DIANA OF FARBIS.
The determination of Dan to remain at Farbis did not result in any
immediate reward for such aiding of Destiny. Not a glimpse did he
obtain of Meg Merle, and he began to think her invisible, after the
fashion of the nameless nymph in "Lamia." Sometimes he heard her
singing in the distance; but, though he followed the sound of her
voice, he never succeeded in casting eyes on her face. It might be
that she evaded a meeting, for while searching he caught at times the
echo of a laugh. Then her singing would recommence further off, and he
would again be lured onward, only to be disappointed anew. She flitted
through the pine wood like a spectre, and though her voice filled it
with music, she was as hidden as any bird. Were she viewless Echo
herself, she could not have been more invisible.
This feminine caprice angered Dan, and piqued his curiosity. He felt
as though he were in a fairy wood, searching for some princess,
spellbound by a powerful magician. Search as he might, the result was
always the same. After a time he waxed sulky, and stayed persistently
by his camp-fire, hoping that, if Destiny willed this phantom beauty
to be his wife, she would come in due time into his presence. Not that
he really believed in such fatalism, but the prophecy of Mother
Jericho was not without a certain influence on his mind. He was of a
somewhat impressionable nature, and at a rather impressionable age; so
it might be that the fulfilment of one prediction led him to attach
more value to the others than they deserved. Perhaps, also, he hoped
to baffle Fate by remaining snug in his dell; but if so, the hope was
vain, for in due course came the hour of fulfilment, and with it the
woman.
In the gipsy camp he found a new phase of life which amused him
exceedingly, and was not sparing of his company to the gentle Romany.
No more hospitable hosts could have been found than those ragged
wanderers who made the world their home. They invited him to dip into
their stew-pot, danced for him by the red firelight, sang wild gipsy
songs to him in unknown tongues, and, miracle of miracles, were
scrupulously honest in regard to his goods and chattels. Mother
Jericho and Tim in command of the tribe, were his firm friends, else
he might have found these vagrants less inclined to keep their
thievish fingers from his belongings. As it was, he lost not so much
as a stick, and began to think that the magpie propensities of the
gipsies had been somewhat overrated.
This wild life among wild people pleased him, and he found the days
pass rapidly in the indulging of such simple pleasures. Every morning
he rode Simon to the seashore for a matutinal swim, but never did he
meet Joy in the person of Meg "coming up through the Gates of Dawn,"
though he kept a sharp look-out for a recurrence of the phenomenon. On
his way back to camp he bought eggs and milk and bread, so as to lay
in a stock of provisions for the day. For the rest of the golden hours
he philandered about the woods in chase of that invisible mockery, or
paid an idle visit to gipsydom. When all other pleasures palled, he
sat smoking in the sunshine and read "Lavengro." The book never failed
to enchain his fancy.
On the fourth day, so restless is human nature, he began to weary of
dell, of gipsies, of his own company, even of the book of books. A
spirit of wandering seized on him fiercely, and this nostalgia of the
road made him think seriously of once more putting Simon between the
shafts of his caravan. There was nothing to see in the slatternly
village, and comparatively little to interest him on the moors. Had he
brought a gun, he might have sought relief in shooting rabbits, of
which there were plenty about. But having no gun, he simply idled on
the heath and set Peter after the bunnies, a task to which the terrier
was by no means averse. But never by any chance did Peter catch a
rabbit.
It was during one of these excursions that he fell in again with Meg
Merle. Looking down on Farbis Vale, and wondering how its people
managed to support such isolation, he saw a rabbit scuttle past his
feet. The next moment there was a sharp report, and it rolled over
with a piteous squeal. Startled by the danger of the shot, and
congratulating himself that Peter was safe, Dan turned round sharply
to remonstrate with the reckless sportsman. The next moment, with cap
in hand, he was bowing before Diana of Farbis.
Evidently she had just returned from a shooting excursion, for
two dead rabbits hung at her girdle, and she advanced to pick
up the third. In a short dress of rough serge, a cap of the same
material, gaiters and boots, she presented a somewhat uncommon
appearance--rather masculine, to speak the truth, but on the whole not
unpleasing. Dan thought of Di Vernon, of Atalanta, of the Lady of the
Lake, and mythical Artemis, but in his heart acknowledged that none
could have been so fair as she whom he beheld.
She was in the spring of womanhood, a very Hebe for girlish grace, a
very type of incarnate purity. Her face was one of those provoking
countenances winch baffle description. Can one hope, by stringing
together items of grey eyes, red lips, rosy cheek, or pearly teeth, to
describe the looks of a fair woman? As soon expect poetry in an
auctioneer's catalogue. The soul looking out of the clear eyes, the
piquant expression of the curved lip, the ineffable charm of virginal
purity,--who can hope to analyze such things? Not Dan, for one.
Without attempting to reduce the component parts of this loveliness to
dry facts, he simply stared spellbound at this fresh girlhood. Rosy as
the dawn, full of life as a young roe, instinct with vitality and
grace, she was like some beautiful wild creature of the woods. One
such as the Greeks feigned haunted springs as nymphs, and boles of
trees as dryads.
Their eyes met as he took off his cap, in homage at once to beauty and
purity and womanhood. Her looks charmed his eye and struck hard at his
heart, as to capture it in one dash. She spoke first, and turned the
dream to reality.
"What do 'ee want messing about this yer plaace?" said the
dream-maiden with the broadest accent. "It be 'mazing theng aw didn't
shoot 'ee."
With great self-control Dan managed to suppress the exclamation of
surprise which arose involuntarily to his lips. That this fairy
princess, this invisible nymph, this phantom of delight, should speak
the coarse country dialect, came on him like a douche of cold water.
He gasped and stared, and opened his mouth without speaking. The
reaction was too terrible for mere speech.
"Whoy doan't 'ee saay summat?" demanded the girl, with a twinkle in
her eye. "Bean't 'ee----"
"Don't," murmured Dan, faintly--"don't speak. It's too horrible!"
To his surprise she began to laugh gaily, and when her hilarity had
somewhat subsided, addressed him in the purest English with a
noticeably refined accent.
"You do not care for our country way of talking," said she, putting a
rebellious curl in its place.
"Not from your lips," he answered, after recovering from his second
shock. "Who cares to hear Venus mouth the Scythian tongue?"
She looked puzzled at the grandiloquence of this speech, and shifted
her gun to the other arm. Dan saw that she was surveying him with the
deepest interest, and, being a modest young man, blushed at such
persistent scrutiny.
"So you are the gentleman who fought with Tim?"
"I am the vagrant who fought with the tinker," corrected Dan, smiling.
"Why do you call me gentleman?"
"Because Sir Alurde Breel was a gentleman, and you are just like him."
"Indeed! I am much flattered by the comparison. Does Sir Alurde Breel
live in these parts?"
"He did, but died three hundred years ago," replied Meg, dryly. "His
picture is in the gallery at Farbis Court. He is an ancestor of the
present Lord Ardleigh who owns the Court."
"Does his lordship live there?"
"No! He is in London, I believe. Farbis Court is let to Miss
Linisfarne. But these things do not interest you. Please pick up that
rabbit."
"You have had bad sport to-day," said Dan, hastening to obey this
order.
"Very bad! Still I have three rabbits to take home. Would you like
one?"
"I adore rabbit stew, Miss Merle."
"Then keep that last one I shot. I see you know my name."
"I do! Tinker Tim told me all about you."
Meg frowned and then laughed. Her mirth was very musical.
"Tim has a very long tongue, Mr. Dan."
"Don't call me Mr. Dan."
"Then don't you call me Miss Merle!" she said saucily.
"Everybody else does," said Dan, unwilling to take advantage of such
innocence; "and you see I can hardly call you Meg. I am a stranger to
you."
"Oh no! I have heard all about you from Tim and Mother Jericho.
Besides, you are so like Sir Alurde that I seem to know you quite
well."
"A thousand blessings on the resemblance. I shall at once take
advantage of your kind permission. Do you go often to Farbis
Court--Meg?"
"Very often, Dan. Miss Linisfarne is very kind to me."
"Oh, the lady who lives at the Court in place of its owner! Where is
Lord Ardleigh?"
"In London, I believe," she said rather contemptuously. "I have no
doubt he is one of those finical fine gentlemen of whom Miss
Linisfarne talks."
"That is not a flattering portrait," said Dan, smiling.
"Probably not; but I have no doubt it is a true one."
"Are you sure of that, Miss Merle?"
"I told you I am not Miss Merle, Mr. Dan."
"Then address me as Dan, if you want me to be less formal."
"Of course I shall call you Dan," said she, opening her eyes in
feigned surprise. "What else should I call you?"
"Sir Alurde!"
Meg laughed at this sally. They were getting very friendly, much to
Dan's delight. All at once, as though recollecting herself, she ceased
laughing and made as if to go. Dan stepped eagerly forward.
"Let me carry your gun, Meg."
"What for? I can carry it myself," she replied bluntly.
"I would rather relieve you of the burden."
"Very well, Dan. Take those other two rabbits; but I'll carry my own
gun, thank you. What queer ideas you have! Just like those of Miss
Linisfarne."
"Does she carry your burdens?" asked Dan, gravely.
They were now walking down the winding road to the village.
"I should think not," replied Meg, laughing at the bare idea. "But you
have the same manners as she has."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Oh no! It is the truth. My father is not at all like you, nor is Mr.
Jarner, the vicar. I have never seen any one like you," she finished,
looking at him with great interest.
"Not even Sir Alurde?"
"Oh, don't talk any more of that picture, or I shall be sorry I spoke
of it."
She was quite unsophisticated, and frankly uttered the thoughts that
came into her mind. Hence the flimsy dialogue which ensued between
them. Dan, unused to such candour, could not help feeling charmed at
the purity of the soul thus laid bare to his gaze.
"I saw you at the Gates of Dawn," said she, with an evident desire to
change the subject. "Were you not very shocked at my appearing with
bare feet?"
"I was charmed."
"Nonsense, Dan! It was an accident. I was swimming, and the tide
carried away my shoes and stockings. I did not mind it much till I saw
you. Then I felt dreadfully ashamed."
"Why should you? 'Beauty unadorned is adorned the most!'"
"You speak like Sir Charles Grandison," said Meg, with a blush at the
compliment.
"Ah! you have read that book?"
"Yes. I like it very much. Miss Linisfarne has many old novels in her
library, but she will not let me read all of them."
"It is best to rely on her taste," said Dan, not relishing the idea of
this innocent reading Richardson's contemporaries. "Are you fond of
reading?"
"Not very. I prefer fishing or shooting."
"Who taught you to fish and shoot?"
"Tim and Parson Jarner. You don't know him, do you? He's a dear old
man, and so fond of dogs and horses."
"Rather peculiar tastes for a clergyman."
"Why so?"
She opened her eyes wide at his remark, and as he had no wish to be
the first to teach her worldly wisdom, Dan dismissed the subject.
"Never mind," said he, ambiguously; "I'll tell you another time. Don't
you find it dull here?"
"Not at all! Why should I? There is always plenty to do. I swim and
ride, and fish and shoot. I go across the moors with Parson Jarner;
and I visit Miss Linisfarne two or three times a week. Besides, there
are many things in the pine woods to give me pleasure."
"What kind of things?"
"Birds, and beasts, and spiders, and flowers. If you have sharp eyes,
you can see all manner of queer things."
"A female Jefferies!" thought Dan; then aloud, "You must teach me your
woodcraft. I cannot see the marvels you describe."
"How strange! Yes, I'll teach you with pleasure. I shall come to your
dell and look at your caravan. Now we must part, Dan. My father
expects me home."
"You won't forget your promise," said he, clasping her hand.
"No; I'll come when I can. Goodbye, Dan."
"Goodbye, Meg."
And then they parted. But one, at least, looked forward eagerly to
their next meeting. Needless to say, that one was Dan.