Unfortunately for Miss Linisfarne and fortunately for myself, I chanced to meet Meg at the Gates of Dawn, and speedily disabused her mind of all those malignant accusations. I denied that I had asked Miss Linisfarne to marry me because I wanted her money, and, in proof of the absurdity of such an idea, confessed my name and rank. Before doing so, however, I asked Meg to be my wife, and she, believing my bare word, accepted my offer. Can you wonder, then, that I should love and honour and esteem a woman who was prepared to marry a nameless outcast for his own worth? She is as simple and loving as a child, and I consider myself the most fortunate of men in winning her golden heart. What is rank, or title, or wealth compared with such pure love! She loves me, not my worldly advantages. Confess now, cynic as you are, that I have chosen wisely. Ah, Jack, the noblest gift that God can bestow on a man is the gift of a pure good woman's heart. I have gained this pearl without price, and henceforth have nothing better to gain from heaven.
Meg was somewhat alarmed at finding I was King Cophetua in disguise. The title frightens her, and she is afraid she will not be worthy of such high rank. Not worthy, indeed! Could I place a crown instead of a coronet on her brow, it would be far below her deserts. She is a noble brave pure woman, who will enable me to fight the battle of life, and do what good lies in my power. I have no fear of her sinking under the burden of nobility, as did that puling minx who married the Lord of Burleigh. When Meg becomes more accustomed to the idea, when she is my wife, you will see that she will bear her honours nobly. Her beauty, her heart, her talents, her charms all fit her for such a station. Even you, Jack, fastidious as you are, will confess that I have the fairest and most loyal wife in the three kingdoms--ay, in the world.
But enough of these rhapsodies, of which you must be tired. Let me descend from heaven to earth, and talk of meaner things. Dr. Merle gave his consent in a scared sort of way, and did not seem to know what to make of it. He is a poor feeble creature, with a brain sodden with the drug he takes. Notwithstanding my offer to provide for him, he declared his intention of remaining at Farbis, which, after all, I think is the best place for him. He is more fitted for a hermitage than for the world, as his vice has overmastered his brain and mind and has ruined his will and self-control. Every time I see him, I wonder how such a puny creature ever became the father of Meg. The late Mrs. Merle, or rather Mrs. Mallard, must have been a fine creature. I asked Meg about her, but she does not remember her mother, who died during her infancy. As Meg is close on twenty, this remark proves to me that Merle was not so inconsolable over the treachery of Miss Linisfarne as he pretends to be, for he must have married very soon after she jilted him. I can only suppose that he was disappointed in his wife, and, when she died, came to Farbis with his child to be in the neighbourhood of his first love. Yet he never attempted to see her, nor does Miss Linisfarne know that Dr. Merle is the lover of her youth. From his speedy marriage and subsequent retirement to Farbis you can see how feeble is his character. There is not a drop of his blood in the veins of Meg. That true fearless nature must be inherited from her mother. But how could a woman like Meg have married a rat like Merle! This thing puzzles me greatly.
Mr. Jarner was delighted with my success, and congratulated me on gaining the heart of Meg. He considers me the most fortunate of men, and insisted on my drinking the best half of a bottle of port, in honour of the event. He is a splendid old man, and quite a character. With all his love of horses and dogs and sporting, he is deeply religious, and holds a fairer creed than many of those who use their outward holiness to cloak a mean soul. None other than he shall marry Meg and I. If you like to come down and be best man, just say so. I assure you Jarner is a parson worth meeting.
I don't know if Miss Linisfarne has learned of our engagement. She must be greatly angered at the downfall of her scheme to part us. At all events, she gives no sign, but remains shut up at the Court. Meg is sorry for her, as is only natural; but I cannot feel it in my heart to pity so malignant a creature. Unless, indeed, she is mad, which puts a different complexion on the affair.
As soon as my engagement was an accomplished fact, I went in search of Tinker Tim to tell him of it, and ask for an explanation of the mysteries. Unfortunately he has gone away on business connected with his fighting propensities, and will not be back for a week. However, I saw Mother Jericho, and told her of the accomplishment of her prophecy. She chuckled and leered like a wicked old fairy godmother, then damped my joy by hinting that my troubles were not yet over.
"A false father, a false mother. Fire and flame, and brave deeds," she croaked,--"all these must be before you take your dearie to church. But you'll win through it all, and be happy. Your children and grandchildren shall sit on your knee, and she shall be by your side for forty years and more."
Can you conceive anything more perplexing? Having seen the first part of her prophecy fulfilled, I am bound to believe the second. Evil is coming, but it can only come through Miss Linisfarne. She is malignant enough for anything, but at present gives no sign of her intentions. What do you make of the prophecy, Jack? "False father, false mother, fire and flame, and brave deeds." It is a riddle of the Sphinx. I can only leave its solution to Tim; but, at all events, I am happy to think that peace will come in the end. One does not appreciate joy without sorrow, so I am willing to undergo the troubles prophesied by the sibyl for the sake of being blessed with the last part of the prediction. All these ills are to take place before marriage, and, as I propose to be wedded in the autumn, there is not much time for their fulfilment. "False father, false mother, fire, flame, and brave deeds"--I leave the solution to your quick wits, my friend.
Here I must close this long letter. Write and congratulate me, and say if you will come down to assist at the termination of my strange wooing. I am so happy, Jack, that I can write no more, so must leave you to guess the joy of your attached friend--
ARDLEIGH.