AFTERNOON TEA.
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 free
Within 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 be
When 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."
"It is an omen," said Dan, thankfully, and was greatly comforted.