absence of the convenances. Here is Meg returning."
"Who said you might call her Meg?"
"She did. I would not have done so without her permission."
"You should not have taken advantage of that permission, sir. She is a child, and knows no better; but you----"
"Will be more careful in the future. Do not let us quarrel again, Miss Linisfarne."
She was most unaccountably angry at his familiarity with herprotégée, but his last remark, and the smile with which it was made, seemed to quieten her wrath. She controlled herself with a strong effort, and saluted Meg gaily--
"Well, child, is the tea ready?"
"Quite ready, Miss Linisfarne Are you hungry, Dan?"
"Yes, Miss Merle."
"Miss Merle? Why 'Miss Merle'?"
"By my request, Meg," said Miss Linisfarne, angrily. "You are too old, child, for a gentleman to call you by your Christian name. Give me your arm, sir. I am too weak to walk down the stairs unaided."
Dan walked about with Miss Linisfarne, and Meg, much dismayed at the outburst of her benefactress, lagged in the rear. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw that she by no means approved of the way in which Miss Linisfarne had taken possession of him. He wondered, also, at the position in which he found himself, but ceased to think it strange when he learned the cause. That first visit to the Court plunged him into troubles of which he had no conception. Yet he never regretted his acquaintance with Miss Linisfarne, in spite of the trouble, as he learned many things of importance to his future of which he would otherwise have remained ignorant. In this case out of evil came good.