It is difficult, nay impossible, to alter in one day the habit of years. Meg had been accustomed to repair daily to Farbis Court from her early girlhood, and, now that Miss Linisfarne had so pointedly requested her to stay away, found her life disorganized. She still roamed the moor, in the company of Dan, and was to all appearance satisfied to see nothing of Miss Linisfarne; but in her heart she regretted the breach between them, and missed greatly her daily visit. Miss Linisfarne had behaved kindly for many years to the girl, and it was not in the nature of Meg to cherish animosity towards one to whom she owed much. Regarding her benefactress as a second mother, she was disposed to overlook the past, and make the first advance towards a reconciliation. This project she unfolded to Dan.
"I cannot bear to think of her all alone in that great house," said Meg, "and, as I owe her more than I can ever repay, it is only right that I should see her."
"I am afraid your visit will not be welcome," said Dan, dubiously. "She no longer looks on you as herprotégée, remember, but as a woman who has thwarted her desires."
"Still, I shall call," insisted Meg; "if she refuses to see me, or to be reconciled, I can come away again. But at least I shall have done my duty. Indeed, she has been like a mother to me. All I know is due to her and to Mr. Jarner."
"What does he say, Meg?"
"He thinks I ought to seek a reconciliation."
"In that case, I approve of your visit. What the vicar says must be right. Go and see Miss Linisfarne, my darling. It is like your kind heart to overlook her behaviour."
"Don't speak so harshly of her, Lord Ardleigh."
"For your sake, I won't," said Dan, promptly; "let us say no more about her, Meg. Call when you please; but I fancy your embassy will be unsuccessful."
"Oh, I hope not! I trust not! In spite of all that has passed I love her still, Lord Ardleigh."
"Meg! You have called me Lord Ardleigh twice."
"Oh, I forgot! Frank, then."
"I don't like Frank either. Call me Dan."
"But I cannot go on calling you Dan all your life."
"Why not? It is the name I like best, for under it I won your love. And, indeed, Meg, I have been called Dan for so many months, that I no longer know myself as Francis Breel, or as Lord Ardleigh."
"Very well," said Meg, coquettishly, "I shall call you Dan in private, when you are very, very good. Oh, Dan."
The reason of this exclamation can be easily imagined. He who fails to guess it, is no true lover. Under the able tuition of Dan, the girl soon learned to know what love was. They were ideal lovers, and no quarrel occurred to mar the tranquillity of those golden days. Cupid was king then, and they his humble worshippers and obedient subjects.
Having thus obtained the consent and approbation of Dan and the vicar, Meg repaired to Farbis Court. It was rather late, and the dusk was closing in, for she had been all the afternoon at the gipsy camp in the company of her lover. He left her on the brow of the hill at her own request, as she wished to see Miss Linisfarne that evening. Dan wished her to postpone her visit until next day; but Meg was resolute. She had already put off the call too long, and was determined to see and comfort the lonely woman that very evening.
"It is only six o'clock, Dan," she said, in answer to his entreaties, "and I can easily be home before seven. It is three weeks since I saw her, so I must go at once."
"To-morrow morning----"
"Then I shall be with you. You keep me by your side all day. If I do not call in the evening, I shall not see her at all."
"At least let me accompany you to the park gates."
"No. There is no necessity. I can go myself, as I have always done. No one will touch me in Farbis. Good night, Dan. No. Only one kiss."
Thus they parted, and Meg ran down the hill in the twilight. Dan watched her with some anxiety, and felt an unaccountable presentiment of evil. He did not think for a moment that Miss Linisfarne would harm the girl, else he would not have consented to her going to the Court. But there was a sense of uneasiness in his breast, for which he could not account. He looked towards Farbis Court, dark and forbidding under the hill. The sight did not lighten his spirits.
"I hope I am wise in letting her go," he said aloud. "Pshaw! Miss Linisfarne is foolish, but not wicked. Meg is all right. But I'll call at the house after supper, and see if she is back, and also ask the result of her mission. She will fail, I fear; Miss Linisfarne is not the woman to forgive easily."
Thus reassuring himself, he returned to his dell to prepare supper. Nevertheless the presentiment of evil still lurked in his mind, and he did not make so cheery a meal as usual. Had he only known what was taking place at the Court at that moment, he would no longer have wondered at his expectation of coming evil. It would have been wiser to trust a sparrow to a cat, than Meg to the clutches of Miss Linisfarne on that evening. A woman scorned is dangerous.
She was pacing up and down the long drawing-room, with clasped hands, and a look of baffled rage on her face. Innumerable candles lighted the room brilliantly, and were reflected in the dusty mirrors. Miss Linisfarne, with dishevelled hair, looked at herself in the glass, and laughed bitterly at the wreck of her beauty.
"No wonder he would not look at me," she said despairingly. "Old and haggard and wrinkled before my time. Had ever woman so miserable an existence as mine? Will that unhappy episode of my life ever haunt me? That man knows it, and knows Mallard. Then there is the other. Ah, where is he? I was a fool to leave him; but I have been punished for my folly--bitterly punished. Fierce as he was, surely the spectacle of this wreck would satiate his hatred. But he is dead--dead. I have not seen nor heard of him for twenty years. He is dead, with my dead past."
She paused and walked rapidly up and down the dusty room. In her loose white robe she looked like a phantom. With her flashing eyes and restless gestures, she seemed like a mad woman. In truth her brain was not quite sane. Long seclusion and incessant fretting had rendered her irresponsible, and she frequently gave way to fits of rage which were scarcely to be distinguished from insanity. Ordinarily languid and weak, she possessed at these times the strength of a man. She was dangerous, and knew she was dangerous. She was mad, but did not know it. Nor did any one else. Only when she was alone did she give way to these paroxysms--as on the present occasion.
"If I only had that girl here, I would kill her!" she panted. "I would crush her life out, and stamp out the beauty of her face! He loves her beauty as once the other loved mine. Oh, that I could mar and spoil it! I hate her! I hate her!"
Leaning against the wall, exhausted with her passions, she looked as though in a dying condition. The fit was ended for the moment, and, weak with her late exertion, she threw herself on her couch by the oriel.
At that moment, Meg entered the room. She was astonished at the blaze of light, and wondered where her friend could be.
"Miss Linisfarne! Miss Linisfarne!"
The woman on the couch heard and recognized the voice. A fierce thrill of joy shot through her; but she did not move. She did not even raise her face from the couch, but mentally repeated to herself--
"She is here! She is in my power!"
Unaware of the wrath which possessed her hostess, Meg came forward and knelt by the couch. She was deeply sorry to find Miss Linisfarne in so prostrate a condition, and strove to comfort her.
"Miss Linisfarne, it is I. It is Meg. I have come to see you, and tell you how sorry I am that we quarrelled. Won't you speak to me?"
By this time Miss Linisfarne was more composed, and, with the cunning of a mad woman, concealed the hatred she felt for her visitor. Yet, when she looked at Meg with glittering eyes, the girl started back in horror. The invalid appeared dangerous; but of her Meg felt no fear--as yet.
"Miss Linisfarne! Are you ill?"
"Ill, child? I am very ill," replied Miss Linisfarne, in a hurried voice. "See how bright my eyes are; feel how hot my hands are. Fever, child--fever."
"Lie down again, and let me get you a cooling drink--your medicine."
"No medicine will do me any good, child. I am dying."
"You must not talk like that, Miss Linisfarne," said Meg, soothingly; "you are only excited and feverish. Lie down again. Please do."
"Why are you here?" asked Miss Linisfarne, taking no notice of the gentle request.
"I came to say how sorry I am that----"
"There, there, child--say no more about it."
"You forgive me?"
"Yes. I forgive you. See, I kiss you. Of course I forgive you."
She pressed a Judas kiss on Meg's brow, where her lips seared like fire. Glancing hurriedly round the room, she wondered how she could harm the girl. Here, it was useless; the servants were within call, they would hear here. She must get the girl to some other part of the house, and there---- Yes. In that moment she formed a plan, and proceeded to carry it out. No fox was so cunning as she, at that moment.
"So you are to marry Lord Ardleigh, child?"
"Yes. You know him, then."
"I was told--I was told. Ha! ha! No wonder he was like the picture of Sir Alurde."
"Sir Alurde is his ancestor," said Meg, wondering at the strange manner of her hostess.
"Yes, yes! And you are to be Lady Ardleigh! I am glad he means well, child. Yes, I thought his doings were evil. Poor man! Ha, ha!"
"Dear Miss Linisfarne, lie down, and let me call the housekeeper."
"No, no! I shall be better presently. Let me get up! I am quite strong. Hush, child; not a word! Let me whisper in your ear! I have a wedding present for you."
"A present for me!"
"Yes, I am going to give you the portrait of Sir Alurde. I asked Lord Ardleigh, and he said I could do so."
"Have you seen him?" asked Meg, rather astonished that Dan had said nothing to her about it.
"Yes, yes! The other day! Did he not tell you? I have had the portrait taken from the gallery and placed in a room. It looks splendid, child! Sir Alurde is a king among men. Come and see him."
She sprang up from the couch, and seized a candle from one of the sconces. Meg tried to restrain her; but Miss Linisfarne insisted in going. In order to humour her, and in the hope that she might afterwards be more amenable to reason, Meg agreed to accompany her; and, with Miss Linisfarne leading the way, and bearing the candle, they left the drawing-room. Meg had no idea that the woman was mad, as she had no experience of lunacy. She certainly thought her conduct strange, but felt no fear, and humoured her as she would a child. Had she only guessed the truth, what horrors might have been averted!
Up the stairs went Miss Linisfarne, chuckling over the success of her strategy. She led Meg far away from the inhabited portion of the house to the west wing, which was shut up and barred. Evidently she had been there lately, for a bunch of keys hung at her girdle, and with one of these she unlocked the doors. In the darkness only made more profound by the glimmer of that one candle, Meg began to feel a little afraid.
"Where are you taking me to, Miss Linisfarne?" she said, shrinking back.
"To see Sir Alurde's portrait! It is only a little way now! Come, child! Come, I say!" she added, savagely seizing the girl's wrist. "You must see my wedding present. Ah, my dear, a bonny bride you will make!"
Now, thoroughly terrified, Meg strove to release herself from the clutch of her hostess, as she felt certain that something was wrong. But Miss Linisfarne now had the strength of madness in her, and hurried the girl along recklessly. The walls of the passage were hung with faded arras, that bellied out with the wind. In the dim light of the one candle the figures of huntsman and hawk and hound and tree started out grotesquely. Meg would have fled, but could not get away. Still retaining her presence of mind, she did not scream, but waited for the first opportunity to escape.
Miss Linisfarne asked Meg to hold the candle, and, still clutching the girl's wrist, unlocked a door on the right. When it opened a breath of chill air swept out. Pushing Meg in, she followed, and they found themselves in a chamber of no great size, with one barred window. Against the wall rested a picture in its gold frame.
"See, see! Sir Alurde's portrait! Your lover's portrait! My wedding present," cried Miss Linisfarne, snatching the candle from the girl. "Look, child--look at him now!"
Meg uttered a cry of alarm! The picture was cut to pieces in the most savage manner. She turned to fly, but Miss Linisfarne was before her. With a jeering laugh she hurried out, and shut the door. Meg heard the key turn in the lock, and then the voice of the woman, whom she now knew was mad.
"Stay there! Stay there! You wretch! You robber! You took him from me! Stay there in the dark, and look at his face now. Starve! starve and die in your cell! Shout, no one will hear you--no one will know! Ha, ha! How like you my wedding present?"
As Miss Linisfarne uttered these words she waved the candle wildly. It touched the tapestry, and in a moment the moth-eaten stuff, dry as tinder, was in a blaze. She saluted the fire with cries of joy. Meg smelt the burning, and saw the vivid line of light under the door of her cell. With a cry of alarm she hurried to the window and found it barred, while outside in the passage the flames roared, and Miss Linisfarne shrieked like the mad woman she was.
True to his resolve, Dan left his camp after supper in order to assure himself that Meg had arrived safely at home. As he mounted the hill he heard confused shouts, and, on looking upward, beheld an unusual glow in the sky. Filled with fresh alarm at these portents he increased his pace, and was soon on the summit of the ridge overlooking Farbis. To his astonishment he saw that the Court was in flames, and that the shouts were those of the villagers hastening to extinguish the conflagration. Only for a moment did he survey the unaccustomed scene, then ran down to the village at top speed.
"Great heavens!" he thought, "can that woman have killed Meg, and set fire to the place to conceal her crime?"
This seemed to be the true explanation to his agitated mind, the more so as, in racing down the street, he ran against a man wringing his hands, and crying aloud. It was Dr. Merle.
"Where is Meg? Is she safe?" demanded Dan, pausing a moment in his headlong career.
"No, no!" wailed Merle, "she went to see Miss Linisfarne. She is at----"
But Dan waited to hear no more. His worst forebodings appeared likely to be realized; and, frantic with dread at the danger of Meg, he sped on to the Court. He arrived in time to see the iron gates wrenched off their hinges by the stalwart arms of the villagers, who afterwards poured in through the gate. Carried along with the disorderly crowd up the avenue, Dan found himself at the elbow of the vicar.
"Jarner, Jarner! Meg!"
"What of her?" asked the parson, with anxiety. "Is she not with her father?"
"No! She went to the Court to see Miss Linisfarne."
"Great heavens!" muttered Jarner, in alarm. "Can it be that----"
"For God's sake, Jarner, don't suppose anything so horrible," burst out Dan; "it is impossible. Meg must be safe."
"Safe in that!" said Jarner, pointing to the Court, at the back of which red flames shot upward to the stars amid black clouds of smoke.
"If harm comes to her I'll kill Miss Linisfarne."
"I hope she has not killed herself! We must rescue both, if we can."
"But the fire--the fire! Cannot it be put out?" cried Dan, as they mounted the terrace.
"There is no water."
Dan clenched his fists! It was horrible to think of the danger in which Meg was placed. The few servants were gathered together on the terrace, and the front door was wide open. In answer to the vicar's questions they said that both Miss Linisfarne and Meg were in the house. The housekeeper had seen them go towards the west wing. It was that part of the house that was on fire.
"I must save her," said Dan, shaking himself free from Jarner's grasp; "let me go."
He ran into the hall, and up the stairs. As he did so a huge form shot past him, and he saw to his astonishment that it was Tim. The face of the gipsy was quite pale, and he raced up the stairs with such rapidity as even to distance Dan.
"Tim, Tim! Where is the west wing?"
"I know, rye! Follow me!"
The front of the house was quite safe, as the fire was confined to the west wing, and they rapidly threaded a maze of corridors. Tim seemed to know the way, and at length paused before a door. He tried to open it, but found it locked.
"This leads to the west wing. They are in there. Help me to break it down."
Without answer Dan threw himself against the door. Strong as he was it would not yield to his efforts. They could hear the crackling of the flames, and trembled to think of the two women shut up in that furnace. Tim put his shoulder to the door, and Dan assisted with all his strength. It cracked and yielded and fell back. With a shout they prepared to rush in, but were driven back by the fierce flames. The whole interior of the corridor was in fire, and the smoke rolled out in blinding clouds. Tim dropped on his hands and knees, and crept forward. Dan heard him shout.
"What is it, Tim?"
"Here is one! Miss Linisfarne--Laura!"
In the excitement of the moment Dan gave no attention to the utterance of Miss Linisfarne's Christian name by the gipsy. He thought of nothing but the girl he loved.
"Meg! Meg! Where is Meg?"
"I don't know," said Tim, who appeared at that instant, bearing in his arms the inanimate body of Miss Linisfarne. "Let us take this one to a place of safety."
"But Meg! Meg will be burnt to death!" cried Dan, and made a frantic rush forward. The flames sent him back, and he was almost stifled by the smoke. It was utterly impossible to pass that barrier of flame in search of Meg.
At right angles to where he stood there was a window. As the passage was full of smoke, Dan darted to this, and smashed the glass. As the cold air rushed in he thought he heard a cry. Without considering what he was doing, he clambered out on to the sill of the window, and saw the whole length of the west wing stretching towards the hill. The flames flared upward through the roof, but the side was as yet untouched by the fire. It was as bright as day, and, clinging to the ivy some distance along, Dan saw the figure of a woman.
"Meg! Meg!" he shouted. "Hold on! I am here!"
"Dan, save me!"
She had succeeded in wrenching the bars from the window of her cell, and had managed with difficulty to thrust herself through the aperture. The effort had exhausted her strength, and now she was clinging helplessly to the thick ivy which matted the walls. Overjoyed at the sight of her still alive, Dan shouted encouragement, and reflected how he could assist her. There was no time for him to go round by the front door, as the flames were already shooting from some of the windows of the west wing, and at any moment the fire might scorch Meg.
He looked down and saw that an oak grew so close to the house that a good spring would land him in its topmost branches, which were but a little below the level of the window on the sill of which he stood. If he failed he would fall a considerable distance on to a flagged pavement, and run the risk of breaking his neck. In his cooler moments he might have hesitated to tempt such a catastrophe, but the thought of Meg's peril steeled his nerves. Marking a great bough which would bear his weight, he sprang from the window, and fortunately landed among the branches of the tree. His head struck against the bough, and he was almost stunned, but retained sufficient presence of mind to grasp at whatever came within his reach.
After that effort all seemed like a dream. He heard Meg calling him wildly, and, in some way, managed to scramble down the tree, though, when he found himself on the ground, he could not explain how he got there. His head felt giddy, and his clothes were torn to ribbons in the fall. But there was no time to be lost, and he ran along the flagged path to where he saw Meg, high above, clinging to the ivy. The parasite formed a kind of natural ladder, but he dreaded to climb it, lest he should grow giddy and fall. In desperation he looked around for some means whereby to clear his head. A pool of stagnant water was at hand, and, without a moment's hesitation, he dipped his head therein. The shock of the cold water restored him to his normal condition, and the next moment he was scrambling up the ivy. The whole time, from his spring into the oak and his clambering up the side of the house, was not more than five minutes.
He was just in time, for Meg's strength was rapidly giving way, and hardly had he placed his disengaged arm round her waist than she leaned half fainting on his breast with her whole weight. This threw the strain on his right arm, and the ivy was almost torn from his grasp. Fortunately, he had his feet firmly planted in the network roots of the parasite, and so managed to hold firmly. Still, the position was one of great peril, as the least false step would precipitate both himself and his burden into the depths below.
"Meg, Meg!" he whispered vehemently, "clasp your arms round my neck and hang on. I must have both hands free."
Mechanically she did as she was told, as the momentary fainting-fit had passed, and she now comprehended what was to be done. Free to use both hands, Dan gripped the ivy firmly, planted his feet carefully, and, with the girl clinging to his neck, managed with great difficulty to make the descent. They reached the ground in safety.
"Thank God!" said Meg, looking up at the blazing ruin from which she had so miraculously escaped. "My own darling, how brave you are! But Miss Linisfarne?"
"Tim saved her. Let us go round to the terrace and show them that you are alive. How did you get into the west wing, Meg?"
"Miss Linisfarne took me there, under the pretext that she wanted to show me the portrait of Sir Alurde. Oh, Dan, she has cut it to pieces because it resembled you!"
"I know she hates me, Meg. I was fearful lest she should do you harm, and it seems that my presentiment was right."
"She shut me up in the room, Dan, and then set fire to the place. The window was barred, and I thought I was lost. Fortunately the bars were old and rusty, so I was able to wrench them out and free myself. But had you not come, I should have fallen."
"My brave girl! There are not many who would have had such presence of mind, Meg. Miss Linisfarne is a fiend. Can you walk now?"
"Yes; I am much stronger. Let us go at once."
They hastened as quickly as possible round to the terrace, and found Miss Linisfarne in the centre of the crowd. She was terribly burnt, but conscious. The villagers welcomed Dan and Meg with cheers of delight, and Jarner hastened forward. Before he could reach Meg, however, Tim had passed him. With an ejaculation of thankfulness, he seized the astonished girl in his arms and kissed her.
"Tim!" cried Dan, thoroughly enraged; "what right have you to----"
"The right of a father," said Tim, in a deep voice. "I am the husband of yonder wretched woman, who tried to kill her own child."
Both Dan and Meg looked at Jarner for an explanation. They were taken by surprise at Tim's speech, and could say nothing.
"It is true," said Jarner, taking Meg tenderly in his arms. "I did not know it till now. Nor did Miss Linisfarne dream that you were her child, Meg. Had she known, this terrible catastrophe would not have taken place."
"Is she my mother?" faltered Meg; "but my father----"
"I am your father," said Tim, quietly. "Dr. Merle is only your guardian. It is a long story, Meg. I acted for the best, but it has turned out ill."
"Meg, my child!" cried a feeble voice.
"Come," said Dan, leading the girl towards the dying woman; "you must see and forgive your mother."
Miss Linisfarne was dying. Her body was terribly burnt, and she was lying on the terrace wrapped in a blanket. The villagers were all in the house saving the furniture, so only those intimately concerned were present. The shock had driven the insanity out of Miss Linisfarne's brain, and she was now quite rational. As Meg knelt beside her, she put out a feeble hand.
"Forgive!" she said faintly; "I was mad! I knew nothing, my child."
"Oh, mother, mother! why did you not tell me I was your child?"
"She did not know," said Tim, who was holding a cup of wine to the lips of the woman he claimed as his wife. "I did not think her worthy to know the truth, and so she never learned that it was her own daughter she brought up."
"Cruel! cruel!" murmured Miss Linisfarne. "Would nothing less than twenty years of misery satiate your revenge?"
"No," replied her husband, curtly.
"Do not reproach her," said Jarner, in a gentle tone. "Do you not see she is dying? I have sent for Dr. Merle. Here he comes!"
"Merle!" said Tim, with a frown. "No, not Merle, but Mallard."
The feeble little doctor ran up to the group, and fell on his knees beside Miss Linisfarne. She looked at him in amazement.
"Mallard!"
"Oh, Laura, Laura! After all these years!"
"Poor Richard!" murmured Miss Linisfarne. "I treated you badly; but I have been punished. You can forgive me now?"
"I do! I do!--freely."
"And Meg?"
"I forgive you, mother, and I love you," said Meg, kissing her with tears.
As she did so Miss Linisfarne's head fell back. She was dead.
Dear Jack,
This is the last letter you will receive from the dell wherein I have camped so long. The days of my roving are over. No longer shall I trudge beside Simon through the long summer days, nor camp under the stars, nor read Lavengro by the red light of an outdoor fire. Shortly will you behold me as a sober, married man, and as such I must conform to the prejudices of civilization. The consulate of Plancus is at an end, my friend, and the days of Bohemian wanderings are over. I would regret them even more than I do, were not the present happier than the past.
Great events have taken place since I last advised you of my adventures. I shall never disbelieve in palmistry again, nor shall I, even in the smallest degree, doubt the power of Romany hags to forecast the future. If you remember, I was doubtful in my last letter as to the chances of further fulfilment of Mother Jericho's prediction. I am a sceptic no longer, for, in the most marvellous way, every word of it has come true. What think you of that? "There are more things in heaven or earth----" But the quotation is threadbare. I shall not insult your understanding by repeating the whole.
I now know all the mysteries, Jack, which have so long puzzled me. I was right in supposing there was a connection between Tim, Miss Linisfarne, and Dr. Merle. There is a very close connection which concerns Meg and concerns me. What it is you shall now hear, so prepare your sceptical mind for tales of wonder.
In my last epistle I told you how Miss Linisfarne stood aloof when her plans were overturned, and shut herself up in the Court. Meg--tender-hearted girl as she is--regretted that one to whom she owed much should be thus estranged and lonely. She consulted both Mr. Jarner and myself as to the advisability of seeking a reconciliation with Miss Linisfarne, and we--suspecting no danger--approved of her resolution. Would that we had forbidden the visit, for it led to nothing but evil! Yet it fulfilled the prophecy, so I suppose was to be. Certainly it was out of our powers to advert the decrees of Fate. Fire and flame--false father--false mother! There is the riddle, Jack, and here is the interpretation thereof.
Meg went to the Court one evening, at six o'clock, and saw Miss Linisfarne, who professed herself glad to be reconciled. Nay, more, she pretended to approve of the marriage, and said she would give Meg a wedding present. This was none other than the portrait of my ancestor, Sir Alurde, whom I so greatly resemble. It was very kind of her offering it to Meg, especially as it belonged to me! But, mark you, the cunning of the woman! She asserted that she had seen me in the interval, and had asked and obtained my permission to give the portrait. This statement, I need hardly tell you, was pure invention.
Naturally enough Meg believed her story, and went with her to the west wing, where Miss Linisfarne had removed the picture. It was in a small room, slashed to pieces, and in that room the mad woman--for she was quite mad--locked up my poor darling, and set fire to the place. Whether it was by accident or design, I do not know; but she soon had the Court in a blaze. It is now completely gutted, and only the bare walls stand to show where the house once stood. The home of my ancestors is gone, but I care nothing for that. Meg is safe, and for that alone I am thankful.
Tinker Tim was at the fire, and saved Miss Linisfarne. I rescued Meg by the merest accident. The brave girl wrenched out the bars of her prison-house, and climbed out. I saw her hanging on to the ivy which overgrows this part of the house, and by some miracle--for I cannot tell you how I did it--I extricated her from the perilous situation. We went to see after Miss Linisfarne, and then received a surprise.
I know you won't believe it, Jack, for I was sceptical myself, until convinced by hearing the story in detail. Meg is not the daughter of Dr. Merle. You must remember how I wondered that so fine a nature, so beautiful a girl, could have for parent so contemptible a specimen of humanity. My wonder was legitimate. She is not Merle's daughter, but the child of Miss Linisfarne and Tinker Tim. There, sir, what do you think of that for a startling piece of news? I am so astonished myself that as yet I can hardly believe it. Nevertheless, it is perfectly true. Here is the story. More wonderful than any yet invented by fiction-mongers.
Some twenty-five, or it may be more, years ago Tinker Tim--whose other name, by the way, is Lovel--was a handsome young gipsy. He was more ambitious than the rest of his race, and wished to be great. A strange thing for a Romany, for, as a rule, they are content with their humble condition and wandering life. Tim, however, left the tents of his people and went among the Gorgios. He had plenty of money left to him by his father, who was a noted prizefighter. He told no one that he was a gipsy, and, owing to his foreign looks, was supposed to be some Eastern prince. This is not to be wondered at, for, as you know, the Romany originally came from India many hundred years ago. Desiring to learn what pleasure there was in the life of a Gorgio, Tim encouraged the idea, and by a lavish use of his money managed to see a good deal of society. All this sounds extraordinary, but I believe it to be true. Though only a vagabond gipsy, Tim is a splendid looking man, and has a remarkably keen brain. I can quite well imagine that he could pass himself off for an Eastern prince, and gull society for at least a season. This is what occurred. He was much made of by the fashionable world, and while the lion of the season met with Miss Linisfarne.
She was then just twenty years of ago, and a very beautiful woman. She fell in love with Tim and he with her. I do not know the details of the courtship, but it ended in a secret marriage performed by a Church of England clergyman. Tim would not be married publicly by a parson, as it would destroy his pretensions as an Eastern prince, and Miss Linisfarne would not be married in any other way. They compromised by a secret marriage, and Tim met his wife on the Continent, where they lived for some time. No one, not even the parents of Miss Linisfarne, knew of the marriage, and as she was abroad with a companion, secretly bribed to keep the marriage quiet, no harm was suspected. Then Tim, in a moment of weakness, told his wife that he was no prince, but only a wandering gipsy. To his surprise her love turned to hate. She considered that she had been tricked, as it had been her desire when the marriage was avowed to appear in London as a princess. She was an ambitious woman, and the discovery of the truth made her wrathful. Both she and her husband had fiery tempers, so in the end they parted. Miss Linisfarne returned to her people, and Tim was left abroad, vowing to revenge himself on his hardhearted wife. You can guess what that revenge was.
About this time Merle, or rather Mallard, came into the story. He was a wealthy young doctor, madly in love with Miss Linisfarne. She, finding she was about to become a mother, accepted his addresses in order to conceal the disgrace. To her parents she confessed the truth, and they, deeming the ceremony with Tim no true marriage, as he was a gipsy, urged on the match with Mallard. All would have gone well had it taken place at once; but Mallard was called away to Italy, where his father was dying, and when he returned Miss Linisfarne had disappeared. The parents refused to tell this lover where she was; but, having unlimited money at his command, he had no difficulty in finding her hiding place. There he learned the truth, for he found she had given birth to a female child. She cynically avowed her connection with Tim, and drove Mallard mad for the time being. He had not at any time a strong brain, and the shock proved too much for him, so for three years he was in a lunatic asylum. When Miss Linisfarne returned to London, and told her parents all, they were so enraged at her folly and disgrace, that they exiled her to Farbis Court, where she spent the remainder of her miserable life. Much as I condemn her conduct, I must confess to a feeling of pity for the agony she endured all those years in the lonely house. If she sinned, she was bitterly punished.
When Mallard came out of the asylum he was a complete wreck, and did not mend matters by taking to opium. He wandered about the world for two years, but found no peace. Then he formed a design of withdrawing from a world which had no further charms for him, since his life had been ruined by a woman. Yet he still loved Miss Linisfarne, and went down to the village where he had learned the truth. He found Miss Linisfarne had gone away, but the child, now five years of age, was still there, and with the child a gipsy who asserted he was the father. This of course was Tim, and with his strong will he soon obtained an ascendency over the weak mind of Mallard. Tim wished to force the mother to bring up her child and train it according to her duty, yet all the time remain in ignorance of the truth. He heard that Miss Linisfarne had gone to Farbis Court, and therefore proposed to Mallard that, as he wished to retire from the world, he also should go there under an assumed name, and adopt Meg--so the child was named--as his daughter. At first Mallard refused, but in the end yielded. The use of opium had already rendered him a tool in the hands of the gipsy, and when Meg was five years of age she was taken down to Farbis with her adopted father.
Their life there you know. Dr. Merle, as he called himself, gave way entirely to his vice of laudanum drinking, and Meg was brought up by the vicar and Miss Linisfarne. Tim, hovering constantly about Farbis, was delighted at the success of his plot. The mother was fulfilling her maternal duties towards the child she had forsaken, and was quite ignorant of the relationship existing between them. Merle never saw her all the time he lived at Farbis, as Tim forbade him to seek her, fearful lest she should learn or guess the truth. Can you imagine a more dramatic situation, Jack? A husband, a wife, a lover, and a child. The husband forcing the lover to father his child, the mother bringing up her own daughter, and training her according to her duty, yet all the while remaining in ignorance of the relationship. Name any novel that can match that, my friend.
How Meg grew up beautiful and strong, how she was educated by her unsuspecting mother and the vicar, I have told you in my former letters. Tim watched over her all the time. What his plans were with regard to his wife I know not. She thought him dead; but he doubtless intended to undeceive her on that point. I suppose he would have confessed his plot some time, and let the mother have her daughter. But the treachery of Miss Linisfarne led to an untimely explanation, and Tim has not told me what he intended to have done had the catastrophe not taken place. It seems horrible that the mother should have plotted the death of her daughter; but, as I said before, she did not know the truth, and, as she is dead, it were kindness to say no more about her.
When Meg was nearly twenty years of age, Tim consulted with Merle as to getting her married. He was proud of his daughter, and wished her to make a good match. Merle could offer no suggestion, as there was no suitor worthy of the girl in the district. Then Chance intervened, and sent Tim the very husband he wanted for his daughter. At this point I come into the story, as you can guess.
It appears that a gipsy was getting a caravan built at the shop where mine was being constructed. He heard that I intended to take to the life of the roads for a time, and knowing that I owned Farbis, where Tim's tribe was encamped--for these vagrants learn things in the most wonderful way--told the Tinker of my proposed expedition. Tim at once selected me as a husband for Meg, thinking truly that if he could only inveigle me to Farbis the girl's beauty would do the rest. Hence his plot. It was he who instructed the gipsies to urge me to visit Farbis, and when I was on my way thither, stationed Mother Jericho in the pine wood to prophesy about Joy coming up through the Gates of Dawn. The visit you know! I met Meg at the Gates of Dawn--fell in love with her, and hope to marry her. Tim's plot has been completely successful. Now you can understand Mother Jericho's talk, and Tim's hints, and Merle's fears. The gipsies knew I was Lord Ardleigh all the time, and, though I did not know it, I was surrounded on all sides by people anxious for me to marry Meg. Mother Jericho's prophecy was but the wishes of Tim put into words.
Yet not all of it! I can understand the prediction as to my meeting Meg--as to the false father and the false mother--that was all designed. But how did the old hag know that Miss Linisfarne would fall in love with me, and what reason had she to foretell fire and flame? No one thought the wretched woman would set fire to the Court. That part of the prophecy I cannot understand, therefore I must admit I have a certain belief in palmistry.
Well, Jack, the end has come. I know all, and, knowing all, am quite content to marry Meg, half-gipsy though she be. Miss Linisfarne is dead, as I told you, so she will be no trouble. Tim prefers his life of tent and road, as his one experiment among the Gorgios ended so disastrously. Yet I hope to see a good deal of him in the future, for though he is but a gipsy, I tell you he is a father-in-law to be proud of.
By Jarner's advice, and with Tim's consent, this strange story is to be told to no one but yourself. There would be no use in publishing it abroad, and Meg will marry me as the daughter of Dr. Merle. That wretched creature will not live long, I fear, as he is in so shattered a condition. He has left all his money to Meg, which is only what she deserves. It will be settled on herself when the marriage takes place. Strange to say, he is nearly as wealthy as I am.
I am coming up to town to see my lawyers, and make settlements on my future wife. Then I will ask you to come here with me in the spring, and see me married to Meg by Parson Jarner. You shall be best man, and Tim shall give the bride away. That office he reserves to himself, and absolutely refuses to give it to Dr. Merle.
Miss Linisfarne is buried, and the Court is destroyed. I shall not rebuild it, but devote any surplus moneys I have to the use of the parish. I mean to raise the villagers out of their present wretched condition, to repair the church and augment the income of Parson Jarner. He, dear old man, refuses to leave Farbis, as he has grown to love the place and the people. So he shall be my almoner, and when my wife and I weary of being Lord and Lady Ardleigh, we shall come down to Farbis to be Dan and Meg. Tim and Parson Jarner and Mother Jericho will be there to welcome us, and we will revive the old Bohemian days which are now at an end.
The old lady is in high glee at the fulfilment of her prophecy, as she well may be. It has given me a pearl of womanhood for my wife. I loved Meg from the first moment I saw her coming up through the Gates of Dawn. All our troubles are, I hope, over, sorrow has departed, and joy has come. I do not think I can do better than end this letter with a verse of Meg's song. It can stand in lieu of a signature.
"The red light flames in the eastern skies,The dew lies heavy on lea and lawn,Grief with her anguish of midnight flies,And Joy comes up through the Gates of Dawn."
"The red light flames in the eastern skies,
The dew lies heavy on lea and lawn,
Grief with her anguish of midnight flies,
And Joy comes up through the Gates of Dawn."