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 protégée 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.