It may be questioned whether he would have professed such ardent admiration of Bohemianism, had not Meg been with him daily from morn till sunset. She was his companion in all excursions, and treated him in a sisterly fashion. Such chilly affection he was far from relishing, being deeply in love, but the time was not yet ripe for him to speak. Meg had still to learn the pains and sweetness of love, but such knowledge had not yet come to her. In vain did Dan, by looks and words, endeavour to touch her heart. She could not understand, and though she professed to like him greatly, gave no sign of experiencing any deeper feeling. Her namesake Diana were scarce colder than this rustic maiden.
"She is like Undine," complained Dan to his friend the vicar; "she has no soul."
"No heart, you mean," replied Jarner, dryly; "there you are wrong. She has a warm and loving heart. Never a tale of poverty but----"
"I know all that, sir; but I want her heart to melt to my tale, not to the whining of a sturdy mendicant."
"I am afraid I cannot instruct you how to gain her affection, my lord; I have never felt the tender passion myself. Ho! ho! You come to a bad adviser when you seek my opinion on such points."
This was but cold comfort, and Dan went away in despair. He likened his case to that of Pygmalion, and then took courage from such comparison, remembering that even the marble statue turned to warm flesh and blood in the end. Meanwhile, he followed his divinity about the hills, and hoped that he would gain her heart in the days to come. His wish was gratified, but in a most unexpected fashion. It was the jealous tongue of Miss Linisfarne, that first opened the eyes of Meg, and changed her from girl to woman.
Dan was not offensively conceited. He entertained a reasonably good opinion of his looks and capabilities, but did not deem himself an Apollo with whom every woman was bound to fall in love. Yet, resolutely as he strove to thrust the notion from him, he became aware in more ways than one that Miss Linisfarne looked on him with great favour. Whether it was his appearance or his conversation he was unable to determine, but the pale lady of Farbis Court showed him plainly that he had taken her heart by storm. In place of lying for hours on her couch or limiting her walk to terrace and picture-gallery, she became almost as great a pedestrian as Meg. She invited Dan to the Court on every possible occasion, she followed him to the dell on the pretext of wishing to see his caravan, and frequently formed an undesirable third in those excursions on the moorlands. And, to put the matter beyond all doubt, she showed by her altered demeanour that she was wildly jealous of Meg.
Dan began to find his life anything but pleasant. He did not love Miss Linisfarne, whom he looked on as quite an old woman, and objected strongly to her incessant attentions. She never left him alone for a single moment, and was always finding pretexts to be in his company. At first he laughed at such madness, but soon began to weary of his elderly admirer, the more so as she took to treating Meg in a very unpleasant fashion. With the instinct of a jealous woman she saw that Dan was in love with Meg, and since she could not revenge herself on the man, took every opportunity of doing so on the girl. She subjected her to all kinds of petty spite, sneered at her masculine habits, and always sent her out of the room when Dan happened to be at the Court. Meg resented this behaviour, though she was far from guessing the cause, and so went but seldom to see her benefactress. On his part Dan, learning from experience that Meg was not to be found as formerly at the Court, kept away also, and thus inflamed Miss Linisfarne's heart with rage and envy. So far had her unrequited passion carried her that she was rapidly approaching a stage when she might be expected to be dangerous. Dan noted this fact, and kept as much as possible from intruding on her privacy. The remedy was worse than the disease.
Like the ostrich which thinks itself unseen because its head is thrust into the sand, Miss Linisfarne never deemed that her passion was patent to all Farbis. The villagers saw it, and made remarks on her age and folly; Mr. Jarner noticed it and frowned, and a rumour even reached Dr. Merle in the seclusion of his house. Only Meg was ignorant, for no one dared to say a word about Miss Linisfarne in her hearing. She was too mindful of former benefits to hear her benefactress blamed in the smallest degree.
The last to hear of it was Mother Jericho, and she mentioned it to Tinker Tim as a good joke. Instead of looking on it as such, the gipsy scowled and swore, and finally went to the dell in search of Dan. Why he should trouble himself about Miss Linisfarne and her follies it is impossible to say; but he certainly spoke freely to Dan on the subject.