Chapter 17

THE SECOND LETTER TO A LONDON FRIEND.

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 a prot�g�e of 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.