Chapter 7

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.