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'The World for Sale' is a tale of the primitive and lonely West andNorth, but the primitiveness and loneliness is not like that to be foundin 'Pierre and His People'. Pierre's wanderings took place in a periodwhen civilization had made but scant marks upon the broad bosom of theprairie land, and towns and villages were few and far scattered. TheLebanon and Manitou of this story had no existence in the time of Pierre,except that where Manitou stands there was a Hudson's Bay Company's postat which Indians, half-breeds, and chance settlers occasionally gatheredfor trade and exchange-furs, groceries, clothing, blankets, tobacco, andother things; and in the long winters the post was as isolated as anoasis in the Sahara.
That old life was lonely and primitive, but it had its compensatingbalance of bright sun, wild animal life, and an air as vivid and virileas ever stirred the veins of man. Sometimes the still, bright cold wasbroken by a terrific storm, which ravaged, smothered, and entombed thestray traveller in ravines of death. That was in winter; but in summer,what had been called, fifty years ago, an alkali desert was aneverlasting stretch of untilled soil, with unsown crops, and here andthere herds of buffalo, which were stalked by alert Red Indians,half-breeds, and white pioneer hunters.
The stories in 'Pierre and His People' were true to the life of thattime; the incidents in 'The World for Sale', and the whole narrative, aretrue to the life of a very few years ago. Railways have pierced andopened up lonely regions of the Sagalae, and there are two thriving townswhere, in the days of Pierre, only stood a Hudson's Bay Company's postwith its store. Now, as far as eye can see, vast fields of grain greetthe eye, and houses and barns speckle the greenish brown or Tuscan yellowof the crop-covered lands, while towns like Lebanon and Manitou providefor the modern settler all the modern conveniences which science hasgiven to civilized municipalities. Today the motor-car and the telephoneare as common in such places as they are in a thriving town of the UnitedKingdom. After the first few days of settlement two things alwaysappear—a school-house and a church. Probably there is no country inthe world where elementary education commands the devotion and the cashof the people as in English Canada; that is why the towns of Lebanon andManitou had from the first divergent views. Lebanon was English,progressive, and brazenly modern; Manitou was slow, reactionary, more orless indifferent to education, and strenuously Catholic, and was thusopposed to the militant Protestantism of Lebanon.
It was my idea to picture a situation in the big new West wheredestiny is being worked out in the making of a nation and the peopling ofthe wastes. I selected a very modern and unusual type of man as thecentral figure of my story. He was highly educated, well born, andcarefully brought up. He possessed all the best elements of a young manin a new country—intelligent self-dependence, skill, daring,vision. He had an original turn of mind, and, as men are obliged to do innew countries, he looked far ahead. Yet he had to face what pioneers andreformers in old countries have to face, namely the disturbance of rootedinterests. Certainly rooted interests in towns but a generation oldcannot be extensive or remarkable, but if they are associated with habitsand principles, they may be as deadly as those which test the qualitiesand wreck the careers of men in towns as old as London. The difference,however, between the old European town and the new Western town is thatdifferences in the Western town are more likely to take physical form, aswas the case in the life of Ingolby. In order to accentuate the primitiveand yet highly civilized nature of the life I chose my heroine from arace and condition more unsettled and more primitive than that of Lebanonor Manitou at any time. I chose a heroine from the gipsy race, and toheighten the picture of the primitive life from which she had come I madeher a convert to the settled life of civilization. I had known such awoman, older, but with the same characteristics, the same struggles,temptations, and suffering the same restriction of her life and movementsby the prejudice in her veins—the prejudice of racialpredilection.
Looking at the story now after its publication, I am inclined to thinkthat the introduction of the gipsy element was too bold, yet I believe itwas carefully worked out in construction, and was a legitimate,intellectual enterprise. The danger of it was that it might detract fromthe reality and vividness of the narrative as a picture of Western life.Most American critics of the book seem not to have been struck by thisdoubt which has occurred to me. They realize perhaps more faithfully thansome of the English critics have done that these mad contrasts are by nomeans uncommon in the primitive and virile life of the West and North.Just as California in the old days, just as Ballaret in Australia drewthe oddest people from every corner of the world, so Western towns, withnew railways, brought strange conglomerations into the life. Forinstance, a town like Winnipeg has sections which represent the life ofnearly every race of Europe, and towns like Lebanon and Manitou, withEnglish and French characteristics controlling them mainly, are still assubject to outside racial influences as to inside racial antagonisms.
I believe The World for Sale shows as plainly as anything can show thevexed and conglomerate life of a Western town. It shows how racialcharacteristics may clash, disturb, and destroy, and yet how wisdom,tact, and lucky incident may overcome almost impossible situations. Theantagonisms between Lebanon and Manitou were unwillingly and unjustlydeepened by the very man who had set out to bring them together, as oneof the ideals of his life, and as one of the factors of his success.Ingolby, who had everything to gain by careful going, almost wrecked hisown life, and he injured the life of the two towns by impulsive acts.
The descriptions of life in the two towns are true, and the chiefcharacters in the book are lifted out of the life as one has seen it. Menlike Osterhaut and Jowett, Indians like Tekewani, doctors like Rockwell,priests like Monseigneur Fabre, ministers like Mr. Tripple, andne'er-do-weels like Marchand may be found in many a town of the West andNorth. Naturally the book must lack in something of that magneticpicturesqueness and atmosphere which belongs to the people in theProvince of Quebec. Western and Northern life has little of the settledcharm which belongs to the old civilization of the French province. Theonly way to recapture that charm is to place Frenchmen in the West, andhave them act and live—or try to act and live—as they do inold Quebec.
That is what I did with Pierre in my first book of fiction, Pierre andHis People, but with the exception of Monseigneur Fabre there is noFrenchman in this book who fulfils, or could fulfil, the temperamentalplace which I have indicated. Men like Monseigneur Fabre have lived inthe West, and worked and slaved like him, blest and beloved by allclasses, creeds, and races. Father Lacombe was one of them. The part heplayed in the life of Western Canada will be written some day by one whounderstands how such men, celibate, and dedicated to religious life, mayplay a stupendous part in the development of civilization. Something ofhim is to be found in my description of Monseigneur Fabre.
This book was begun in 1911 and finished in 1913, a year before warbroke out. It was published serially in the year 1915 and the beginningof 1916. It must, therefore, go to the public on the basis of its meritsalone, and as a picture of the peace-life of the great North West.
Harvest-time was almost come, and the great new land was resting undercoverlets of gold. From the rise above the town of Lebanon, therestretched out ungarnered wheat in the ear as far as sight could reach,and the place itself and the neighbouring town of Manitou on the otherside of the Sagalac River were like islands washed by a topaz sea.
Standing upon the Rise, lost in the prospect, was an old, white-hairedman in the cassock of a priest, with grey beard reaching nearly to thewaist.
For long he surveyed the scene, and his eyes had a rapt look.
At last he spoke aloud:
“There shall be an heap of corn in the earth, high upon thehills;
his fruit shall shake like Libanus, and shall be green in thecity
like grass upon the earth.”
A smile came to his lips—a rare, benevolent smile. He had seenthis expanse of teeming life when it was thought to be an alkali desert,fit only to be invaded by the Blackfeet and the Cree and the BloodIndians on a foray for food and furs. Here he had come fifty yearsbefore, and had gone West and North into the mountains in the Summerseason, when the land was tremulous with light and vibrating to the hoofsof herds of buffalo as they stampeded from the hunters; and also in theWinter time, when frost was master and blizzard and drift its malignantservants.
Even yet his work was not done. In the town of Manitou he still saidmass now and then, and heard the sorrows and sins of men and women, andgave them “ghostly comfort,” while priests younger thanhimself took the burden of parish-work from his shoulders.
For a lifetime he had laboured among the Indians and the few whitesand squaw-men and half-breeds, with neither settlement nor progress.Then, all at once, the railway; and people coming from all the world, andcities springing up! Now once more he was living the life ofcivilization, exchanging raw flesh of fish and animals and a meal oftallow or pemmican for the wheaten loaf; the Indian tepee for the warmhouse with the mansard roof; the crude mass beneath the trees for therefinements of a chancel and an altar covered with lace and whitelinen.
A flock of geese went honking over his head. His eyes smiled in memoryof the countless times he had watched such flights, had seen thousands ofwild ducks hurrying down a valley, had watched a family of heronsstretching away to some lonely water-home. And then another sound greetedhis ear. It was shrill, sharp and insistent. A great serpent was stealingout of the East and moving down upon Lebanon. It gave out puffs of smokefrom its ungainly head. It shrieked in triumph as it came. It was thedaily train from the East, arriving at the Sagalac River.
“These things must be,” he said aloud as he looked. Whilehe lost himself again in reminiscence, a young man came driving acrossthe plains, passing beneath where he stood. The young man's face andfigure suggested power. In his buggy was a fishing-rod.
His hat was pulled down over his eyes, but he was humming cheerfullyto himself. When he saw the priest, he raised his hat respectfully, yetwith an air of equality.
“Good day, Monseigneur” (this honour of the Church hadcome at last to the aged missionary), he said warmly. “Goodday—good day!”
The priest raised his hat and murmured the name,“Ingolby.” As the distance grew between them, he said sadly:“These are the men who change the West, who seize it, and divideit, and make it their own—
“'I will rejoice, and divide Sichem: and mete out thevalley of
Succoth.'
“Hush! Hush!” he said to himself in reproach. “Thesethings must be. The country must be opened up. That is why Icame—to bring the Truth before the trader.”
Now another traveller came riding out of Lebanon towards him,galloping his horse up-hill and down. He also was young, but nothingabout him suggested power, only self-indulgence. He, too, raised his hat,or rather swung it from his head in a devil-may-care way, and overdid hissalutation. He did not speak. The priest's face was very grave, if not alittle resentful. His salutation was reserved.
“The tyranny of gold,” he murmured, “and without themind or energy that created it. Felix was no name for him. Ingolby is abuilder, perhaps a jerry-builder; but he builds.”
He looked across the prairie towards the young man in the buggy.
“Sure, he is a builder. He has the Cortez eye. He sees far off,and plans big things. But Felix Marchand there—”
He stopped short.
“Such men must be, perhaps,” he added. Then, after amoment, as he gazed round again upon the land of promise which he hadloved so long, he murmured as one murmurs a prayer:
“Thou suferedst men to ride over our heads: we went throughfire and
water, and Thou broughtest us out into a wealthy place.”
“Great Scott, look at her! She's goin' to try and take 'em!” exclaimed Osterhaut, the Jack-of-all-trades at Lebanon.
“She ain't such a fool as all that. Why, no one ever done italone. Low water, too, when every rock's got its chance at the canoe.But, my gracious, she is goin' to ride 'em!”
Jowett, the horse-dealer, had a sportsman's joy in a daring thing.
“See, old Injun Tekewani's after her! He's calling at her fromthe bank. He knows. He done it himself years ago when there was rips inthe tribe an' he had to sew up the tears. He run them Rapids in hiscanoe—”
“Just as the Druse girl there is doin'—”
“An' he's done what he liked with the Blackfeet eversince.”
“But she ain't a chief—what's the use of her doin' it?She's goin' straight for them. She can't turn back now. She couldn't makethe bank if she wanted to. She's got to run 'em. Holy smoke, see herwavin' the paddle at Tekewani! Osterhaut, she's the limit, thatpetticoat—so quiet and shy and don't-look-at-me, too, with eyeslike brown diamonds.”
“Oh, get out, Jowett; she's all right! She'll make this countrysit up some day-by gorry, she'll make Manitou and Lebanon sit up to-dayif she runs the Carillon Rapids safe!”
“She's runnin' 'em all right, son. She's—by jee, welldone, Miss Druse! Well done, I say—well done!” exclaimedJowett, dancing about and waving his arms towards the adventurousgirl.
The girl had reached the angry, thrashing waters where the rocks rentand tore into white ribbons the onrushing current, and her first trialhad come on the instant the spitting, raging panthers of foam struck thebow of her canoe. The waters were so low that this course, which she hadmade once before with her friend Tekewani the Blackfeet chief, had perilsnot met on that desperate journey. Her canoe struck a rock slantwise,shuddered and swung round, but by a dexterous stroke she freed the frailcraft. It righted and plunged forward again into fresh death-traps.
It was these new dangers which had made Tekewani try to warn her fromthe shore—he and the dozen braves with him: but it wascharacteristic of his race that, after the first warning, when she mustplay out the game to the bitter end, he made no further attempt to stopher. The Indians ran down the river-bank, however, with eyes intent onher headlong progress, grunting approval as she plunged safely fromdanger to danger.
Osterhaut and Jowett became silent, too, and, like the Indians, ran asfast as they could, over fences, through the trees, stumbling andoccasionally cursing, but watching with fascinated eyes this adventuressof the North, taking chances which not one coureur-de-bois or river-driver in a thousand would take, with a five thousand-dollar prize as thelure. Why should she do it?
“Women folks are sick darn fools when they git goin',”gasped Osterhaut as he ran. “They don't care a split pea whathappens when they've got the pip. Look at her—my hair'sbleachin'.”
“She's got the pip all right,” stuttered Jowett as heplunged along; “but she's foreign, and they've all got the pip,foreign men and women both— but the women go crazy.”
“She keeps pretty cool for a crazy loon, that girl. If I ownedher, I'd—”
Jowett interrupted impatiently. “You'd do what old man Drusedoes—you'd let her be, Osterhaut. What's the good of havin' yourown way with one that's the apple of your eye, if it turns her agin you?You want her to kiss you on the high cheek-bone, but if you go to playthe cat-o'-nine- tails round her, the high cheek-bone gets froze. Golblast it, look at her, son! What are the wild waves saying? They'resayin', 'This is a surprise, Miss Druse. Not quite ready for ye, MissDruse.' My, ain't she got the luck of the old devil!”
It seemed so. More than once the canoe half jammed between the rocks,and the stern lifted up by the force of the wild current, but again thepaddle made swift play, and again the cockle-shell swung clear. But nowFleda Druse was no longer on her feet. She knelt, her strong, slim brownarms bared to the shoulder, her hair blown about her forehead, her daringeyes flashing to left and right, memory of her course at work under sucha strain as few can endure without chaos of mind in the end. A hundredtimes since the day she had run these Rapids with Tekewani, she had goneover the course in her mind, asleep and awake, forcing her brain to seeagain every yard of that watery way; because she knew that the day mustcome when she would make the journey alone. Why she would make it she didnot know; she only knew that she would do it some day; and the day hadcome. For long it had been an obsession with her—as though somespirit whispered in her ear—“Do you hear the bells ringing atCarillon? Do you hear the river singing towards Carillon? Do you see thewild birds flying towards Carillon? Do you hear the Rapidscalling—the Rapids of Carillon?”
Night and day since she had braved death with Tekewani, giving him agun, a meerschaum pipe, and ten pounds of beautiful brown “plug"tobacco as a token of her gratitude—night and day she had heardthis spirit murmuring in her ear, and always the refrain was, “Downthe stream to Carillon! Shoot the Rapids of Carillon!”
Why? How should she know? Wherefore should she know? This was of thethings beyond the why of the human mind. Sometimes all our lives, if wekeep our souls young, and see the world as we first saw it with eyes andheart unsoiled, we hear the murmuring of the Other Self, that Self fromwhich we separated when we entered this mortal sphere, but which followedus, invisible yet whispering inspiration to us. But sometimes we onlyhear It, our own soul's oracle, while yet our years are few, and we havenot passed that frontier between innocence and experience, reality andpretence. Pretence it is which drives the Other Self away with wailing onits lips. Then we hear It cry in the night when, because of the troubleof life, we cannot sleep; or at the play when we are caught away fromourselves into another air than ours; when music pours around us like asoft wind from a garden of pomegranates; or when a child asks a questionwhich brings us back to the land where everything is so true that it canbe shouted from the tree-tops.
Why was Fleda Druse tempting death in the Carillon Rapids?
She had heard a whisper as she wandered among the pine-trees there atManitou, and it said simply the one word, “Now!” She knewthat she must do it; she had driven her canoe out into the resistlesscurrent to ride the Rapids of Carillon. Her Other Self had whispered toher.
Yonder, thousands of miles away in Syria, there were the Hills ofLebanon; and there was one phrase which made every Syrian heart beatfaster, if he were on the march. It was, “The Druses are up!”When that wild tribe took to the saddle to war upon the Caravans andagainst authority, from Lebanon to Palmyra, from Jerusalem to Damascusmen looked anxiously about them and rode hard to refuge.
And here also in the Far North where the River Sagalac ran a wild raceto Carillon, leaving behind the new towns of Lebanon and Manitou,“the Druses were up.”
The daughter of Gabriel Druse, the giant, was riding the Rapids of theSagalac. The suspense to her and to those who watched her course—toTekewani and his braves, to Osterhaut and Jowett—could not be long.It was a matter of minutes only, in which every second was a miracle andmight be a catastrophe.
From rock to rock, from wild white water to wild white water she sped,now tossing to death as it seemed, now shooting on safely to the nexttest of skill and courage—on, on, till at last there was only onepassage to make before the canoe would plunge into the smooth waterrunning with great swiftness till it almost reached Carillon.
Suddenly, as she neared the last dangerous point, round which she mustswing between jagged and unseen barriers of rock, her sight became for aninstant dimmed, as though a cloud passed over her eyes. She had neverfainted in her life, but it seemed to her now that she was hovering onunconsciousness. Commending the will and energy left, she fought theweakness down. It was as though she forced a way through tossing,buffeting shadows; as though she was shaking off from her shouldersshadowy hands which sought to detain her; as though smothering thingskept choking back her breath, and darkness like clouds of wool gatheredabout her face. She was fighting for her life, and for years it seemed tobe; though indeed it was only seconds before her will reasserted itself,and light broke again upon her way. Even on the verge of the lastambushed passage her senses came back; but they came with a starkrealization of the peril ahead: it looked out of her eyes as a face showsitself at the window of a burning building.
Memory shook itself free. It pierced the tumult of waters, found theambushed rocks, and guided the lithe brown arms and hands, so that theswift paddle drove the canoe straight onward, as a fish drives itselfthrough a flume of dragon's teeth beneath the flood. The canoe quiveredfor an instant at the last cataract, then responding to Memory and Will,sped through the hidden chasm, tossed by spray and water, and swept intothe swift current of smooth water below.
Fleda Druse had run the Rapids of Carillon. She could hear the bellsringing for evening service in the Catholic Church of Carillon, andbells-soft, booming bells-were ringing in her own brain. Like muffledsilver these brain-bells were, and she was as one who enters into a deepforest, and hears far away in the boscage the mystic summons of forestdeities. Voices from the banks of the river behind called to her—hilarious, approving, agitated voices of her Indian friends, and ofOsterhaut and Jowett, those wild spectators of her adventure: but theywere not wholly real. Only those soft, booming bells in her brain werereal.
Shooting the Rapids of Carillon was the bridge by which she passedfrom the world she had left to this other. Her girlhood wasended—wondering, hovering, unrealizing girlhood. This adventure wasthe outward sign, the rite in the Lodge of Life which passed her from onedegree of being to another.
She was safe; but now as her canoe shot onward to the town ofCarillon, her senses again grew faint. Again she felt the buffeting mist,again her face was muffled in smothering folds; again great hands reachedout towards her; again her eyes were drawn into a stupefying darkness;but now there was no will to fight, no energy to resist. The paddle layinert in her fingers, her head drooped. She slowly raised her head once,twice, as though the call of the exhausted will was heard, but suddenlyit fell heavily upon her breast. For a moment so, and then as the canoeshot forward on a fresh current, the lithe body sank backwards in thecanoe, and lay face upward to the evening sky.
The canoe sped on, but presently it swung round and lay athwart thecurrent, dipping and rolling.
From the banks on either side, the Indians of the Manitou Reservationand the two men from Lebanon called out and hastened on, for they sawthat the girl had collapsed, and they knew only too well that her dangerwas not yet past. The canoe might strike against the piers of the bridgeat Carillon and overturn, or it might be carried to the second cataractbelow the town. They were too far away to save her, but they keptshouting as they ran.
None responded to their call, but that defiance of the last cataractof the Rapids of Carillon had been seen by one who, below an eddy on theLebanon side of the river, was steadily stringing upon maple-twigs blackbass and long-nosed pike. As he sat in the shade of the trees, he hadseen the plunge of the canoe into the chasm, and had held his breath inwonder and admiration. Even at that distance he knew who it was. He hadseen Fleda only a few times before, for she was little abroad; but whenhe had seen her he had asked himself what such a face and form were doingin the Far North. It belonged to Andalusia, to the Carpathians, to Syrianvillages.
“The pluck of the very devil!” he had exclaimed, asFleda's canoe swept into the smooth current, free of the dragon's teeth;and as he had something of the devil in himself, she seemed much nearerto him than the hundreds of yards of water intervening. Presently,however, he saw her droop and sink away out of sight.
For an instant he did not realize what had happened, and then, withangry self-reproach, he flung the oars into the rowlocks of his skiff anddrove down and athwart the stream with long, powerful strokes.
“That's like a woman!” he said to himself as he bent tothe oars, and now and then turned his head to make sure that the canoewas still safe. “Do the trick better than a man, and then collapselike a rabbit.”
He was Max Ingolby, the financier, contractor, manager of greatinterests, disturber of the peace of slow minds, who had come to Lebanonwith the avowed object of amalgamating three railways, of making theplace the swivel of all the trade and interests of the Western North; butalso with the declared intention of uniting Lebanon and Manitou in onemunicipality, one centre of commercial and industrial power.
Men said he had bitten off more than he could chew, but he had repliedthat his teeth were good, and he would masticate the meal or know thereason why. He was only thirty-three, but his will was like nothing theWest had seen as yet. It was sublime in its confidence, it was free fromconceit, and it knew not the word despair, though once or twice it hadknown defeat.
Men cheered him from the shore as his skiff leaped through the water.“It's that blessed Ingolby,” said Jowett, who had tried to“do" the financier in a horsedeal, and had been done instead, andwas now a devout admirer and adherent of the Master Man. “I saw himdriving down there this morning from Lebanon. He's been fishing atSeely's Eddy.”
“When Ingolby goes fishing, there's trouble goin' on somewhereand he's stalkin' it,” rejoined Osterhaut. “But, by gol, he'sgoin' to do this trump trick first; he's goin' to overhaul her before shegits to the bridge. Look at him swing! Hell, ain't it pretty! There yougo, old Ingolby. You're right on it, even when you're fishing.”
On the other-the Manitou-shore Tekewani and his braves were lesstalkative, but they were more concerned in the incident than Osterhautand Jowett. They knew little or nothing of Ingolby the hustler, but theyknew more of Fleda Druse and her father than all the people of Lebanonand Manitou put together. Fleda had won old Tekewani's heart when she hadasked him to take her down the Rapids, for the days of adventure for himand his tribe were over. The adventure shared with this girl had broughtback to the chief the old days when Indian women tanned bearskins anddeerskins day in, day out, and made pemmican of the buffalo-meat; whenthe years were filled with hunting and war and migrant journeyings tofresh game-grounds and pastures new.
Danger faced was the one thing which could restore Tekewani'sself-respect, after he had been checked and rebuked before his tribe bythe Indian Commissioner for being drunk. Danger faced had restored it,and Fleda Druse had brought the danger to him as a gift.
If the canoe should crash against the piers of the bridge, if itshould drift to the cataract below, if anything should happen to thiswhite girl whom he worshipped in his heathen way, nothing could preservehis self- respect; he would pour ashes on his head and firewater down histhroat.
Suddenly he and his braves stood still. They watched as one wouldwatch an enemy a hundred times stronger than one's self. The white man'sskiff was near the derelict canoe; the bridge was near also. Carillon nowlined the bank of the river with its people. They ran upon the bridge,but not so fast as to reach the place where, in the nick of time, Ingolbygot possession of the rolling canoe; where Fleda Druse lay waiting like aprincess to be waked by the kiss of destiny.
Only five hundred yards below the bridge was the second cataract, andshe would never have waked if she had been carried into it.
To Ingolby she was as beautiful as a human being could be as she laywith white face upturned, the paddle still in her hand.
“Drowning isn't good enough for her,” he said, as hefastened her canoe to his skiff.
“It's been a full day's work,” he added; and even in thishuman crisis he thought of the fish he had caught, of “the bigtrouble,” he had been thinking out as Osterhaut had said, as wellas of the girl that he was saving.
“I always have luck when I go fishing,” he addedpresently. “I can take her back to Lebanon,” he continuedwith a quickening look. “She'll be all right in a jiffy. I've gotroom for her in my buggy—and room for her in any place that belongsto me,” he hastened to reflect with a curious, bashful smile.
“It's like a thing in a book,” he murmured, as he nearedthe waiting people on the banks of Carillon, and the ringing of thevesper bells came out to him on the evening air.
“Is she dead?” some one whispered, as eager hands reachedout to secure his skiff to the bank.
“As dead as I am,” he answered with a laugh, and drewFleda's canoe up alongside his skiff.
He had a strange sensation of new life, as, with delicacy andgentleness, he lifted her up in his strong arms and stepped ashore.
Ingolby had a will of his own, but it had never been really triedagainst a woman's will. It was, however, tried sorely when Fleda came toconsciousness again in his arms and realized that a man's face was nearerto hers than any man's had ever been except that of her own father. Hereyes opened slowly, and for the instant she did not understand, but whenshe did, the blood stole swiftly back to her neck and face and forehead,and she started in dismay.
“Put me down,” she whispered faintly.
“I'm taking you to my buggy,” he replied. “I'lldrive you back to Lebanon.” He spoke as calmly as he could, forthere was a strange fluttering of his nerves, and the crowd was pressinghim.
“Put me down at once,” she said peremptorily. She trembledon her feet, and swayed, and would have fallen but that Ingolby and awoman in black, who had pushed her way through the crowd with white,anxious face, caught her.
“Give her air, and stand back!” called the sharp voice ofthe constable of Carillon, and he heaved the people back with hispowerful shoulders.
A space was cleared round the place where Fleda sat with her headagainst the shoulder of the stately woman in black who had come to herassistance. A dipper of water was brought, and when she had drunk it sheraised her head slowly and her eyes sought those of Ingolby.
“One cannot pay for such things,” she said to him, meetinghis look firmly and steeling herself to thank him. Though deeplygrateful, it was a trial beyond telling to be obliged to owe the debt ofa life to any one, and in particular to a man of the sort to whommaterial gifts could not be given.
“Such things are paid for just by accepting them,” heanswered quickly, trying to feel that he had never held her in his arms,as she evidently desired him to feel. He had intuition, if not enough ofit, for the regions where the mind of Fleda Druse dwelt.
“I couldn't very well decline, could I?” she rejoined,quick humour shooting into her eyes. “I was helpless. I neverfainted before in my life.”
“I am sure you will never faint again,” he remarked.“We only do such things when we are very young.”
She was about to reply, but paused reflectively. Her half-opened lipsdid not frame the words she had been impelled to speak.
Admiration was alive in his eyes. He had never seen this type ofwomanhood before—such energy and grace, so amply yet so lithelyframed; such darkness and fairness in one living composition; suchindividuality, yet such intimate simplicity. Her hair was a very lightbrown, sweeping over a broad, low forehead, and lying, as though with asense of modesty, on the tips of the ears, veiling them slightly. Theforehead was classic in its intellectual fulness; but the skin was sofresh, even when pale as now, and with such an underglow of vitality,that the woman in her, sex and the possibilities of sex, cast a glamourover the intellect and temperament showing in every line of her contour.In contrast to the light brown of the hair was the very dark brown of theeyes and the still darker brown of the eyelashes. The face shone, theeyes burned, and the piquancy of the contrast between the softilluminating whiteness of the skin and the flame in the eyes hadfascinated many more than Ingolby.
Her figure was straight yet supple, somewhat fuller than is modernbeauty, with hints of Juno-like stateliness to come; and the curves ofher bust, the long lines of her limbs, were not obscured by herabsolutely plain gown of soft, light-brown linen. She was tall, but nottoo commanding, and, as her hand was raised to fasten back a wisp ofhair, there was the motion of as small a wrist and as tapering a bare armas ever made prisoner of a man's neck.
Impulse was written in every feature, in the passionate eagerness ofher body; yet the line from the forehead to the chin, and the firmshapeliness of the chin itself, gave promise of great strength of will.From the glory of the crown of hair to the curve of the high instep of aslim foot it was altogether a personality which hinted athistory—at tragedy, maybe.
“She'll have a history,” Madame Bulteel, who now stoodbeside the girl, herself a figure out of a picture by Velasquez, had saidof her sadly; for she saw in Fleda's rare qualities, in her strangebeauty, happenings which had nothing to do with the life she was living.So this duenna of Gabriel Druse's household, this aristocratic, silentwoman was ever on the watch for some sudden revelation of a being whichhad not found itself, and which must find itself through perils andconvulsions.
That was why, to-day, she had hesitated to leave Fleda alone and cometo Carillon, to be at the bedside of a dying, friendless woman whom bychance she had come to know. In the street she had heard of what washappening on the river, and had come in time to receive Fleda from thearms of her rescuer.
“How did you get here?” Fleda asked her.
“How am I always with you when I am needed, truant?” saidthe other with a reproachful look. “Did you fly? You are so light,so thin, you could breathe yourself here,” rejoined the girl, witha gentle, quizzical smile. “But, no,” she added, “Iremember, you were to be here at Carillon.”
“Are you able to walk now?” asked Madame Bulteel.
“To Manitou—but of course,” Fleda answered almostsharply.
After the first few minutes the crowd had fallen back. They watchedher with respectful admiration from a decent distance. They had thechivalry towards woman so characteristic of the West. There was novulgarity in their curiosity, though most of them had never seen herbefore. All, however, had heard of her and her father, the giantgreybeard who moved and lived in an air of mystery, and apparently secretwealth, for more than once he had given large sums—large in theeyes of folks of moderate means, when charity was needed; as in the caseof the floods the year before, and in the prairie-fire the year beforethat, when so many people were made homeless, and also when fifty men hadbeen injured in one railway accident. On these occasions he gavedisproportionately to his mode of life.
Now, when they saw that Fleda was about to move away, they drew just alittle nearer, and presently one of the crowd could contain hisadmiration no longer. He raised a cheer.
“Three cheers for Her,” he shouted, and loud hurrahsfollowed.
“Three cheers for Ingolby,” another cried, and the noisewas boisterous but not so general.
“Who shot Carillon Rapids?” another called in the formulaof the West.
“She shot the Rapids,” was the choral reply. “Who isshe?” came the antiphon.
“Druse is her name,” was the gay response. “What didshe do?”
“She shot Carillon Rapids—shot 'em dead.Hooray!”
In the middle of the cheering, Osterhaut and Jowett arrived in a wagonwhich they had commandeered, and, about the same time, from across thebridge, came running Tekewani and his braves.
“She done it like a kingfisher,” cried Osterhaut.“Manitou's got the belt.”
Fleda Druse's friendly eyes were given only for one instant toOsterhaut and his friend. Her gaze became fixed on Tekewani who, silent,and with immobile face, stole towards her. In spite of the civilizationwhich controlled him, he wore Indian moccasins and deerskin breeches,though his coat was rather like a shortened workman's blouse. He did notbelong to the life about him; he was a being apart, the spirit ofvanished and vanishing days.
“Tekewani—ah, Tekewani, you have come,” the girlsaid, and her eyes smiled at him as they had not smiled at Ingolby oreven at the woman in black beside her.
“How!” the chief replied, and looked at her withsearching, worshipping eyes.
“Don't look at me that way, Tekewani,” she said, comingclose to him. “I had to do it, and I did it.”
“The teeth of rock everywhere!” he rejoined reproachfully,with a gesture of awe.
“I remembered all—all. You were my master,Tekewani.”
“But only once with me it was, Summer Song,” he persisted.Summer Song was his name for her.
“I saw it—saw it, every foot of the way,” sheinsisted. “I thought hard, oh, hard as the soul thinks. And I sawit all.” There was something singularly akin in the nature of thegirl and the Indian. She spoke to him as she never spoke to anyother.
“Too much seeing, it is death,” he answered. “Mendie with too much seeing. I have seen them die. To look hard throughdeerskin curtains, to see through the rock, to behold the water beneaththe earth, and the rocks beneath the black waters, it is for man to seeif he has a soul, but the seeing—behold, so those die who shouldlive!”
“I live, Tekewani, though I saw the teeth of rocks beneath theblack water,” she urged gently.
“Yet the half-death came—”
“I fainted, but I was not to die—it was not mytime.”
He shook his head gloomily. “Once it may be, but the evilspirits tempt us to death. It matters not what comes to Tekewani; he isas the leaf that falls from the stem; but for Summer Song that has far togo, it is the madness from beyond the Hills of Life.”
She took his hand. “I will not do it again, Tekewani.”
“How!” he said, with hand upraised, as one who greets thegreat in this world.
“I don't know why I did it,” she added meaningly.“It was selfish. I feel that now.”
The woman in black pressed her hand timidly.
“It is so for ever with the great,” Tekewani answered.“It comes, also, from beyond the Hills—the will to do it. Itis the spirit that whispers over the earth out of the Other Earth. No onehears it but the great. The whisper only is for this one here and thatone there who is of the Few. It whispers, and the whisper must be obeyed.So it was from the beginning.”
“Yes, you understand, Tekewani,” she answered softly.“I did it because something whispered from the Other Earth tome.”
Her head drooped a little, her eyes had a sudden shadow.
“He will understand,” answered the Indian; “yourfather will understand,” as though reading her thoughts. He hadclearly read her thought, this dispossessed, illiterate Indian chieftain.Yet, was he so illiterate? Had he not read in books which so few havelearned to read? His life had been broken on the rock of civilization,but his simple soul had learned some elemental truths—not many, butthe essential ones, without which there is no philosophy, nounderstanding. He knew Fleda Druse was thinking of her father, wonderingif he would understand, half-fearing, hardly hoping, dreading the momentwhen she must meet him face to face. She knew she had been selfish, butwould Gabriel Druse understand? She raised her eyes in gratitude to theBlackfeet chief.
“I must go home,” she said.
She turned to go, but as she did so, a man came swaggering down thestreet, broke through the crowd, and made towards her with an arm raised,a hand waving, and a leer on his face. He was a thin, rather handsome,dissolute-looking fellow of middle height and about forty, in dandifieddress. His glossy black hair fell carelessly over his smooth foreheadfrom under a soft, wide-awake hat.
“Manitou for ever!” he cried, with a flourish of his hand.“I salute the brave. I escort the brave to the gates of Manitou. Iescort the brave. I escort the brave. Salut! Salut! Salut! Well done,Beauty Beauty—Beauty—Beauty, well done again!”
He held out his hand to Fleda, but she drew back with disgust. FelixMarchand, the son of old Hector Marchand, money-lender and capitalist ofManitou, had pressed his attentions upon her during the last year sincehe had returned from the East, bringing dissoluteness and vulgar pridewith him. Women had spoiled him, money had corrupted and degradedhim.
“Come, beautiful brave, it's Salut! Salut! Salut!” hesaid, bending towards her familiarly.
Her face flushed with anger.
“Let me pass, monsieur,” she said sharply.
“Pride of Manitou—” he apostrophized, but got nofarther.
Ingolby caught him by the shoulders, wheeled him round, and then flunghim at the feet of Tekewani and his braves.
At this moment Tekewani's eyes had such a fire as might burn inWotan's smithy. He was ready enough to defy the penalty of the law forassaulting a white man, but Felix Marchand was in the dust, and thatwould do for the moment.
With grim face Ingolby stood over the begrimed figure. “There'sthe river if you want more,” he said. “Tekewani knows wherethe water's deepest.” Then he turned and followed Fleda and thewoman in black. Felix Marchand's face was twisted with hate as he gotslowly to his feet.
“You'll eat dust before I'm done,” he called afterIngolby. Then, amid the jeers of the crowd, he went back to the tavernwhere he had been carousing.
A word about Max Ingolby.
He was the second son of four sons, with a father who had been afailure; but with a mother of imagination and great natural strength ofbrain, yet whose life had been so harried in bringing up a family onnothing at all, that there only emerged from her possibilities a greatwill to do the impossible things. From her had come the spirit whichwould not be denied.
In his boyhood Max could not have those things which ladsprize—fishing- rods, cricket-bats and sleds, and all such things;but he could take most prizes at school open to competition; he could winin the running-jump, the high-jump, and the five hundred yards' race; andhe could organize a picnic, or the sports of the school or town—atno cost to himself. His finance in even this limited field had beenbrilliant. Other people paid, and he did the work; and he did it withsuch ease that the others intriguing to crowd him out, suffered failureand came to him in the end to put things right.
He became the village doctor's assistant and dispenser at seventeenand induced his master to start a drug-store. He made the drug-store asuccess within two years, and meanwhile he studied Latin and Greek andmathematics in every spare hour he had—getting up at five in themorning, and doing as much before breakfast as others did in a whole day.His doctor loved him and helped him; a venerable Archdeacon, an Oxfordgraduate, gave him many hours of coaching, and he went to the Universitywith three scholarships. These were sufficient to carry him through inthree years, and there was enough profit-sharing from the drug-businesshe had founded on terms to shelter his mother and his younger brothers,while he took honours at the University.
There he organized all that students organize, and was called in atlast by the Bursar of his college to reorganize the commissariat, whichhe did with such success that the college saved five thousand dollars ayear. He had genius, the college people said, and after he had taken hisdegree with honours in classics and mathematics they offered him aprofessorship at two thousand dollars a year.
He laughed ironically, but yet with satisfaction, when theprofessorship was offered. It was all so different from what was in hismind for the future. As he looked out of the oriel window in the sweetgothic building, to the green grass and the maples and elms which madethe college grounds like an old-world park, he had a vision of himselfpermanently in these surroundings of refinement growing venerable withyears, seeing pass under his influence thousands of young men directed,developed and inspired by him.
He had, however, shaken himself free of this modest vision. He knewthat such a life would act like a narcotic to his real individuality. Hethirsted for contest, for the control of brain and will; he wanted toconstruct; he was filled with the idea of simplifying things, ofeconomizing strength; he saw how futile was much competition, and how thebig brain could command and control with ease, wasting no force, savinglabour, making the things controlled bigger and better.
So it came that his face was seen no more in the oriel window. With amere handful of dollars, and some debts, he left the world of scholarshipand superior pedagogy, and went where the head offices of railways were.Railways were the symbol of progress in his mind. The railhead was theadvance post of civilization. It was like Cortez and his Conquistadoresoverhauling and appropriating the treasures of long generations. So whereshould he go if not to the Railway?
His first act, when he got to his feet inside the offices of thePresident of a big railway, was to show the great man how two“outside" proposed lines could be made one, and then further mergedinto the company controlled by the millionaire in whose office he sat. Hegot his chance by his very audacity—the President liked audacity.In attempting this merger, however, he had his first failure, but heshowed that he could think for himself, and he was made increasinglyresponsible. After a few years of notable service, he was offered thetask of building a branch line of railway from Lebanon and Manitou north,and northwest, and on to the Coast; and he had accepted it, at the sametime planning to merge certain outside lines competing with that which hehad in hand. For over four years he worked night and day, steadilyadvancing towards his goal, breaking down opposition, manoeuvring,conciliating, fighting.
Most men loved his whimsical turn of mind, even those who were theagents of the financial clique which had fought him in their efforts toget control of the commercial, industrial, transport and bankingresources of the junction city of Lebanon. In the days when vast marketswould be established for Canadian wheat in Shanghai and Tokio, then thesetwo towns of Manitou and Lebanon on the Sagalac would be like the swivelto the organization of trade of a continent.
Ingolby had worked with this end in view. In doing so he had tried toget what he wanted without trickery; to reach his goal by playing thegame according to the rules, and this policy nonplussed his rivals andassociates. They expected secret moves, and he laid his cards on thetable. Sharp, quick, resolute and ruthless he was, however, if he knewthat he was being tricked. Then he struck, and struck hard. The war ofbusiness was war and not “gollyfoxing,” as he said. Selfish,stubborn and self-centred he was in much, but he had great joy in thenatural and sincere, and he had a passionate love of Nature. To him theflat prairie was never ugly. Its very monotony had its own individuality.The Sagalac, even when muddy, had its own deep interest, and when it wasfull of logs drifting down to the sawmills, for which he had found themoney by interesting capitalists in the East, he sniffed the stingingsmell of the pines with elation. As the great saws in the mills, forwhich he had secured the capital, throwing off the spray of mangled wood,hummed and buzzed and sang, his mouth twisted in the droll smile italways wore when he talked with such as Jowett and Osterhaut, whoseidiosyncrasies were like a meal to him; as he described it once to someof the big men from the East who had been behind his schemes, yet whocavilled at his ways. He was never diverted from his course by such men,and while he was loyal to those who had backed him, he vowed that hewould be independent of these wooden souls in the end. They and the greatbankers behind them were for monopoly; he was for organization and foreconomic prudence. So far they were necessary to all he did; but it washis intention to shake himself free of all monopoly in good time. One ortwo of his colleagues saw the drift of his policy and would have thrownhim over if they could have replaced him by a man as capable, who would,at the time, consent to grow rich on their terms.
They could not understand a man who would stand for a half-hourwatching a sunset, or a morning sky dappled with all the colours thatshake from a prism; they were suspicious of a business-mind which couldgloat over the light falling on snow-peaked mountains, while it planned agreat bridge across a gorge in the same hour; of a man who would quote averse of poetry while a flock of wild pigeons went whirring down apine-girt valley in the shimmer of the sun.
On the occasion when he had quoted a verse of poetry to them, one ofthem said to him with a sidelong glance: “You seem to bedead-struck on Nature, Ingolby.”
To that, with a sly quirk of the mouth, and meaning to mystify hiswooden-headed questioner still more, he answered: “Dead-struck?Dead-drunk, you mean. I'm a Nature's dipsomaniac—as you cansee,” he added with a sly note of irony.
Then instantly he had drawn the little circle of experts into adiscussion upon technical questions of railway-building and finance,which made demands upon all their resources and knowledge. In thatconference he gave especial attention to the snub-souled financier whohad sneered at his love of Nature. He tied his critic up in knots ofself-assertion and bad logic which presently he deftly, deliberately andskilfully untied, to the delight of all the group.
“He's got as much in his ten years in the business as we've gotout of half a life-time,” said the chief of his admirers. This wasthe President who had first welcomed him into business, and introducedhim to his colleagues in enterprise.
“I shouldn't be surprised if the belt flew off the wheel someday,” savagely said Ingolby's snub-souled critic, whose enmity washeld in check by the fact that on Ingolby, for the moment, depended thesafety of the hard cash he had invested.
But the qualities which alienated an expert here and there caught theimagination of the pioneer spirits of Lebanon. Except those who, forfinancial reasons, were opposed to him, and must therefore pit themselvesagainst him, as the representatives of bigger forces behind them, he wasa leader of whom Lebanon was combatively proud. At last he came to thepoint where his merger was practically accomplished, and a problemarising out of it had to be solved. It was a problem which taxed everyquality of an able mind. The situation had at last become acute, andTime, the solvent of most complications, had not quite eased the strain.Indeed, on the day that Fleda Druse had made her journey down theCarillon Rapids, Time's influence had not availed. So he had gonefishing, with millions at stake—to the despair of those who wererisking all on his skill and judgment.
But that was Ingolby. Thinking was the essence of his business, notTime. As fishing was the friend of thinking, therefore he fished inSeely's Eddy, saw Fleda Druse run the Carillon Rapids, saved her fromdrowning, and would have brought her in pride and peace to her own home,but that she decreed otherwise.
Gabriel Druse's house stood on a little knoll on the outskirts of thetown of Manitou, backed by a grove of pines. Its front windows faced theSagalac, and the windows behind looked into cool coverts where in olddays many Indian tribes had camped; where Hudson's Bay Company's men hadpitched their tents to buy the red man's furs. But the red man no longerset up his tepee in these secluded groves; the wapiti and red deer hadfled to the north never to return, the snarling wolf had stolen intoregions more barren; the ceremonial of the ancient people no longer madeweird the lonely nights; the medicine-man's incantations, the harvest-dance, the green-corn-dance, the sun-dance had gone. The braves, theirwomen, and their tepees had been shifted to reservations whereGovernments solemnly tried to teach them to till the field, and growcorn, and drive the cart to market; while yet they remembered the herdsof buffalo which had pounded down the prairie like storm-clouds and giventheir hides for the tepee; and the swift deer whose skins made the wigwamluxurious.
Originally Manitou had been the home of Icelanders, Mennonites, andDoukhobors; settlers from lands where the conditions of earlier centuriesprevailed, who, simple as they were in habits and in life, were ignorant,primitive, coarse, and none too cleanly.
They had formed an unprogressive polyglot settlement, and the placeassumed a still more primeval character when the Indian Reservation wasformed near by. When French Canadian settlers arrived, however, the placebecame less discordant to the life of a new democracy, though they didlittle to make it modern in the sense that Lebanon, across the river,where Ingolby lived, was modern from the day the first shack was thrownup.
Manitou showed itself antagonistic to progress; it was old-fashioned,and primitively agricultural. It looked with suspicion on the factoriesbuilt after Ingolby came and on the mining propositions, which circledthe place with speculation. Unlike other towns of the West, it wasinsanitary and uneducated; it was also given to nepotism and a primitivekind of jobbery; but, on the whole, it was honest. It was a settlementtwenty years before Lebanon had a house, though the latter exceeded thepopulation of Manitou in five years, and became the home of alladventuring spirits—land agents, company promoters, miningprospectors, railway men, politicians, saloon keepers, and up to-datedissenting preachers. Manitou was, however, full of back-water people,religious fanatics, little farmers, guides, trappers, oldcoureurs-de-bois, Hudson's Bay Company factors and ex-factors,half-breeds; and all the rest.
The real feud between the two towns began about the time of thearrival of Gabriel Druse, his daughter, and Madame Bulteel, the woman inblack, and it had grown with great rapidity and increasing intensity.Manitou condemned the sacrilegiousness of the Protestants, whosemeeting-houses were used for “socials,”“tea-meetings,” “strawberry festivals,” andentertainments of many kinds; while comic songs were sung at the tablewhere the solemn Love Feast was held at the quarterly meetings. At lastwhen attempts were made to elect to Parliament an Irish lawyer who addedto his impecuniousness, eloquence, a half-finished University education,and an Orangeman's prejudices of the best brand of Belfast or Derry,inter-civic strife took the form of physical violence. The great bridgebuilt by Ingolby between the two towns might have been ten thousand yardslong, so deep was the estrangement between the two places. They had onlyone thing in common—a curious compromise—in the person ofNathan Rockwell, an agnostic doctor, who had arrived in Lebanon with areputation for morality somewhat clouded; though, where his patients inManitou and Lebanon were concerned, he had been the “pink ofpropriety.”
Rockwell had arrived in Lebanon early in its career, and had remainedunimportant until a railway accident occurred at Manitou and the residentdoctors were driven from the field of battle, one by death, and one byillness. Then it was that the silent, smiling, dark-skinned, cool-headedand cool-handed Rockwell stepped in, and won for himself the gratitude ofall—from Monseigneur Lourde, the beloved Catholic priest, toTekewani, the chief. This accident was followed by an epidemic.
That was at the time, also, when Fleda Druse returned from Winnipegwhere she had been at school for one memorable and terrible six months,pining for her father, defying rules, and crying the night through for“the open world,” as she called it. So it was that, to herfather's dismay and joy in one, she had fled from school, leaving all herthings behind her; and had reached home with only the clothes on her backand a few cents in her pocket.
Instantly on her return she had gone among the stricken people asfearlessly as Rockwell had done, but chiefly among the women andchildren; and it was said that the herbal medicine she administered wasmarvellous in its effect—so much so that Rockwell asked for theprescription, which she declined to give.
Thus it was that the French Canadian mothers with daughters of theirown, bright-eyed brunettes, ready for the man-market, regarded withtoleration the girl who took their children away for picnics down theriver or into the woods, and brought them back safe and sound at the endof the day. Not that they failed to be shocked sometimes, when, on herwild Indian pony, Fleda swept through Manitou like a wind and out intothe prairie, riding, as it were, to the end of the world. Try as theywould, these grateful mothers of Manitou, they could not get as near toFleda Druse as their children did, and they were vast distances from herfather.
“There, there, look at him,” said old Madame Thibadeau toher neighbour Christine Brisson—“look at him with his greatgrey-beard, and his eyes like black fires, and that head of hair like abundle of burnt flax! He comes from the place no man ever saw, that'ssure.”
“Ah, surelee, men don't grow so tall in any Christiancountry,” announced Christine Brisson, her head nodding sagely.“I've seen the pictures in the books, and there's nobody so talland that looks like him—not anywhere since Adam.”
“Nom de pipe, sometimes-trulee, sometimes, I look up there atwhere he lives, and I think I see a thousand men on horses ride out ofthe woods behind his house and down here to gobble us all up. That's theway I feel. It's fancy, but I can't help that.” Dame Thibadeaurested her hands—on her huge stomach as though the idea had itsorigin there.
“I've seen a lot of fancies come to pass,” gloomilyreturned her friend. “It's a funny world. I don't know what to makeof its sometimes.”
“And that girl of his, the strangest creature, as proud as apeacock, but then as kind as kind to the children—of a good heart,surelee. They say she has plenty of gold rings and pearls and bracelets,and all like that. Babette Courton, she saw them when she went to sew.Why doesn't Ma'm'selle wear them?”
Christine looked wise and smoothed out her apron as though it was aparchment. “With such queer ones, who knows? But, yes, as you say,she has a kind heart. The children, well, they follow hereverywhere.”
“Not the children only,” sagely added the other.“From Lebanon they come, the men, and plenty here, too; and there'sthat Felix Marchand, the worst of all in Manitou or anywhere.”
“I'd look sharp if Felix Marchand followed me,” remarkedChristine. “There are more papooses at the Reservation since hecome back, and over in Lebanon—!” She whispered darkly to herfriend, and they nodded knowingly.
“If he plays pranks in Manitou he'll get his throat cut, forsure. Even with Protes'ants and Injuns it's bad enough,” remarkedDame Thibadeau, panting with the thought of it.
“He doesn't even leave the Doukhobors alone.There's—” Again Christine whispered, and again that ugly lookcame to their faces which belongs to the thought of forbidden things.
“Felix Marchand'll have much money—bad penny as heis,” continued Christine in her normal voice. “He'll havemore money than he can put in all the trouser legs he has. Old Hector,his father, has enough for a gover'ment. But that M'sieu' Felix will gethis throat cut if he follows Ma'm'selle Druse about too much. She hateshim—I've seen when they met. Old man Druse'll make trouble. Hedon't look as he does for nothing.”
“Ah, that's so. One day, we shall see what we shall see,”murmured Christine, and waved a hand to a friend in the street.
This conversation happened on the evening of the day that Fleda Druseshot the Carillon Rapids alone. An hour after the two gossips had hadtheir say Gabriel Druse paced up and down the veranda of his house,stopping now and then to view the tumbling, hurrying Sagalac, or to dwellupon the sunset which crimsoned and bronzed the western sky. His walk hadan air of impatience; he seemed disturbed of mind and restless ofbody.
He gave an impression of great force. He would have been picked out ofa multitude, not alone because of his remarkable height, but because hehad an air of command and the aloofness which shows a man sufficient untohimself.
As he stood gazing reflectively into the sunset, a strange, plaintive,birdlike note pierced the still evening air. His head lifted quickly, yethe did not look in the direction of the sound, which came from the woodsbehind the house. He did not stir, and his eyes half-closed, as though hehesitated what to do. The call was not that of a bird familiar to theWestern world. It had a melancholy softness like that of the bell-bird ofthe Australian bush. Yet, in the insistence of the note, it was, too, achallenge or a summons.
Three times during the past week he had heard it—once as he wentby the market-place of Manitou; once as he returned in the dusk fromTekewani's Reservation, and once at dawn from the woods behind the house.His present restlessness and suppressed agitation had been theresult.
It was a call he knew well. It was like a voice from a dead world. Itasked, he knew, for an answering call, yet he had not given it. It wasseven days since he first heard it in the market-place, and in that sevendays he had realized that nothing in this world which has ever been,really ceases to be. Presently, the call was repeated. On the threeformer occasions there had been no repetition. The call had trembled inthe air but once and had died away into unbroken silence. Now, however,it rang out with an added poignancy. It was like a bird calling to itsvanished mate.
With sudden resolution Druse turned. Leaving the veranda, he walkedslowly behind the house into the woods and stood still under the branchesof a great cedar. Raising his head, a strange, solemn note came from hislips; but the voice died away in a sharp broken sound which was morehuman than birdlike, which had the shrill insistence of authority. Thecall to him had been almost ventriloquial in its nature. His lips had notmoved at all.
There was silence for a moment after he had called into the void, asit were, and then there appeared suddenly from behind a clump of juniper,a young man of dark face and upright bearing. He made a slow obeisancewith a gesture suggestive of the Oriental world, yet not like the usualgesture of the East Indian, the Turk or the Persian; it was composite ofall.
He could not have been more than twenty-five years of age. He was sosparely made, and his face being clean-shaven, he looked even younger.His clothes were the clothes of the Western man; and yet there was amanner of wearing them, there were touches which were evidence to thewatchful observer that he was of other spheres. His wide, felt, Westernhat had a droop on one side and a broken treatment of the crown, which ofitself was enough to show him a stranger to the prairie, while his brownvelveteen jacket, held by its two lowest buttons, was reminiscent of anun-English life. His eyes alone would have announced him as of someforeign race, though he was like none of the foreigners who had been thepioneers of Manitou. Unlike as he and Gabriel Druse were in height,build, and movement, still there was something akin in them both.
After a short silence evidently disconcerting to him, “Blessingand hail, my Ry,” he said in a low tone. He spoke in a strangelanguage and with a voice rougher than his looks would havesuggested.
The old man made a haughty gesture of impatience. “What do youwant with me, my Romany 'chal'?” he asked sharply.—[Aglossary of Romany words will be found at the end of the book.]
The young man replied hastily. He seemed to speak by rote. His mannerwas too eager to suit the impressiveness of his words. “The sheepare without a shepherd,” he said. “The young men marry amongthe Gorgios, or they are lost in the cities and return no more to thetents and the fields and the road. There is disorder in all the worldamong the Romanys. The ancient ways are forgotten. Our people gather andsettle upon the land and live as the Gorgios live. They forget the waybeneath the trees, they lose their skill in horses. If the fountain ischoked, how shall the water run?”
A cold sneer came to the face of Gabriel Druse. “The way beneaththe trees!” he growled. “The way of the open road is enough.The way beneath the trees is the way of the thief, and the skill of thehorse is the skill to cheat.”
“There is no other way. It has been the way of the Romany sincethe time of Timur Beg and centuries beyond Timur, so it is told. One manand all men must do as the tribe has done since the beginning.”
The old man pulled at his beard angrily. “You do not talk like aRomany, but like a Gorgio of the schools.”
The young man's manner became more confident as he replied.“Thinking on what was to come to me, I read in the books as theGorgio reads. I sat in my tent and worked with a pen; I saw in theprinted sheets what the world was doing every day. This I did because ofwhat was to come.”
“And have you read of me in the printed sheets? Did they tellyou where I was to be found?” Gabriel Druse's eyes were angry, hismanner was authoritative.
The young man stretched out his hands eloquently. “Hail andblessing, my Ry, was there need of printed pages to tell me that? Is noteverything known of the Ry to the Romany people without the written orprinted thing? How does the wind go? How does the star sweep across thesky? Does not the whisper pass as the lightning flashes? Have youforgotten all, my Ry? Is there a Romany camp at Scutari? Shall it notknow what is the news of the Bailies of Scotland and the Caravans by theTagus? It is known always where my lord is. All the Romanys everywhereknow it, and many hundreds have come hither from overseas. They are east,they are south, they are west.”
He made gesture towards these three points of the compass. A darkfrown came upon the old man's forehead. “I ordered that none shouldseek to follow, that I be left in peace till my pilgrimage was done. Evenas the first pilgrims of our people in the days of Timur Beg in India, soI have come forth from among you all till the time befulfilled.”
There was a crafty look in the old man's eyes as he spoke, and ages ofdubious reasoning and purpose showed in their velvet depths.
“No one has sought me but you in all these years,” hecontinued. “Who are you that you should come? I did not call, andthere was my command that none should call to me.”
A bolder look grew in the other's face. His carriage gained in ease.“There is trouble everywhere—in Italy, in Spain, in France,in England, in Russia, in mother India”—he made a gesture ofsalutation and bowed low—“and our rites and mysteries arelike water spilt upon the ground. If the hand be cut off, how shall thebody move? That is how it is. You are vanished, my lord, and the bodydies.”
The old man plucked his beard again fiercely and his words came withguttural force. “That is fool's talk. In the past I was nevereverywhere at once. When I was in Russia, I was not in Greece; when I wasin England, I was not in Portugal. I was always 'vanished' from one placeto another, yet the body lived.”
“But your word was passed along the roads everywhere, my Ry.Your tongue was not still from sunrise to the end of the day. Your callwas heard always, now here, now there, and the Romanys were one; theyheld together.”
The old man's face darkened still more and his eyes flashed fire.“These are lies you are telling, and they will choke you, my Romany'chal'. Am I deceived, I who have known more liars than any man under thesky? Am I to be fooled, who have seen so many fools in their folly? Thereis roguery in you, or I have never seen roguery.”
“I am a true Romany, my Ry,” the other answered with anair of courage and a little defiance also.
“You are a rogue and a liar, that is sure. These wailings areyour own. The Romany goes on his way as he has gone these hundreds ofyears. If I am silent, my people will wait until I speak again; if theysee me not they will wait till I enter their camps once more. Why are youhere? Speak, rogue and liar.” The wrathful old man, sure in hisreading of the youth, towered above him commandingly. It almost seemed asthough he would do him bodily harm, so threatening was his attitude, butthe young Romany raised his head, and with a note of triumph said:
“I have come for my own, as it is my right.”
“What is your own?”
“What has been yours until now, my Ry.”
A grey look stole slowly up the strong face of the exiled leader, forhis mind suddenly read the truth behind the young man's confidentwords.
“What is mine is always mine,” he answered roughly.“Speak! What is it I have that you come for?”
The young man braced himself and put a hand upon his lips. “Icome for your daughter, my Ry.” The old man suddenly regained hiscomposure, and authority spoke in his bearing and his words. “Whathave you to do with my daughter?”
“She was married to me when I was seven years of age, as my Ryknows. I am the son of Lemuel Fawe—Jethro Fawe is my name. Forthree thousand pounds it was so arranged. On his death-bed three thousandpounds did my father give to you for this betrothal. I was but a child,yet I remembered, and my kinsmen remembered, for it is their honour also.I am the son of Lemuel Fawe, the husband of Fleda, daughter of GabrielDruse, King and Duke and Earl of all the Romanys; and I come for myown.”
Something very like a sigh of relief came from Gabriel Druse's lips,but the anger in his face did not pass, and a rigid pride made thedistance between them endless. He looked like a patriarch giving judgmentas he raised his hand and pointed with a menacing finger at Jethro Fawe,his Romany subject—and, according to the laws of the Romany tribes,his son- in-law. It did not matter that the girl—but three years ofage when it happened—had no memory of the day when the chiefs andgreat people assembled outside the tent of Lemuel Fawe when he lay dying,and, by the simple act of stepping over a branch of hazel, the twochildren were married: if Romany law and custom were to abide, then thetwo now were man and wife. Did not Lemuel Fawe, the old-time rival ofGabriel Druse for the kinship of the Romanys, the claimant whose familyhad been rulers of the Romanys for generations before the Druses gainedascendancy—did not Fawe, dying, seek to secure for his son bymarriage what he had failed to get for himself by other means?
All these things had at one time been part of Gabriel Druse's covenantof life, until one year in England, when Fleda, at twelve years of age,was taken ill and would have died, but that a great lady descended upontheir camp, took the girl to her own house, and there nursed and tendedher, giving her the best medical aid the world could produce, so that thegirl lived, and with her passionate nature loved the Lady Barrowdale asshe might have loved her own mother, had that mother lived and she hadever known her. And when the Lady Barrowdale sickened and died of thesame sickness which had nearly been her own death, the promise she madethen overrode all other covenants made for her. She had promised thegreat lady who had given her own widowed, childless life for her own,that she would not remain a Gipsy, that she would not marry a Gipsy, butthat if ever she gave herself to any man it would be to a Gorgio, aEuropean, who travelled oftenest “the open road” leading tohis own door. The years which had passed since those tragic days inGloucestershire had seen the shadows of that dark episode pass, but thepledge had remained; and Gabriel Druse had kept his word to the dead,because of the vow made to the woman who had given her life for the lifeof a Romany lass.
The Romany tribes of all the nations did not know why their Ry hadhidden himself in the New World; they did not know that the girl had forever forsworn their race, and would never become head of all the Romanys,solving the problem of the rival dynasties by linking her life with thatof Jethro Fawe. But Jethro Fawe had come to claim his own.
Now Gabriel Druse's eyes followed his own menacing finger with sharpinsistence. In the past such a look had been in his eyes when he hadsentenced men to death. They had not died by the gallows or the sword orthe bullet, but they had died as commanded, and none had questioned hisdecree. None asked where or how the thing was done when a fire sprang upin a field, or a quarry, or on a lonely heath or hill-top, and on thepyre were all the belongings of the condemned, being resolved into dustas their owner had been made earth again.
“Son of Lemuel Fawe,” the old man said, his voice roughwith authority, “but that you are of the Blood, you should die nowfor this disobedience. When the time is fulfilled, I will return. Untilthen, my daughter and I are as those who have no people. Begone! Nothingthat is here belongs to you. Begone, and come no more!”
“I have come for my own—for my Romany 'chi', and I willnot go without her. I am blood of the Blood, and she is mine.”
“You have not seen her,” said the old man craftily, andfighting hard against the wrath consuming him, though he liked the youngman's spirit. “She has changed. She is no longer Romany.”
“I have seen her, and her beauty is like the rose and thepalm.”
“When have you seen her since the day before the tent of LemuelFawe now seventeen years ago?” There was an uneasy note in thecommanding tone.
“I have seen her three times of late, and the last time I sawher was an hour or so since, when she rode the Rapids ofCarillon.”
The old man started, his lips parted, but for a moment he did notspeak. At last words came. “The Rapids—speak. What have youheard, Jethro, son of Lemuel?”
“I did not hear, I saw her shoot the Rapids. I ran to follow. AtCarillon I saw her arrive. She was in the arms of a Gorgio ofLebanon— Ingolby is his name.”
A malediction burst from Gabriel Druse's lips, words sharp andterrible in their intensity. For the first time since they had met theyoung man blanched. The savage was alive in the giant.
“Speak. Tell all,” Druse said, with hands clenching.
Swiftly the young man told all he had seen, and described how he hadrun all the way—four miles—from Carillon, arriving beforeFleda and her Indian escort.
He had hardly finished his tale, shrinking, as he told it, from thefierceness of his chief, when a voice called from the direction of thehouse.
“Father—father,” it cried.
A change passed over the old man's face. It cleared as the face of thesun clears when a cloud drives past and is gone. The transformation wasstartling. Without further glance at his companion, he moved swiftlytowards the house. Once more Fleda's voice called, and before he couldanswer they were face to face.
She stood radiant and elate, and seemed not apprehensive of disfavouror reproach. Behind her was Tekewani and his braves.
“You have heard?” she asked reading her father's face.
“I have heard. Have you no heart?” he answered. “Ifthe Rapids had drowned you!”
She came close to him and ran her fingers through his beard tenderly.“I was not born to be drowned,” she said softly.
Now that she was a long distance from Ingolby, the fact that a man hadheld her in his arms left no shadow on her face. Ingolby was now onlypart of her triumph of the Rapids. She tossed a hand affectionatelytowards Tekewani and his braves.
“How!” said Gabriel Druse, and made a gesture ofsalutation to the Indian chief.
“How!” answered Tekewani, and raised his arm high inresponse. An instant afterwards Tekewani and his followers were gonetheir ways.
Suddenly Fleda's eyes rested on the young Romany who was now standingat a little distance away. Apprehension came to her face. She felt herheart stand still and her hands grow cold, she knew not why. But she sawthat the man was a Romany.
Her father turned sharply. A storm gathered in his face once more, anda murderous look came into his eyes.
“Who is he?” Fleda asked, scarce above a whisper, and shenoted the insistent, amorous look of the stranger.
“He says he is your husband,” answered her fatherharshly.
There was absolute silence for a moment. The two men fixed their gazeupon the girl. The fear which had first come to her face passed suddenly,and a will, new-born and fearless, possessed it. Yesterday this will hadbeen only a trembling, undisciplined force, but since then she had beenpassed through the tests which her own soul, or Destiny, had set for her,and she had emerged a woman, confident and understanding, if tremulous.In days gone by her adventurous, lonely spirit had driven her to theprairies, savagely riding her Indian pony through the streets of Manitouand out on the North Trail, or south through coulees, or westward intothe great woods, looking for what: she never found.
Her spirit was no longer the vague thing driving here and there withpleasant torture. It had found freedom and light; what the Romany folkcall its own 'tan', its home, though it be but home of each day's trek.That wild spirit was now a force which understood itself in a new ifuncompleted way. It was a sword free from its scabbard.
The adventure of the Carillon Rapids had been a kind of deliverance ofan unborn thing which, desiring the overworld, had found it. A few hoursago the face of Ingolby, as she waked to consciousness in his arms, hadtaught her something suddenly; and the face of Felix Marchand had taughther even more. Something new and strange had happened to her, and herfather's uncouth but piercing mind saw the change in her. Her quick,fluttering moods, her careless, undirected energy, her wistfulwaywardness, had of late troubled and vexed him, called on capacities inhim which he did not possess; but now he was suddenly aware that she hademerged from passionate inconsistencies and in some good sense had foundherself.
Like a wind she had swept out of childhood into a woman's world wherethe eyes saw things unseen before, a world how many thousand leagues inthe future; and here in a flash, also, she was swept like a wind backagain to a time before there was even conscious childhood—a dim,distant time when she lived and ate and slept for ever in the field orthe vale, in the quarry, beside the hedge, or on the edge ofharvest-fields; when she was carried in strong arms, or sat in theshelter of a man's breast as a horse cantered down a glade, under anardent sky, amid blooms never seen since then. She was whisked back intothat distant, unreal world by the figure of a young Romany standingbeside a spruce-tree, and by her father's voice which uttered thestartling words: “He says he is your husband!”
Indignation and a bitter pride looked out of her eyes, as she heardthe preposterous claim—as though she were some wild dweller of thejungle being called by her savage mate back to the lair she hadforsaken.
“Since when were you my husband?” she asked Jethro Fawecomposedly.
Her quiet scorn brought a quiver to his spirit; for he was of a peopleto whom anger and passion were part of every relationship of life, itsstimulus and its recreation, its expression of the individual.
His eyelids trembled, but he drew himself together. “Seventeenyears ago by the River Starzke in the Roumelian country, it was sodone,” he replied stubbornly. “You were sealed to me, as myRy here knows, and as you will remember, if you fix your mind upon it. Itwas beyond the city of Starzke three leagues, under the brown scarp ofthe Dragbad Hills. It was in the morning when the sun was by a quarter ofits course. It happened before my father's tent, the tent of Lemuel Fawe.There you and I were sealed before our Romany folk. For three thousandpounds which my father gave to your father, you—”
With a swift gesture she stopped him. Walking close up to him, shelooked him full in the eyes. There was a contemptuous pride in her facewhich forced him to lower his eyelids sulkily.
He would have understood a torrent of words—to him that wouldhave regulated the true value of the situation; but this disdainfulcomposure embarrassed him. He had come prepared for trouble anddifficulty, but he had rather more determination than most of his classand people, and his spirit of adventure was high. Now that he had seenthe girl who was his own according to Romany law, he felt he had been ahundred times justified in demanding her from her father, according tothe pledge and bond of so many years ago. He had nothing to lose but hislife, and he had risked that before. This old man, the head of the Romanyfolk, had the bulk of the fortune which had been his own father's and hehad the logic of lucre which is the most convincing of all logic. Yetwith the girl holding his eyes commandingly, he was conscious that he wasasking more than a Romany lass to share his 'tan', to go wandering fromRomany people to Romany people, king and queen of them all when GabrielDruse had passed away. Fleda Druse would be a queen of queens, but therewas that queenliness in her now which was not Romany—somethingwhich was Gorgio, which was caste, which made a shivering distancebetween them.
As he had spoken, she saw it all as he described it. Vaguely,cloudily, the scene passed before her. Now and again in the passing yearshad filmy impressions floated before her mind of a swift-flowing riverand high crags, and wooded hills and tents and horsemen and shouting, anda lad that held her hand, and banners waved over their heads, andgalloping and shouting, and then a sudden quiet, and many men and womengathered about a tent, and a wailing thereafter. After which, in herfaint remembrance, there seemed to fall a mist, and a space of blankness,and then a starting up from a bed, and looking out of the doors of atent, where many people gathered about a great fire, whose flames lickedthe heavens, and seemed to devour a Romany tent standing alone with aRomany wagon full of its household things.
As Jethro Fawe had spoken, the misty, elusive visions had becomeliving memories, and she knew that he had spoken the truth, and thatthese fleeting things were pictures of her sealing to Jethro Fawe and thedeath of Lemuel Fawe, and the burning of all that belonged to him in thatlast ritual of Romany farewell to the dead.
She knew now that she had been bargained for like any slave—forthree thousand pounds. How far away it all seemed, how barbaric andrevolting! Yet here it all was rolling up like a flood to her feet, tobear her away into a past with its sordidness and vagabondage, howevergilded and graded above the lowest vagabondage.
Here at Manitou she had tasted a free life which was not vagabondage,the passion of the open road which was not an elaborate and furtiveevasion of the law and a defiance of social ostracism. Here she and herfather moved in an atmosphere of esteem touched by mystery, but not bysuspicion; here civilization in its most elastic organization andflexible conventions, had laid its hold upon her, had done in thisexpansive, loosely knitted social system what could never have beenaccomplished in a great city—in London, Vienna, Rome, or New York.She had had here the old free life of the road, so full of the scent ofdeep woods—the song of rivers, the carol of birds, the murmuring oftrees, the mysterious and devout whisperings of the night, the happycommunings of stray peoples meeting and passing, the gaiety and gossip ofthe market-place, the sound of church bells across a valley, the stormsand wild lightnings and rushing torrents, the cries of frightened beasts,the wash and rush of rain, the sharp pain of frost, and the agonies ofsome lost traveller rescued from the wide inclemency, the soft starlightafter, the balm of the purged air, and “rosy-fingered morn”blinking blithely at the world. The old life of the open road she had hadhere without anything of its shame, its stigma, and its separateness, itsdiscordance with the stationary forces of law and organizedcommunity.
Wild moments there had been of late years when she longed for thefaces of Romany folk gathered about the fire, while some Romany 'pral'drew all hearts with the violin or the dulcimer. When Ambrose or Gilderoyor Christo responded to the pleadings of some sentimental lass, and sangto the harpist's strings:
“Cold blows the wind over my true love,
Cold blow the drops of rain;
I never, never had but one sweetheart;
In the green wood he was slain,”
and to cries of “Again! 'Ay bor'! again!” the blackeyedlover, hypnotizing himself into an ecstasy, poured out race and passionand war with the law, in the true Gipsy rant which is sung fromTransylvania to Yetholm or Carnarvon or Vancouver:
“Time was I went to my true love,
Time was she came to me—”
The sharp passion which moved her now as she stood before Jethro Fawewould not have been so acute yesterday; but to-day—she had lain ina Gorgio's arms to-day; and though he was nothing to her, he was still aGorgio of Gorgios; and this man before her—her husband—was atbest but a man of the hedges and the byre and the clay-pit, the quarryand the wood; a nomad with no home, nothing that belonged to what she wasnow a part of—organized, collective existence, the life of thehouse-dweller, not the life of the 'tan', the 'koppa', and the'vellgouris'—the tent, the blanket, and the fair.
“I was never bought, and I was never sold,” she said toJethro Fawe at last “not for three thousand pounds, not in threethousand years. Look at me well, and see whether you think it was so, orever could be so. Look at me well, Jethro Fawe.”
“You are mine—it was so done seventeen years ago,”he answered, defiantly and tenaciously.
“I was three years old, seventeen years ago,” she returnedquietly, but her eyes forced his to look at her, when they turned away asthough their light hurt him.
“It is no matter,” he rejoined. “It is the way ofour people. It has been so, and it will be so while there is a Romanytent standing or moving on.”
In his rage Gabriel Druse could keep silence no longer.
“Rogue, what have you to say of such things?” he growled.“I am the head of all. I pass the word, and things are so and so.By long and by last, if I pass the word that you shall sleep the sleep,it will be so, my Romany 'chal'.”
His daughter stretched out her hand to stop further speech from herfather—“Hush!” she said maliciously, “he has comea long way for naught. It will be longer going back. Let him have hissay. It is his capital. He has only breath and beauty.”
Jethro shrank from the sharp irony of her tongue as he would not haveshrunk before her father's violence. Biting rejection was in her tones.He knew dimly that the thing he shrank from belonged to nothing Romany inher, but to that scornful pride of the Gorgios which had kept the Romanyoutside the social pale.
“Only breath and beauty!” she had said, and that she couldlaugh at his handsomeness was certain proof that it was not wilfulnesswhich rejected his claims. Now there was rage in his heart greater thanhad been in that of Gabriel Druse.
“I have come a long way for a good thing,” he said withhead thrown back, “and if 'breath and beauty' is all I bring, yetthat is because what my father had in his purse has made my 'Ry'rich”—he flung a hand out towards GabrielDruse—“and because I keep to the open road as my father did,true to my Romany blood. The wind and the sun and the fatness of thefield have made me what I am, and never in my life had I an ache or apain. You have the breath and the beauty, too, but you have the goldalso; and what you are and what you have is mine by the Romany law, andit will come to me, by long and by last.”
Fleda turned quietly to her father. “If it is true concerningthe three thousand pounds, give it to him and let him go. It will buy himwhat he would never get by what he is.”
The old man flashed a look of anger upon her. “He came empty, heshall go empty. Against my commands, his insolence has brought him here.And let him keep his eyes skinned, or he shall have no breath with whichto return. I am Gabriel Druse, lord over all the Romany people in all theworld from Teheran to San Diego, and across the seas and back again; andmy will shall be done.”
He paused, reflecting for a moment, though his fingers opened and shutin anger. “This much I will do,” he added. “When Ireturn to my people I will deal with this matter in the place whereLemuel Fawe died. By the place called Starzke, I will come to reckoning,and then and then only.”
“When?” asked the young man eagerly.
Gabriel Druse's eyes flashed. “When I return as I will toreturn.” Then suddenly he added: “This much I will say, itshall be before—”
The girl stopped him. “It shall be when it shall be. Am I achattel to be bartered by any will except my own? I will have naught todo with any Romany law. Not by Starzke shall the matter be dealt with,but here by the River Sagalac. This Romany has no claim upon me. My willis my own; I myself and no other shall choose my husband, and he willnever be a Romany.”
The young man's eyes suddenly took on a dreaming, subtle look,submerging the sulkiness which had filled him. Twice he essayed to speak,but faltered. At last, with an air, he said:
“For seventeen years I have kept the faith. I was sealed to you,and I hold by the sealing. Wherever you went, it was known to me. In mythoughts I followed. I read the Gorgio books; I made ready for this day.I saw you as you were that day by Starzke, like the young bird in thenest; and the thought of it was with me always. I knew that when I sawyou again the brown eyes would be browner, the words at the lips would besweeter—and so it is. All is as I dreamed for these long years. Iwas ever faithful. By night and day I saw you as you were when Romany lawmade you mine for ever. I looked forward to the day when I would take youto my 'tan', and there we two would—”
A flush sprang suddenly to Fleda Druse's face, then slowly faded,leaving it pale and indignant. Sharply she interrupted him.
“They should have called you Ananias,” she saidscornfully. “My father has called you a rogue, and now I know youare one. I have not heard, but I know—I know that you have had ahundred loves, and been true to none. The red scarfs you have given tothe Romany and the Gorgio fly- aways would make a tent for all the Fawesin all the world.”
At first he flung up his head in astonishment at her words, then, asshe proceeded, a flush swept across his face and his eyes filled up againwith sullenness. She had read the real truth concerning him. He had gonetoo far. He had been convincing while he had said what was true, but herinstinct had suddenly told her what he was. Her perception had pierced tothe core of his life—a vagabondage, a little more gilded than wascommon among his fellows, made possible by his position as the successorto her father, and by the money of Lemuel Fawe which he haddissipated.
He had come when all his gold was gone to do the one bold thing whichmight at once restore his fortunes. He had brains, and he knew now thathis adventure was in grave peril.
He laughed in his anger. “Is only the Gorgio to embrace theRomany lass? One fondled mine to-day in his arms down there at Carillon.That's the way it goes! The old song tells the end of it:
“'But the Gorgio lies 'neath the beech-woodtree;
He'll broach my tan no more;
And my love she sleeps afar from me,
But near to the churchyard door.
'Time was I went to my true love,
Time was she came to me—'“
He got no farther. Gabriel Druse was on him, gripping his arms sotight to his body that his swift motion to draw a weapon was frustrated.The old man put out all his strength, a strength which in his youngerdays was greater than any two men in any Romany camp, and the“breath and beauty” of Jethro Fawe grew less and less. Hisface became purple and distorted, his body convulsed, then limp, andpresently he lay on the ground with a knee on his chest and fierce, bonyhands at his throat.
“Don't kill him—father, don't!” cried the girl,laying restraining hands on the old man's shoulders. He withdrew hishands and released the body from his knee. Jethro Fawe lay still.
“Is he dead?” she whispered, awestricken.“Dead?” The old man felt the breast of the unconscious man.He smiled grimly. “He is lucky not to be dead.”
“What shall we do?” the girl asked again with a whiteface.
The old man stooped and lifted the unconscious form in his arms asthough it was that of a child. “Where are you going?” sheasked anxiously, as he moved away.
“To the hut in the juniper wood,” he answered. She watchedtill he had disappeared with his limp burden into the depths of thetrees. Then she turned and went slowly towards the house.
The public knew well that Ingolby had solved his biggest businessproblem, because three offices of three railways—one big and twosmall— suddenly became merged under his control. At which there wasrejoicing at Lebanon, followed by dismay and indignation at Manitou, forone of the smaller merged railways had its offices there, and it was nowremoved to Lebanon; while several of the staff, having provedcantankerous, were promptly retired. As they were French Canadians, theirretirement became a public matter in Manitou and begot fresh quarrelbetween the rival towns.
Ingolby had made a tactical mistake in at once removing the office ofthe merged railway from Manitou, and he saw it quickly. It was notpossible to put the matter right at once, however.
There had already been collision between his own railway-men and therivermen from Manitou, whom Felix Marchand had bribed to cause trouble:two Manitou men had been seriously hurt, and feeling ran high. Ingolby'seyes opened wide when he saw Marchand's ugly game. He loathed thedissolute fellow, but he realized now that his foe was a factor to bereckoned with, for Marchand had plenty of money as well as a bad nature.He saw he was in for a big fight with Manitou, and he had to think itout.
So this time he went pigeon-shooting.
He got his pigeons, and the slaughter did him good. As though inkeeping with the situation, he shot on both sides of the Sagalac withgreat good luck, and in the late afternoon sent his Indian lad on aheadto Lebanon with the day's spoil, while he loitered through the woods, agun slung in the hollow of his arm. He had walked many miles, but therewas still a spring to his step and he hummed an air with his shouldersthrown back and his hat on the back of his head. He had had his shooting,he had done his thinking, and he was pleased with himself. He had shapedhis homeward course so that it would bring him near to Gabriel Druse'shouse.
He had seen Fleda only twice since the episode at Carillon, and mether only once, and that was but for a moment at a Fete for the hospitalat Manitou, and with other people present—people who lay in waitfor crumbs of gossip.
Since the running of the Rapids, Fleda had filled a larger place inthe eyes of Manitou and Lebanon. She had appealed to the Western mind:she had done a brave physical thing. Wherever she went she was madeconscious of a new attitude towards herself, a more understandingfeeling. At the Fete when she and Ingolby met face to face, people hadimmediately drawn round them curious and excited. These could notunderstand why the two talked so little, and had such an every-day mannerwith each other. Only old Mother Thibadeau, who had a heart that sees,caught a look in Fleda's eyes, a warm deepening of colour, a suddenembarrassment, which she knew how to interpret.
“See now, monseigneur,” she said to Monseigneur Lourde,nodding towards Fleda and Ingolby, “there would be work here soonfor you or Father Bidette if they were not two heretics.”
“Is she a heretic, then, madame?” asked the oldwhite-headed priest, his eyes quizzically following Fleda.
She is not a Catholic, and she must be a heretic, that'scertain,” was the reply.
“I'm not so sure,” mused the priest. Smiling, he raisedhis hat as he caught Fleda's eyes. He made as if to go towards her, butsomething in her look held him back. He realized that Fleda did not wishto speak with him, and that she was even hurrying away from her father,who lumbered through the crowd as though unconscious of them all.
Presently Monseigneur Lourde saw Fleda leave the Fete and take theroad towards home. There was a sense of excitement in her motions, and healso had seen that tremulous, embarrassed look in her eyes. It puzzledhim. He did not connect it wholly with Ingolby as Madame Thibadeau haddone. He had lived so long among primitive people that he was moreaccustomed to study faces than find the truth from words, and he hadalways been conscious that this girl, educated and even intellectual, wasat heart as primitive as the wildest daughter of the tepees of the North.There was also in her something of that mystery which belongs to theuniversal itinerary—that cosmopolitan something which is the nativehuman.
“She has far to go,” the priest said to himself as heturned to greet Ingolby with a smile, bright and shy, but gravelyreproachful, too.
This happened on the day before the collision between the railway-menand the river-drivers, and the old priest already knew what trouble wasafoot.
There was little Felix Marchand did which was hidden from him. He madehis way to Ingolby to warn him.
As Ingolby now walked in the woods towards Gabriel Druse's house, herecalled one striking phrase used by the aged priest in reference to theclosing of the railway offices.
“When you strike your camp, put out the fires,” was theaphorism.
Ingolby stopped humming to himself as the words came to his memoryagain. Bending his head in thought for a moment, he stood still,cogitating.
“The dear old fellow was right,” he said presently aloudwith uplifted head. “I struck camp, but I didn't put out the fires.There's a lot of that in life.”
That is what had happened also to Gabriel Druse and his daughter. Theyhad struck camp, but had not put out the camp-fires. That which had beendone by the River Starzke came again in its appointed time. The untended,unguarded fire may spread devastation and ruin, following with angryfreedom the marching feet of those who builded it.
“Yes, you've got to put out your fires when you quit thebivouac,” continued Ingolby aloud, as he gazed ahead of him throughthe opening greenery, beyond which lay Gabriel Druse's home. Where he wasthe woods were thick, and here and there on either side it was almostimpenetrable. Few people ever came through this wood. It belonged ingreater part to Gabriel Druse, and in lesser part to the Hudson's BayCompany and the Government; and as the land was not valuable till it wascleared, and there was plenty of prairie land to be had, from whichneither stick nor stump must be removed, these woods were very lonely.Occasionally a trapper or a sportsman wandered through them, but justhere where Ingolby was none ever loitered. It was too thick for game,there was no roadway leading anywhere, but only an overgrown path, usedin the old days by Indians. It was this path which Ingolby trod witheager steps.
Presently, as he stood still at sight of a ground-hog making for itshiding-place, he saw a shadow fall across the light breaking through thetrees some distance in front of him. It was Fleda. She had not seen him,and she came hurrying towards where he was with head bent, abrightly-ribboned hat swinging in her fingers. She seemed part of thewoods, its wild simplicity, its depth, its colour-already Autumn wascrimsoning the leaves, touching them with amber tints, making thewoodland warm and kind. She wore a dress of golden brown which matchedher hair, and at her throat was a black velvet ribbon with a brooch ofantique paste which flashed the light like diamonds, but more softly.
Suddenly, as she came on, she stopped and raised her head in alistening attitude, her eyes opening wide as if listening, too—itwas as though she heard with them as well; alive to catch sounds whichevaded capture. She was like some creature of an ancient wood with itsown secret and immemorial history which the world could never know. Therewas that in her face which did not belong to civilization or to thatfighting world of which Ingolby was so eager a factor. All thegenerations of the wood and road, the combe and the river, the quarry andthe secluded boscage were in her look. There was that about her which wasat once elusive and primevally real.
She was not of those who would be lost in the dust of futility.Whatever she was, she was an independent atom in the mass of the world'sbreeding. Perhaps it was consciousness of the dynamic quality in thegirl, her nearness to naked nature, which made Madame Bulteel say thatshe would “have a history.”
If she got twisted as she came wayfaring, if her mind became possessedof a false passion or purpose which she thought a true one, then tragedywould await her. Yet in this quiet wood so near to the centuries thatwere before Adam was, she looked like a spirit of comedy listening tillthe Spirit of the Wood should break the silence.
Ingolby felt his blood beat faster. He had a feeling that he waslooking at a wood-nymph who might flash out of his vision as a merefantasy of the mind. There shot through him the strangest feeling that ifshe were his, he would be linked with something alien to the world ofwhich he was.
Yet, recalling the day at Carillon when her cheek lay on his shoulderand her warm breast was pressed unresistingly against him, as he liftedher from his boat, he knew that he would have to make the hardest fightof his life if he meant not to have more of her than this briefacquaintance, so touched by sensation and romance. He was, maybe,somewhat sensational; his career had, even in its present restrictedcompass, been spectacular; but romance, with its reveries and itsmoonshinings, its impulses and its blind adventures, had not been anypart of his existence.
Hers were not the first red lips which, voluntarily or involuntarily,had invited him; nor hers the first eyes which had sparkled to hisglances; and this triumphant Titian head of hers was not the only one hehad seen.
When he had taken her hand at the Hospital Fete, her fingers, long andwarm and fine, had folded round his own with a singular confidence, aninvoluntary enclosing friendliness; and now as he watched her listening—did she hear something?—he saw her hand stretch out asthough commanding silence, the “hush!” of an alluringgesture.
This assuredly was not the girl who had run the Carillon Rapids, forthat adventuress was full of a vital force like a man's, and this girlhad the evanishing charm of a dryad.
Suddenly a change passed over her. She was as one who had listened andhad caught the note of song for which she waited; but her face clouded,and the rapt look gave way to an immediate distress. The fantasy of thewood-nymph underwent translation in Ingolby's mind; she was now like amortal, who, having been transformed, at immortal dictate was returningto mortal state again.
To heighten the illusion, he thought he heard faint singing in thedepths of the wood. He put his hands to his ears for a moment, and tookthem away again to make sure that it was really singing and not hisimagination; and when he saw Fleda's face again, there was fresh evidencethat his senses had not deceived him. After all, it was not strange thatsome one should be singing in that deepest wood beyond.
Now Fleda moved forward towards where he stood, quickening herfootsteps as though remembering something she must do. He stepped outinto the path and came to meet her. She heard his footsteps, saw him, andstood still abruptly.
She did not make a sound, but a hand went to her bosom quickly, asthough to quiet her heart or to steady herself. He had broken suddenlyupon her intent thoughts, he had startled her as she had been seldomstartled, for all her childhood training had been towards self-possessionbefore surprise and danger.
“This is not your side of the Sagalac,” she said with ahalf-smile, regaining composure.
“That is in dispute,” he answered gaily. “I want tobelong to both sides of the Sagalac, I want both sides to belong to eachother so that either side shall not be my side or your side,or—”
“Or Monsieur Felix Marchand's side,” she interruptedmeaningly.
“Oh, he's on the outside!” snapped the fighter, with ahardening mouth.
She did not reply at once, but put her hat on, and tied the ribbonsloosely under her chin, looking thoughtfully into the distance.
“Is that the Western slang for saying he belongs nowhere?”she asked.
“Nowhere here,” he answered with a grim twist to thecorner of his mouth, his eyes half-closing with sulky meaning.“Won't you sit down?” he added quickly, in a more sprightlytone, for he saw she was about to move on. He motioned towards a loglying beside the path and kicked some branches out of the way.
After slight hesitation she sat down, burying her shoes in the fallenleaves.
“You don't like Felix Marchand?” she remarkedpresently.
“No. Do you?”
She met his eyes squarely—so squarely that his own rather losttheir courage, and he blinked more quickly than is needed with a healthyeye. He had been audacious, but he had not surprised the garrison.
“I have no deep reason for liking or disliking him, and youhave,” she answered firmly; yet her colour rose slightly, and hethought he had never seen skin that looked so like velvet-creamy, pinkvelvet.
“You seemed to think differently at Carillon not longago,” he returned.
“That was an accident,” she answered calmly. “He wasdrunk, and that is for forgetting—always.”
“Always! Have you seen many men drunk?” he asked quickly.He did not mean to be quizzical, but his voice sounded so, and shedetected it.
“Yes, many,” she answered with a little ring of defiancein her tone— “many, often.”
“Where?” he queried recklessly.
“In Lebanon,” she retorted. “In Lebanon—yourside.”
How different she seemed from a few moments ago when she stoodlistening like a nymph for the song of the Spirit of the Wood! Now shewas gay, buoyant, with a chamois-like alertness and a beaming vigour.
“Now I know what 'blind drunk' means,” he repliedmusingly. “In Manitou when men get drunk, the people getastigmatism and can't see the tangledfooted stagger.”
“It means that the pines of Manitou are straighter than thecedars of Lebanon,” she remarked.
“And the pines of Manitou have needles,” he rejoined,meaning to give her the victory.
“Is my tongue as sharp as that?” she asked, amusement inher eyes.
“So sharp I can feel the point when I can't see it,” heretorted.
“I'm glad of that,” she replied with an affectation ofconceit. “Of course if you live in Lebanon you need surgery to makeyou feel a point.”
“I give in—you have me,” he remarked.
“You give in to Manitou?” she asked provokingly.“Certainly not—only to you. I said, 'You have me.'“
“Ah, you give in to that which won't hurt you—”
“Wouldn't you hurt me?” he asked in a softening tone.
“You only play with words,” she answered with suddengravity. “Hurt you? I owe you what I can not pay back. I owe you mylife; but as nothing can be given in exchange for a life, I cannot payyou.”
“But like may be given for like,” he rejoined in a tonesuddenly full of meaning.
“Again you are playing with words—and with me,” sheanswered brusquely, and a little light of anger dawned in her eyes. Didhe think that he could say a thing of that sort to her—when hepleased? Did he think that because he had done her a great service, hecould say casually what belonged only to the sacred moments of existence?She looked at him with rising indignation, but there suddenly came to herthe conviction that he had not spoken with affronting gallantry, but thatfor him the moment had a gravity not to be marred by the place or thecircumstance.
“I beg your pardon if I spoke hastily,” he answeredpresently. “Yet there's many a true word spoken in jest.”
There was a moment's silence. She realized that he was drawn to her,and that the attraction was not alone due to his having saved her atCarillon; that he was not taking advantage of the thing which must everbe a bond between them, whatever came of life. When she had seen him atthe Hospital Fete, a feeling had rushed over her that he had got nearerto her than any man had ever done. Then—even then, she felt thething which all lovers, actual, or in the making, feel—that theymust do something for the being who to them is more than all else and allothers. She was not in love with Ingolby. How could she be in love withthis man she had seen but a few times—this Gorgio. Why was it thateven as they talked together now, she felt the real, true distancebetween them—of race, of origin, of history, of life, ofcircumstance? The hut in the wood where Gabriel Druse had carried JethroFawe was not three hundred yards away.
She sighed, stirred, and a wild look came in her eyes—a look ofrebellion or of protest. Presently she recovered herself. She was acreature of sudden moods.
“What is it you want to do with Manitou and Lebanon?” sheasked after a pause in which the thoughts of both had travelled far.
“You really wish to know—you don't know?” he askedwith sudden intensity.
She regarded him frankly, smiled, then she laughed outright, showingher teeth very white and regular and handsome. The boyish eagerness ofhis look, the whimsical twist of his mouth, which always showed when hewas keenly roused—as though everything that really meant anythingwas part of a comet-like comedy—had caused her merriment. All thehidden things in his face seemed to open out into a swift shrewdness anddry candour when he was in his mood of “laying all the cards uponthe table.”
“I don't know,” she answered quietly. “I have heardthings, but I should like to learn the truth from you. What are yourplans?”
Her eyes were burning with inquiry. She was suddenly brought to thegateways of a new world. Plans—what had she or her people to dowith plans! What Romany ever constructed anything? What did the buildingof a city or a country mean to a Romany 'chal' or a Romany 'chi', theywho lived from field to field, from common to moor, from barn to citywall. A Romany tent or a Romany camp, with its families, was the wholeterritory of their enterprise, designs and patriotism. They saw thethousand places where cities could be made, and built their fires on thesites of them, and camped a day, and were gone, leaving them waiting andbarren as before. They travelled through the new lands in America fromthe fringe of the Arctic to Patagonia, but they raised no roof-tree; theytilled no acre, opened no market, set up no tabernacle: they had neitherhome nor country.
Fleda was the heir of all this, the product of generations of suchvagabondage. Had the last few years given her the civic sense, the homesense? From the influence of the Englishwoman, who had made her forsakethe Romany life, had there come habits of mind in tune with the women ofthe Sagalac, who were helping to build so much more than their homes?Since the incident of the Carillon Rapids she had changed, but what thechange meant was yet in her unopened Book of Revelations. Yet somethingstirred in her which she had never felt before. She had come of a race ofwayfarers, but the spirit of the builders touched her now.
“What are my plans?” Ingolby drew along breath ofsatisfaction. “Well, just here where we are will be seen a greatthing. There's the Yukon and all its gold; there's the Peace Rivercountry and all its unploughed wheat-fields; there's the whole valley ofthe Sagalac, which alone can maintain twenty millions of people; there'sthe East and the British people overseas who must have bread; there'sChina and Japan going to give up rice, and eat the wheaten loaf; there'sthe U. S. A. with its hundred millions of people—it'll be that in afew years—and its exhausted wheat-fields; and here, right here, isthe bread-basket for all the hungry peoples; and Manitou and Lebanon arethe centre of it. They will be the distributing centre. I want to see thebase laid right. I'm not going to stay here till it all happens, but Iwant to plan it all so that it will happen, then I'll go on and do abigger thing somewhere else. These two towns have got to come together;they must play one big game. I want to lay the wires for it. That's whyI've got capitalists to start paper-works, engineering works, a foundry,and a sash-door-and- blind factory—just the beginning. That's whyI've put two factories on one side of the river and two on theother.”
“Was it really you who started those factories?” she askedincredulously.
“Of course! It was part of my plans. I wasn't foolish enough tobuild and run them myself. I looked for the right people that had themoney and the brains, and I let them sweat—let them sweat it out.I'm not a manufacturer; I'm an inventor and a builder. I built the bridgeover the river; and—”
She nodded. “Yes, the bridge is good; but they say you are aschemer,” she added suggestively.
“Certainly. But if I have schemes which'll do good, I ought tobe supported. I don't mind what they call me, so long as they don't callme too late for dinner.”
They both laughed. It was seldom he talked like this, and never had hetalked to such a listener before. “The merging of the threerailways was a good scheme, and I was the schemer,” he continued.“It might mean monopoly, but it won't work out that way. It willsimply concentrate energy and: save elbow-grease. It will set freecapital and capacity for other things.”
“They say there will be fewer men at work, not only in theoffices but on the whole railway system, and they don't like that inManitou—ah, no, they don't!” she urged.
“They're right in a sense,” he answered. “But themen will be employed at other things, which won't represent waste andcapital overlapping. Overlapping capital hits everybody in the end. Butwho says all that? Who raises the cry of 'wolf' in Manitou?”
“A good many people say it now,” she answered, “butI think Felix Marchand said it first. He is against you, and he isdangerous.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “Oh, if any fool said it, it would bethe same!” he answered. “That's a fire easily lighted; thoughit sometimes burns long and hard.” He frowned, and a fighting lookcame into his face.
“Then you know all that is working against you inManitou—working harder than ever before?”
“I think I do, but I probably don't know all. Have you anyspecial news about it?”
“Felix Marchand is spending money among the men. They are goingon strike on your railways and in the mills.”
“What mills—in Manitou?” he asked abruptly.“In both towns.”
He laughed harshly. “That's a tall order,” he saidsharply. “Both towns—I don't think so, not yet.”
“A sympathetic strike is what he calls it,” sherejoined.
“Yes, a row over some imagined grievance on the railway, and allthe men in all the factories to strike—that's the new game of themodern labour agitator! Marchand has been travelling in France,” headded disdainfully, “but he has brought his goods to the wrongshop. What do the priests—what does Monseigneur Lourde say to itall?”
“I am not a Catholic,” she replied gravely. “I'veheard, though, that Monseigneur is trying to stop the trouble.But—” She paused.
“Yes—but?” he asked. “What were you going tosay?”
“But there are many roughs in Manitou, and Felix Marchand makesfriends with them. I don't think the priests will be able to help much inthe end, and if it is to be Manitou against Lebanon, you can't expect agreat deal.”
“I never expect more than I get—generally less,” heanswered grimly; and he moved the gun about on his knees restlessly,fingering the lock and the trigger softly.
“I am sure Felix Marchand means you harm,” shepersisted.
“Personal harm?”
“Yes.”
He laughed sarcastically again. “We are not in Bulgaria orSicily,” he rejoined, his jaw hardening; “and I can take careof myself. What makes you say he means personal harm? Have you heardanything?”
“No, nothing, but I feel it is so. That day at the Hospital Fetehe looked at you in a way that told me. I think such instincts are givento some people and some races. You read books—I read people. Iwanted to warn you, and I do so. This has been lucky in a way, thismeeting. Please don't treat what I've said lightly. Your plans are indanger and you also.” Was the psychic and fortune-telling instinctof the Romany alive in her and working involuntarily, doing thatfaithfully which her people did so faithlessly? The darkness which comesfrom intense feeling had gathered underneath her eyes, and gave them alook of pensiveness not in keeping with the glow of her perfect health,the velvet of her cheek.
“Would you mind telling me where you got yourinformation?” he asked presently.
“My father heard here and there, and I, also, and some I gotfrom old Madame Thibadeau, who is a friend of mine. I talk with her morethan with any one else in Manitou. First she taught me how to crochet,but she teaches me many other things, too.”
“I know the old girl by sight. She is a character. She wouldknow a lot, that woman.”
He paused, seemed about to speak, hesitated, then after a momenthastily said: “A minute ago you spoke of having the instinct ofyour race, or something like that. What is your race? Is it Irish,or—do you mind my asking? Your English is perfect, but there issomething—something—”
She turned away her head, a flush spreading over her face. She wasunprepared for the question. No one had ever asked it directly of hersince they had come to Manitou. Whatever speculation there had been, shehad never been obliged to tell any one of what race she was. She spokeEnglish with no perceptible accent, as she spoke Spanish, Italian,French, Hungarian and Greek; and there was nothing in her speech markingher as different from the ordinary Western woman. Certainly she wouldhave been considered pure English among the polyglot population ofManitou.
What must she say? What was it her duty to say? She was living thelife of a British woman, she was as much a Gorgio in her daily existenceas this man be side her. Manitou was as much home—nay, it was athousand times more home—than the shifting habitat of the days whenthey wandered from the Caspians to John o' Groat's.
For years all traces of the past had been removed as completely asthough the tide had washed over them; for years it had been so, until thefateful day when she ran the Carillon Rapids. That day saw her wholehorizon alter; that day saw this man beside her enter on the stage of herlife. And on that very day, also, came Jethro Fawe out of the Past anddemanded her return.
That had been a day of Destiny. The old, panting, unrealized,tempestuous longing was gone. She was as one who saw danger and faced it,who had a fight to make and would make it.
What would happen if she told this man that she was a Gipsy—thedaughter of a Gipsy ruler, which was no more than being head of a clan ofthe world's transients, the leader of the world's nomads. Money—herfather had that, at least—much money; got in ways that could notbear the light at times, yet, as the world counts things, notdishonestly; for more than one great minister in a notable country inEurope had commissioned him, more than one ruler and crowned head hadused him when “there was trouble in the Balkans,” or the“sick man of Europe" was worse, or the Russian Bear came prowling.His service had ever been secret service, when he lived the life of thecaravan and the open highway. He had no stable place among the men of allnations, and yet secret rites and mysteries and a language which wasknown from Bokhara to Wandsworth, and from Waikiki to Valparaiso, gavehim dignity of a kind, clothed him with importance.
Yet she wanted to tell this man beside her the whole truth, and seewhat he would do. Would he turn his face away in disgust? What had she aright to tell? She knew well that her father would wish her to keep tothat secrecy which so far had sheltered them—at least until JethroFawe's coming.
At last she turned and looked him in the eyes, the flush gone from herface.
“I'm not Irish—do I look Irish?” she asked quietly,though her heart was beating unevenly.
“You look more Irish than anything else, except, maybe, Slav orHungarian—or Gipsy,” he said admiringly and unwittingly.
“I have Gipsy blood in me,” she answered slowly,“but no Irish or Hungarian blood.”
“Gipsy—is that so?” he said spontaneously, as shewatched him so intently that the pulses throbbed at her temples.
A short time ago Fleda might have announced her origin defiantly, nowher courage failed her. She did not wish him to be prejudiced againsther.
“Well, well,” he added, “I only just guessed at it,because there's something unusual and strong in you, not because youreyes are so dark and your hair so brown.”
“Not because of my 'wild beauty'—I thought you were goingto say that,” she added ironically and a little defiantly. “Igot some verses by post the other day from one of your friends inLebanon—a stock-rider I think he was, and they said I had a 'wildbeauty' and a 'savage sweetness.'“
He laughed, yet he suddenly saw her sensitive vigilance, and byinstinct he felt that she was watching for some sign of shock or disdainon his part; yet in truth he cared no more whether she had Gipsy blood inher than he would have done if she had said she was a daughter of theCzar.
“Men do write that kind of thing,” he added cheerfully,“but it's quite harmless. There was a disease at college we calledadjectivitis. Your poet friend had it. He could have left out the 'wild'and 'savage' and he'd have been pleasant, and truthful too—no, Iapologize.”
He had seen her face darken under the compliment, and he hastened toput it right.
“I loved a Gipsy once,” he added whimsically to divertattention from his mistake, and with so genuine a sympathy in his voicethat she was disarmed. “I was ten and she was fifty at least. Oh, awonderful woman! I had a boy friend, a fat, happy, little joker he was;his name was Charley Long. Well, this woman was his aunt. When she movedthrough the town people looked twice. She was tall and splendidly made,and her manner—oh, as if she owned the place. She did own alot—she had more money than any one else thereabouts, anyhow. Itwas the tallest kind of a holiday when Charley and I walked out to thebig white house-golly, but it was white—to visit her! We didn't eatmuch the day before we went to see her; and we didn't eat much the dayafter, either. She used to feed us—I wish I could eat like thatnow! I can see her brown eyes following us about, full of fire, but softand kind, too. She had a great temper, they said, but everybody likedher, and some loved her. She'd had one girl, but she died of consumption,got camping out in bad weather. Aunt Cynthy—that was what we calledher, her name being Cynthia—never got over her girl's death. Sheblamed herself for it. She had had those fits of going back to theopen-for weeks at a time. The girl oughtn't to have been taken to campout. She was never strong, and it was the wrong place and the wrong timeof year—all right in August and all wrong in October.
“Well, always after her girl's death Aunt Cynthy was as I knewher, being good to us youngsters as no one else ever was, or could be.Her tea-table was a sight; and the rest of the meals were banquets. Thefirst time I ever ate hedgehog was at her place. A little while ago, justbefore you came, I thought of her. A hedgehog crossed the path here, andit brought those days back to me—Charley Long and Aunt Cynthy andall. Yes, the first time I ever ate hedgehog; was in Aunt Cynthy's house.Hi-yi, as old Tekewani says, but it was good!”
“What is the Romany word for hedgehog?” Fleda asked in alow tone.
“Hotchewitchi,” he replied instantly. “That's right,isn't it?”
“Yes, it is right,” she answered, and her eyes had afar-away look, but there was a kind of trouble at her mouth.
“Do you speak Romany?” she added a littlebreathlessly.
“No, no. I only picked up words I heard Aunt Cynthy use now andthen when she was in the mood.”
“What was the history of Aunt Cynthy?”
“I only know what Charley Long told me. Aunt Cynthy was thedaughter of a Gipsy—they say the only Gipsy in that part of thecountry at the time—who used to buy and sell horses, and travel ina big van as comfortable as a house. The old man suddenly died on thefarm of Charley's uncle. In a month the uncle married the girl. Shebrought him thirty thousand dollars.”
Fleda knew that this man who had fired her spirit for the first timehad told his childhood story to show her the view he took of her origin;but she did not like him less for that, though she seemed to feel a chasmbetween them still. The new things moving in her were like breezes thatstir the trees, not like the wind turning the windmill which grinds thecorn. She had scarcely yet begun to grind the corn of life.
She did not know where she was going, what she would find, or wherethe new trail would lead her. The Past dogged her footsteps, hung roundher like the folds of a garment. Even as she rejected it, it asserted itspower, troubled her, angered her, humiliated her, called to her.
She was glad of this meeting with Ingolby. It had helped her. She hadset out to do a thing she dreaded, and it was easier now than it wouldhave been if they had not met. She had been on her way to the Hut in theWood, and now the dread of the visit to Jethro Fawe had diminished. Thelast voice she would hear before she entered Jethro Fawe's prison wasthat of the man who represented to her, however vaguely, the life whichmust be her future—the settled life, the life of Society and not ofthe Saracen.
After he had told his boyhood story they sat in silence for a momentor two, then she rose, and, turning to him, was about to speak. At thatinstant there came distinctly through the wood a faint, trilling sound.Her face paled a little, and the words died upon her lips. Ingolby,having turned his head as though to listen, did not see the change in herface, and she quickly regained her self-control.
“I heard that sound before,” he said, “and I thoughtfrom your look you heard it, too. It's funny. It is singing, isn'tit?”
“Yes, it's singing,” she answered.
“Who is it—some of the heathen from theReservation?”
“Yes, some of the heathen,” she answered.
“Has Tekewani got a lodge about here?”
“He had one here in the old days.”
“And his people go to it still-was that where you were goingwhen I broke in on you?”
“Yes, I was going there. I am a heathen, also, youknow.”
“Well, I'll be a heathen, too, if you'll show me how; if youthink I'd pass for one. I've done a lot of heathen things in mytime.”
She gave him her hand to say good-bye. “Mayn't I go withyou?” he asked.
“'I must finish my journey alone,'“ she answered slowly,repeating a line from the first English book she had ever read.
“That's English enough,” he responded with a laugh.“Well, if I mustn't go with you I mustn't, but my respects toRobinson Crusoe.” He slung the gun into the hollow of his arm.“I'd like much to go with you,” he urged.
“Not to-day,” she answered firmly.
Again the voice came through the woods, a little louder now.
“It sounds like a call,” he remarked.
“It is a call,” she answered—“the call of theheathen.”
An instant after she had gone on, with a look half-smiling,half-forbidding, thrown over her shoulder at him.
“I've a notion to follow her,” he said eagerly, and hetook a step in her direction.
Suddenly she turned and came back to him. “Your plans are indanger— don't forget Felix Marchand,” she said, and thenturned from him again.
“Oh, I'll not forget,” he answered, and waved his capafter her. “No, I'll not forget monsieur,” he added sharply,and he stepped out with a light of battle in his eyes.
As Fleda wound her way through the deeper wood, remembering the thingswhich had just been said between herself and Ingolby, the colour came andwent in her face. To no man had she ever talked so long and intimately,not even in the far-off days when she lived the Romany life.
Then, as daughter of the head of all the Romanys, she had her placeapart; and the Romany lads had been few who had talked with her even as achild. Her father had jealously guarded her until the time when she fellunder the spell and influence of Lady Barrowdale. Here, by the Sagalac,she had moved among this polyglot people with an assurance of her ownseparateness which was the position of every girl in the West, butdeveloped in her own case to the nth degree.
Never before had she come so near—not to a man, but to whatconcerned a man; and never had a man come so near to her or whatconcerned her inmost life. It was not a question of opportunity ortemptation—these always attend the footsteps of those who wouldadventure; but for long she had fenced herself round with restrictions ofher own making; and the secrecy and strangeness of her father's coursehad made this not only possible, but in a sense imperative.
The end to that had come. Gaiety, daring, passion, elation,depression, were alive in her now, and in a sense had found an outlet ina handful of days—indeed since the day when Jethro Fawe and MaxIngolby had come into her life, each in his own way, for good or forevil. If Ingolby came for good, then Jethro Fawe came for evil. She wouldhave revolted at the suggestion that Jethro Fawe came for good.
Yet, during the last few days, she had been drawn again and againtowards the hut in the wood. It was as though a power stronger thanherself had ordered her not to wander far from where the Romany claimantof herself awaited his fate. As though Jethro knew she was drawn towardshim, he had sung the Gipsy songs which she and Ingolby had heard in thedistance. He might have shouted for relief in the hope of attracting theattention of some passer-by, and so found release and brought confusionand perhaps punishment to Gabriel Druse; but that was not possible tohim. First and last he was a Romany, good or bad; and it was his duty toobey his Ry of Rys, the only rule which the Romany acknowledged.“Though he slay me, yet will I trust him,” he would havesaid, if he had ever heard the phrase; but in his stubborn way he madethe meaning of the phrase the pivot of his own action. If he could butsee Fleda face to face, he made no doubt that something would accrue tohis advantage. He would not give up the hunt without a struggle.
Twice a day Gabriel Druse had placed food and water inside the door ofthe hut and locked him fast again, but had not spoken to him save once,and then but to say that his fate had not yet been determined. Jethro'sreply had been that he was in no haste, that he could wait for what hecame to get; that it was his own—'ay bor'! it was his own, and Godor devil could not prevent the thing meant to be from the beginning ofthe world.
He did not hear Fleda approach the hut; he was singing to himself asong he had learned in Montenegro. There the Romany was held in highregard, because of the help his own father had given to the Montenegrinpeople, fighting for their independence, by admirable weapons of Gipsyworkmanship, setting all the Gipsies in that part of the Balkans at workto supply them.
This was the song he sang
“He gave his soul for a thousand days,
The sun was his in the sky,
His feet were on the neck of the world
He loved his Romany chi.
“He sold his soul for a thousand days,
By her side to walk, in her arms to lie;
His soul might burn, but her lips were his,
And the heart of his Romany chi.”
He repeated the last two lines into a rising note of exultation:
“His soul might burn, but her lips were his,
And the heart of his Romany chi.”
The key suddenly turned in the lock, the door opened on the last wordsof the refrain, and, without hesitation, Fleda stepped inside, closingthe door behind her.
“'Mi Duvel', but who would think—ah, did you hear me callthen?” he asked, rising from the plank couch where he had beensitting. He showed his teeth in a smile which was meant to be a welcome,but it had an involuntary malice.
“I heard you singing,” she answered composedly, “butI do not come here because I'm called.”
“But I do,” he rejoined. “You called me from overthe seas, and I came. I was in the Balkans; there wastrouble—Servia, Montenegro, and Austria were rattling thefire-irons again, and there was I as my father was before me. But I heardyou calling, and I came.”
“You never heard me call, Jethro Fawe,” she returnedquietly. “My calling of you is as silent as the singing of thestars, where you are concerned. And the stars do not sing.”
“But the stars do sing, and you call just the same,” heresponded with a twist to his moustache, and posing against the wall.“I've heard the stars sing. What's the noise they make in theheart, if it's not singing? You don't hear with the ears only. The hearthears. It's only a manner of speaking, this talk about the senses. Onesense can do the same as all can do and a Romany ought to know how to useone or all. When your heart called I heard it, and across the seas Icame. And by long and by last, but I was right in coming.”
His impudence at once irritated her and provoked her admiration. Sheknew by instinct how false he was, and how a lie was as common with himas the truth; but his submission to her father, his indifference to hisimprisonment, forced her interest, even as she was humiliated by the factthat he was sib to her, bound by ties of clan and blood apart from hismonstrous claim of marriage. He was indeed such a man as a brainless orsensual woman could yield to with ease. He had an insinuating animalgrace, that physical handsomeness which marks so many of the Tziganieswho fill the red coats of a Gipsy musical sextette! He was notdistinguished, yet there was an intelligence in his face, a daring at hislips and chin, which, in the discipline and conventions of organizedsociety, would have made him superior. Now, with all his sleekhandsomeness, he looked a cross between a splendid peasant and achevalier of industry.
She compared him instinctively with Ingolby the Gorgio, as she lookedat him. What was it made the difference between the two? It was the worldin a man—personality, knowledge of life, the culture of thethousand things which make up civilization: it was personality got fromlife and power in contest with the ordered world.
Yet was this so after all? Tekewani was only an Indian brave who livedon the bounty of a government, and yet he had presence and an air ofcommand. Tekewani had been a nomad; he had not been bound to one place,settled in one city, held subservient to one flag. But, no, she waswrong: Tekewani had been the servant and child of a system which was asfixed and historical as that of Russia or Spain. He belonged to a peoplewho had traditions and laws of their own; organized communities movinghere and there, but carrying with them their system, their laws and theirnational feeling.
There was the difference. This Romany was the child ofirresponsibility, the being that fed upon life, that did not feed life;that left one place in the world to escape into another; that squeezedone day dry, threw it away, and then went seeking another day to bleed;for ever fleeing from yesterday, and using to-day only as acamping-ground. Suddenly, however, she came to a stop in her reflections.Her father, Gabriel Druse, was of the same race as this man, the sameunorganized, irresponsible, useless race, with no weight of civic orsocial duty upon its shoulders—where did he stand? Was he no betterthan such as Jethro Fawe? Was he inferior to such as Ingolby, or evenTekewani?
She realized that in her father's face there was the look of one whohad no place in the ambitious designs of men, who was not a builder, buta wayfarer. She had seen the look often of late, and had never read ituntil now, when Jethro Fawe stared at her with the boldness ofpossession, with the insolence of a soul of lust which had had itsvictories.
She read his look, and while one part of her shrank from him as fromsome noisome thing, another part of her—to her dismay andanger—understood him, and did not resent him. It was the Pastdragging at her life. It was inherited predisposition, the unregulatedpassions of her forebears, the mating of the fields, the generateddominance of the body, which was not to be commanded into obscurity, butmust taunt and tempt her while her soul sickened. She put a hand onherself. She must make this man realize once and for all that they wereas far apart as Adam and Cagliostro. “I never called to you,”she said at last. “I did not know of your existence, and, if I had,then I certainly shouldn't have called.”
“The Gorgios have taken away your mind, or you'dunderstand,” he replied coolly. “Your soul calls and thosethat understand come. It isn't that you know who hears or who iscoming—till he comes.”
“A call to all creation!” she answered disdainfully.“Do you think you can impress me by saying things likethat?”
“Why not? It's true. Wherever you went in all these years thememory of you kept calling me, my little 'rinkne rakli'—my prettylittle girl, made mine by the River Starzke over in the Roumeliancountry.”
“You heard what my father said—”
“I heard what the Duke Gabriel said—'Mi Duvel', I heardenough what he said, and I felt enough what he did!”
He laughed, and began to roll a cigarette mechanically, keeping hiseyes fixed on her, however.
“You heard what my father said and what I said, and you willlearn that it is true, if you live long enough,” she addedmeaningly.
A look of startled perception flashed into his eyes. If I live longenough, I'll turn you, my mad wife, into my Romany queen and the blessingof my 'tan'.”
“Don't mistake what I mean,” she urged. “I shallnever be ruler of the Romanys. I shall never hear—”
“You'll hear the bosh played-fiddle, they call it in theseheathen places—at your second wedding with Jethro Fawe,” herejoined insolently, lighting his cigarette. “Home you'll come withme soon—'ay bor'!”
“Listen to me,” she answered with anger tingling in everynerve and fibre. “I come of your race, I was what you are, a childof the hedge and the wood and the road; but that is all done. Home, yousay! Home— in a tent by the roadside or—”
“As your mother lived—where you were bornwell, well, buthere's a Romany lass that's forgot her cradle!”
“I have forgotten nothing. I have only moved on. I have onlyseen that there is a better road to walk than that where people, alwayslooking behind lest they be followed, and always looking in front to findrefuge, drop the patrin in the dust or the grass or the bushes for othersto follow after—always going on and on because they dare not goback.”
Suddenly he threw his cigarette on the ground, and put his heel uponit in fury real or assumed. “Great Heaven and Hell,” heexclaimed, “here's a Romany has sold her blood to the devil! Andthis is the daughter of Gabriel Druse, King and Duke of all the Romanys,him with ancestor King Panuel, Duke of Little Egypt, who had Sigismund,and Charles the Great, and all the kings for friends. By long and bylast, but this is a tale to tell to the Romanys of the world!” Forreply she went to the door and opened it wide. “Then go and tellit, Jethro Fawe, to all the world. Tell them I am the renegade daughterof Gabriel Druse, ruler of them all. Tell them there is no fault in him,and that he will return to his own people in his own time, but that I,Fleda Druse, will never return— never! Now, get you gone fromhere.”
The sunlight broke through the trees, and fell in a narrow path oflight upon the doorway. A little grey bird fluttered into the radianceand came tripping across the threshold; a whippoorwill called in theashtrees; and the sweet smell of the thick woodland, of the bracken andfern, crept into the room. The balm of a perfect evening of Summer wasupon the face of nature. The world seemed untroubled and serene; but inthis hidden but two stormy spirits broke the peace to which the place andthe time were all entitled.
After Fleda's scornful words of release and dismissal, Jethro stoodfor a moment confounded and dismayed. He had not reckoned with this.During their talk it had come to him how simple it would be to overpowerany check to his exit, how devilishly easy to put the girl at adisadvantage; but he drove the thought from him. In the first place, hewas by no means sure that escape was what he wanted—not yet, at anyrate; in the second place, if Gabriel Druse passed the word along thesubterranean wires of the Romany world that Jethro Fawe should vanish, hewould not long cumber the ground.
Yet it was not cowardice or fear of consequences which had held himback; it was a staggering admiration for this girl who had been given tohim in marriage so many years ago. He had fared far and wide in hisadventures and amours when he had gold in plenty; and he had swung morethan one Gorgio woman in the wild dance of sentiment, dazzling them bythe splendour of his passion. The fire gleaming in his dark eyes lighteda face which would have made memorable a picture by Guido. He had faredfar and wide, but he had never seen a woman who had seized hisimagination as this girl was doing; who roused in him, not the old hotdesire, but the hungry will to have a 'tan' of his own, and go travellingdown the world with one who alone could satisfy him for all his days.
As he sat in this improvised woodland prison he had had visions of ahundred glades and valleys through which he had passed in days goneby— in England, in Spain, in Italy, in Roumania, in Austria, inAustralia, in India—where his camp-fires had burned. In his visionshe had seen her—Fleda Fawe, not Fleda Druse—laying the clothand bringing out the silver cups, or stretching the Turkey rugs upon theground to make a couch for two bright-eyed lovers to whom the night wasas the day, radiant and full of joy. He had shut his eyes and beheldhillsides where abandoned castles stood, and the fox and the squirrel andthe hawk gave shade and welcome to the dusty pilgrims of the road; or,when the wild winds blew in winter, gave shelter and wood for the fire,and a sense of homeliness among the companionable trees.
He had seen himself and this beautiful Romany 'chi' at some villagefair, while the lesser Romany folk told fortunes, or bought and soldhorses, and the lesser still tinkered or worked in gold or brass; he hadseen them both in a great wagon with bright furnishings and brass-girtharness on their horses, lording it over all, rich, dominant and admired.In his visions he had even seen a Romany babe carried in his arms to aChristian church and there baptized in grandeur as became the child ofthe head of the people. His imagination had also seen his own tombstonein some Christian churchyard near to the church porch, where he would notbe lonely when he was dead, but could hear the gossip of the people asthey went in and out of church; and on the tombstone some suchinscription as he had seen once at Pforzheim—“To thehigh-born Lord Johann, Earl of Little Egypt, to whose soul God begracious and merciful.”
To be sure, it was a strange thing for a Romany to be buried in aGorgio churchyard; but it was what had chanced to many great men of theRomanys, such as the high-born Lord Panuel at Steinbrock, and Peter ofKleinschild at Mantua—all of whom had great emblazoned monuments inChristian churches, just to show that in all-levelling death theycondescended from high estate to mingle their ashes with the dust of theGorgio.
He had sought out his chieftain here in the new world in a spirit ofadventure, cupidity and desire. He had come like one who betrays, but heacknowledged to a higher force than his own and to superior rights whenGabriel Druse's strong arm brought him low; and, waking to life andconsciousness again, he was aware that another force also had levelledhim to the earth. That force was this woman's spirit which now gave himhis freedom so scornfully; who bade him begone and tell their peopleeverywhere that she was no longer a Romany, while she would go, no doubt—a thousand times without doubt unless he prevented it—to theswaggering Gorgio who had saved her on the Sagalac.
She stood waiting for him to go, as though he could not refuse hisfreedom. As a bone is tossed to a dog, she gave it to him.
“You have no right to set me free,” he said coolly now.“I am not your prisoner. You tell me to take that word to theRomany people—that you leave them for ever. I will not do it. Youare a Romany, and a Romany you must stay. You belong nowhere else. If youmarried a Gorgio, you would still sigh for the camp beneath the stars,for the tambourine and the dance—”
“And the fortune-telling,” she interjected sharply,“and the snail-soup, and the dirty blanket under the hedge, and theconstable on the road behind, always just behind, watching, waiting,and—”
“The hedge is as clean as the dirty houses where the low-classGorgios sleep. In faith, you are a long way from the RiverStarzke!” he added. “But you are my mad wife, and I must waittill you've got sense again.”
He sat down on the plank couch, and began to roll a cigarette oncemore.
“You come fitted out like a Gorgio lass now, and you look like aGorgio countess, and you have the manners of an Archduchess; but that'snothing; it will peel off like a blister when it's pricked. Underneath isthe Romany. It's there, and it will show red and angry when we'vestripped off the Gorgio. It's the way with a woman, always acting, alwaysimagining herself something else than what she is—if she's a beggarfancying herself a princess; if she's a princess fancying herself aflower-girl. 'Mi Duvel', but I know you all!”
Every word he said went home. She knew that there was truth in what hesaid, and that beneath all was the Romany blood; but she meant to conquerit. She had made her vow to one in England that she loved, and she wouldnot change. Whatever happened, she had finished with Romany life, and togo back would only mean black tragedy in the end. A month ago it was avow and an inner desire which made her determined; to-day it was the vowand a man—a Gorgio whom she had but now left in the woods, gazingafter her with the look which a woman so well interprets.
“You mean you won't go free from here? Because I was a Romany,and wish you no harm, I have come here to-day to let you go where youwill—to go back to the place where the patrins show where yourpeople travel. I set you free, and you say what you think will hurt andshame me. You have a cruel soul. You would torture any woman till shedied. You shall not torture me. You are as far from me as the RiverStarzke. I could have let you stay here for my father to deal with, but Ihave set you free. I open the door for you, though you are nothing to me,and I am no more to you than one of the women you have fooled and left toeat the vile bread of the forsaken. You have been, you are a wolf—awolf.”
He got to his feet again, and the blood rushed to his face, so that itseemed almost black. A torrent of mad words gathered in his throat, butthey choked him, and in the pause his will asserted itself. He becamecool and deliberate.
“You are right, my girl, I have sucked the orange and thrown theskin away, and I've picked flowers and cast them by, but that was beforethe first day I saw you as you now are. You were standing by the Sagalaclooking out to the west where the pack-trains were travelling into thesun over the mountains, and you had your hand on the neck of your pony. Iwas not ten feet away from you, behind a juniper-bush. I looked at you,and I wished that I had never seen a woman before and could look at theworld as you did then—it was like water from a spring, that look.You are right in what you say. By long and by last I had a hard hand, andwhen I left what I'd struck down I never looked back. But I saw you, andI wished I had never seen a woman before. You have been here alone withme with that door shut. Have I said or done anything that a Gorgio dukewouldn't do? Ah, God's love, but you were bold to come! I married you bythe River Starzke; I looked upon you as my wife; and here you were alonewith me! I had my rights, and I had been trampled underfoot by yourfather—”
“By your Chief.”
“'Ay bor', by my Chief! I had my wrongs, and I had my rights,and you were mine by Romany law. It was for me here to claimyou—here where a Romany and his wife were alonetogether!”
His eyes were fixed searchingly on hers, as though he would read theeffect of his words before he replied, and his voice had a curious, roughnote, as though with difficulty he quelled the tempest within him.“I have my rights, and you had spat upon me,” he said withferocious softness.
She did not blench, but looked him steadily in the eyes.
“I knew what would be in your mind,” she answered,“but that did not keep me from coming. You would not bite the handthat set you free.”
“You called me a wolf a minute ago.”
“But a wolf would not bite the hand that freed it from the trap.Yet if such shame could be, I still would have had no fear, for I shouldhave shot you as wolves are shot that come too near the fold.”
He looked at her piercingly, and the pupils of his eyes narrowed to apin-point. “You would have shot me—you are armed?” hequestioned.
“Am I the only woman that has armed herself against you and suchas you? Do you not see?”
“Mi Duvel, but I do see now with a thousand eyes!” he saidhoarsely.
His senses were reeling. Down beneath everything had been the thoughtthat, as he had prevailed with other women, he could prevail with her;that she would come to him in the end. He had felt, but he had declinedto see, the significance of her bearing, of her dress, of her speech, ofher present mode of life, of its comparative luxury, its socialdistinction of a kind which lifted her above even the Gorgios by whom shewas surrounded. A fatuous belief in himself and in his personal powershad deluded him. He had told the truth when he said that no woman hadever appealed to him as she did; that she had blotted out all other womenfrom the book of his adventurous and dissolute life; and he had dreamed adream of conquest of her when Fortune should hand out to him the key ofthe situation. Did not the beautiful Russian countess on the Volga fleefrom her liege lord and share his 'tan'? When he played his fiddle to theAustrian princess, did she not give him a key to the garden where shewalked of an evening? And this was a Romany lass, daughter of hisChieftain, as he was son of a great Romany chief; and what marvel couldthere be that she who had been made his child wife, should be conqueredas others had been!
“'Mi Duvel', but I see!” he repeated in a huskyfierceness. “I am your husband, but you would have killed me if Ihad taken a kiss from your lips, sealed to me by all our tribes and byyour father and mine.”
“My lips are my own, my life is my own, and when I marry, Ishall marry a man of my own choosing, and he will not be a Romany,”she replied with a look of resolution which her beating heart belied.“I'm not a pedlar's basket.”
“'Kek! Kek'! That's plain,” he retorted. “But the'wolf' is no lamb either! I said I would not go till your father set mefree, since you had no right to do so, but a wife should save herhusband, and her husband should set himself free for his wife'ssake”—his voice rose in fierce irony—“and so Iwill now go free. But I will not take the word to the Romany people thatyou are no more of them. I am a true Romany. I disobeyed my 'Ry' incoming here because my wife was here, and I wanted her. I am a trueRomany husband who will not betray his wife to her people; but I willhave my way, and no Gorgio shall take her to his home. She belongs to mytent, and I will take her there.”
Her gesture of contempt, anger and negation infuriated him. “IfI do not take you to my 'tan', it will be because I'm dead,” hesaid, and his white teeth showed fiercely.
“I have set you free. You had better go,” she rejoinedquietly.
Suddenly he turned at the doorway. A look of passion burned in hiseyes. His voice became soft and persuasive. “I would put the pastbehind me, and be true to you, my girl,” he said. “I shall bechief over all the Romany people when Duke Gabriel dies. We are sib; giveme what is mine. I am yours—and I hold to my troth. Come, beloved,let us go together.”
A sigh broke from her lips, for she saw that, bad as he was, there wasa moment's truth in his words. “Go while you can,” she said.“You are nothing to me.”
For an instant he hesitated, then, with a muttered oath, sprang outinto the bracken, and was presently lost among the trees.
For a long time she sat in the doorway, and again and again her eyesfilled with tears. She felt a cloud of trouble closing in upon her. Atlast there was the sound of footsteps, and a moment later Gabriel Drusecame through the trees towards her. His eyes were sullen andbrooding.
“You have set him free?” he asked.
She nodded. “It was madness keeping him here,” shesaid.
“It is madness letting him go,” he answered morosely.“He will do harm. 'Ay bor', he will! I might have known—womenare chicken-hearted. I ought to have put him out of the way, but I haveno heart any more—no heart; I have the soul of a rabbit.”
Ingolby's square head jerked forwards in stern inquiry and his eyesfastened those of Jowett, the horsedealer. “Take care what you'resaying, Jowett,” he said. “It's a penitentiary job, if it canbe proved. Are you sure you got it right?”
Jowett had unusual shrewdness, some vanity and a humorous tongue. Hewas a favourite in both towns, and had had the better of both inhorse-dealing a score of times.
That did not make him less popular. However, it was said he liked lowcompany, and it was true that though he had “money in thebank,” and owned a corner lot or so, he seemed to care little whathis company was. His most constant companion was Fabian Osterhaut, whowas the common property of both towns, doing a little of everything for aliving, from bill-posting to the solicitation of an insurance agent.
For any casual work connected with public functions Osterhaut wasindispensable, and he would serve as a doctor's assistant and help cutoff a leg, be the majordomo for a Sunday-school picnic, or arrange asoiree at a meeting-house with equal impartiality. He had been known toattend a temperance meeting and a wake in the same evening. Yet no oneever questioned his bona fides, and if he had attended mass at Manitou inthe morning, joined a heathen dance in Tekewani's Reserve in theafternoon, and listened to the oleaginous Rev. Reuben Tripple in theevening, it would have been taken as a matter of course.
He was at times profane and impecunious, and he had been shifted fromone boarding-house to another till at last, having exhausted credit inLebanon, he had found a room in the house of old Madame Thibadeau inManitou. She had taken him in because, in years gone by, he had nursedher only son through an attack of smallpox on the Siwash River, andsomehow Osterhaut had always paid his bills to her. He was curiouslyexact where she was concerned. If he had not enough for his week's boardand lodging, he borrowed it, chiefly of Jowett, who used him profitablyat times to pass the word about a horse, or bring news of a possibledeal.
“It's a penitentiary job, Jowett,” Ingolby repeated.“I didn't think Marchand would be so mad as that.”
“Say, it's all straight enough, Chief,” answered Jowett,sucking his unlighted cigar. “Osterhaut got wind of it—he'sstaying at old Mother Thibadeau's, as you know. He moves round a lot, andhe put me on to it. I took on the job at once. I got in with the Frenchtoughs over at Manitou, at Barbazon's Tavern, and I gave themgin—we made it a gin night. It struck their fancy—gin, allgin! 'Course there's nothing in gin different from any other spirit; butit fixed their minds, and took away suspicion.
“I got drunk—oh, yes, of course, blind drunk, didn't I?Kissed me, half a dozen of the Quebec boys did—said I was 'bullyboy' and 'hell-fellow'; said I was 'bon enfant'; and I said likewise inmy best patois. They liked that. I've got a pretty good stock ofmonkey-French, and I let it go. They laughed till they cried at some ofmy mistakes, but they weren't no mistakes, not on your life. It was alldone a-purpose. They said I was the only man from Lebanon they wouldn'thave cut up and boiled, and they was going to have the blood of theLebanon lot before they'd done. I pretended to get mad, and I talkedwild. I said that Lebanon would get them first, that Lebanon wouldn'twait, but'd have it out; and I took off my coat and staggeredabout—blind-fair blind boozy. I tripped over some fool's footpurposely, just beside a bench against the wall, and I come down on thatbench hard. They laughed—Lord, how they laughed! They didn't mindmy givin' 'em fits—all except one or two. That was what I expected.The one or two was mad. They begun raging towards me, but there I wasasleep on the bench-stony blind, and then they only spit fire a bit. Someone threw my coat over me. I hadn't any cash in the pockets, notmuch—I knew better than that—and I snored like a sow. Then ithappened what I thought would happen. They talked. And here it is.They're going to have a strike in the mills, and you're to get a tossinto the river. That's to be on Friday. But the other thing—well,they all cleared away but two. They were the two that wanted to have itout with me. They stayed behind. There was I snoring like a locomotive,but my ears open all right.
“Well, they give the thing away. One of 'em had just come fromFelix Marchand and he was full of it. What was it? Why, the second nightof the strike your new bridge over the river was to be blown up. Marchandwas to give these two toughs three hundred dollars each for doingit.”
“Blown up with what?” Ingolby asked sharply.
“Dynamite.”
“Where would they get it?”
“Some left from blasting below the mills.”
“All right! Go on.”
“There wasn't much more. Old Barbazon, the landlord, come in andthey quit talking about it; but they said enough to send 'em to gaol forten years.”
Ingolby blinked at Jowett reflectively, and his mouth gave a twistthat lent to his face an almost droll look.
“What good would it do if they got ten years—or one year,if the bridge was blown up? If they got skinned alive, and if Marchandwas handed over to a barnful of hungry rats to be gnawed to death, itwouldn't help. I've heard and seen a lot of hellish things, but there'snothing to equal that. To blow up the bridge—for what? To spiteLebanon, and to hurt me; to knock the spokes out of my wheel. He's thedregs, is Marchand.”
“I guess he's a shyster by nature, that fellow,”interposed Jowett. “He was boilin' hot when he was fifteen. Hespoiled a girl I knew when he was twenty-two, not fourteen shewas—Lil Sarnia; and he got her away before—well, he got heraway East; and she's in a dive in Winnipeg now. As nice a girl—asnice a little girl she was, and could ride any broncho that ever bucked.What she saw in him—but there, she was only a child, just the mindof a child she had, and didn't understand. He'd ha' been tarred andfeathered if it'd been known. But old Mick Sarnia said hush, for hiswife's sake, and so we hushed, and Sarnia's wife doesn't know even now. Ithought a lot of Lil, as much almost as if she'd been my own; and lots o'times, when I think of it, I sit up straight, and the thing freezes me;and I want to get Marchand by the scruff of the neck. I got a horse, theworst that ever was—so bad I haven't had the heart to ride him orsell him. He's so bad he makes me laugh. There's nothing he won't do,from biting to bolting. Well, I'd like to tie Mr. Felix Marchand,Esquire, to his back, and let him loose on the prairie, and pray the Lordto save him if he thought fit. I fancy I know what the Lord would do. AndLil Sarnia's only one. Since he come back from the States, he's thelimit, oh, the damnedest limit. He's a pest all round- and now,this!”
Ingolby kept blinking reflectively as Jowett talked. He was doing twothings at once with a facility quite his own. He was understanding allJowett was saying, but he was also weighing the whole situation. His mindwas gone fishing, figuratively speaking. He was essentially a man ofaction, but his action was the bullet of his mind; he had to be quietphysically when he was really thinking. Then he was as one in a dreamwhere all physical motion was mechanical, and his body was actingautomatically. His concentration, and therefore his abstraction, wasphenomenal. Jowett's reminiscences at a time so critical did not disturbhim—did not, indeed, seem to be irrelevant. It was as though FelixMarchand was being passed in review before him in a series of aspects. Henodded encouragement to Jowett to go on.
“It's because Marchand hates you, Chief. The bump he got whenyou dropped him on the ground that day at Carillon hurts still. It's achronic inflammation. Closing them railway offices at Manitou, anddislodging the officials give him his first good chance. The feud betweenthe towns is worse now than it's ever been. Make no mistake. There's awhole lot of toughs in Manitou. Then there's religion, and there's race,and there's a want-to-stand-still and leave-me-alone-feeling. They don'twant to get on. They don't want progress. They want to throw the slopsout of the top windows into the street; they want their cesspools at thefront door; they think that everybody's got to have smallpox some time oranother, and the sooner they have it the better; they want to be bribed;and they think that if a vote's worth having it's worth payingfor—and yet there's a bridge between these two towns! Abridge—why, they're as far apart as the Yukon andPatagonia.”
“What'd buy Felix Marchand?” Ingolby asked meditatively.“What's his price?”
Jowett shifted with impatience. “Say, Chief, I don't know whatyou're thinking about. Do you think you could make a deal with FelixMarchand? Not much. You've got the cinch on him. You could send him toquod, and I'd send him there as quick as lightning. I'd hang him, if Icould, for what he done to Lil Sarnia. Years ago when he was a boy heoffered me a gold watch for a mare I had. The watch looked as right ascould be— solid fourteen-carat, he said it was. He got my horse,and I got his watch. It wasn't any more gold than he was. It wasfilled—just plated with nine-carat gold. It was worth about tendollars.”
“What was the mare worth?” asked Ingolby, his mouthtwisting again with quizzical meaning.
“That mare—she was all right.”
“Yes, but what was the matter with her?”
“Oh, a spavin—she was all right when she got woundup—go like Dexter or Maud S.”
“But if you were buying her what would you have paid for her,Jowett? Come now, man to man, as they say. How much did you pay forher?”
“About what she was worth, Chief, within a dollar ortwo.”
“And what was she worth?”
“What I paid for her-ten dollars.”
Then the two men looked at each other full in the eyes, and Jowettthrew back his head and laughed outright—laughed loud and hard.“Well, you got me, Chief, right under the guard,” heobserved.
Ingolby did not laugh outright, but there was a bubble of humour inhis eyes. “What happened to the watch?” he asked.
“I got rid of it.”
“In a horse-trade?”
“No, I got a town lot with it.”
“In Lebanon?”
“Well, sort of in Lebanon's back-yard.”
“What's the lot worth now?”
“About two thousand dollars!”
“Was it your first town lot?”
“The first lot of Mother Earth I ever owned.”
“Then you got a vote on it?”
“Yes, my first vote.”
“And the vote let you be a town-councillor?”
“It and my good looks.”
“Indirectly, therefore, you are a landowner, a citizen, a publicservant, and an instrument of progress because of Felix Marchand. If youhadn't had the watch you wouldn't have had that town lot.”
“Well, mebbe, not that lot.”
Suddenly Ingolby got to his feet and squared himself, and his facebecame alight with purpose. His mind had come back from fishing, and hewas ready now for action. His plans were formed. He was in for a fight,and he had made up his mind how, with the new information to his hand, hewould develop his campaign further.
“You didn't make a fuss about the watch, Jowett. You might havegone to Felix Marchand or to his father and proved him a liar, and goteven that way. You didn't; you got a corner lot with it. That's what I'mgoing to do. I can have Felix Marchand put in the jug, and make his oldfather, Hector Marchand, sick; but I like old Hector Marchand, and Ithink he's bred as bad a pup as ever was. I'm going to try and do withthis business as you did with that watch. I'm going to try and turn it toaccount and profit in the end. Felix Marchand's profiting by a mistake ofmine—a mistake in policy. It gives him his springboard; and there'senough dry grass in both towns to get a big blaze with a very littlematch. I know that things are seething. The Chief Constable keeps meposted as to what's going on here, and pretty fairly as to what's goingon in Manitou. The police in Manitou are straight enough. That's onecomfort. I've done Felix Marchand there. I guess that the Chief Constableof Manitou and Monseigneur Lourde and old Mother Thibadeau are about theonly people that Marchand can't bribe. I see I've got to face a scrimmagebefore I can get what I want.”
“What you want you'll have, I bet,” was the admiringresponse.
“I'm going to have a good try. I want these two towns to be one.That'll be good for your town lots, Jowett,” he added whimsically.“If my policy is carried out, my town lot'll be worth a pocketfulof gold-plated watches or a stud of spavined mares.” He chuckled tohimself, and his fingers reached towards a bell on the table, but hepaused. “When was it they said the strike would begin?” heasked.
“Friday.”
“Did they say what hour?”
“Eleven in the morning.”
“Third of a day's work and a whole day's pay,” he mused.“Jowett,” he added, “I want you to have faith. I'mgoing to do Marchand, and I'm going to do him in a way that'll be best inthe end. You can help as much if not more than anybody—you andOsterhaut. And if I succeed, it'll be worth your while.”
“I ain't followin' you because it's worth while, but because Iwant to, Chief.”
“I know; but a man—every man—likes the counters forthe game.” He turned to the table, opened a drawer, and took out afolded paper. He looked it through carefully, wrote a name on it, andhanded it to Jowett.
“There's a hundred shares in the Northwest Railway, with myregards, Jowett. Some of the counters of the game.”
Jowett handed it back at once with a shake of the head. “I don'tlive in Manitou,” he said. “I'm almost white, Chief. I'venever made a deal with you, and don't want to. I'm your man for the funof it, and because I'd give my life to have your head on my shoulders forone year.”
“I'd feel better if you'd take the shares, Jowett. You've helpedme, and I can't let you do it for nothing.”
“Then I can't do it at all. I'm discharged.” Suddenly,however, a humorous, eager look shot into Jowett's face. “Will youtoss for it?” he blurted out. “Certainly, if you like,”was the reply.
“Heads I win, tails it's yours?”
“Good.”
Ingolby took a silver dollar from his pocket, and tossed. It came downtails. Ingolby had won.
“My corner lot against double the shares?” Jowett askedsharply, his face flushed with eager pleasure. He was a born gambler.
“As you like,” answered Ingolby with a smile. Ingolbytossed, and they stooped over to look at the dollar on the floor. It hadcome up heads. “You win,” said Ingolby, and turning to thetable, took out another hundred shares. In a moment they were handedover.
“You're a wonder, Jowett,” he said. “You risked alot of money. Are you satisfied?”
“You bet, Chief. I come by these shares honestly now.”
He picked up the silver dollar from the floor, and was about to put itin his pocket.
“Wait—that's my dollar,” said Ingolby.
“By gracious, so it is!” said Jowett, and handed it overreluctantly.
Ingolby pocketed it with satisfaction.
Neither dwelt on the humour of the situation. They were only concernedfor the rules of the game, and both were gamesters in their way.
After a few brief instructions to Jowett, and a message for Osterhautconcerning a suit of workman's clothes, Ingolby left his offices andwalked down the main street of the town with his normal rapidity,responding cheerfully to the passers-by, but not encouraging evidentdesire for talk with him. Men half-started forward to him, but he heldthem back with a restraining eye. They knew his ways. He was responsivein a brusque, inquisitive, but good-humoured and sometimes very drollway; but there were times when men said to themselves that he was to beleft alone; and he was so much master of the place that, as Osterhaut andJowett frequently remarked, “What he says goes!” It went evenwith those whom he had passed in the race of power.
He had had his struggles to be understood in his first days inLebanon. He had fought intrigue and even treachery, had defeated groupswhich were the forces at work before he came to Lebanon, and hadcompelled the submission of others. All these had vowed to “getback at him,” but when it became a question of Lebanon againstManitou they swung over to his side and acknowledged him as leader. Thephysical collision between the rougher elements of the two towns hadbrought matters to a head, and nearly every man in Lebanon felt that hishonour was at stake, and was ready “to have it out withManitou.”
As he walked along the main street after his interview with Jowett,his eyes wandered over the buildings rising everywhere; and his mindreviewed as in a picture the same thinly inhabited street five years agowhen he first came. Now farmers' wagons clacked and rumbled through theprairie dust, small herds of cattle jerked and shuffled their way to theslaughter-yard, or out to the open prairie, and caravans of settlers withtheir effects moved sturdily forward to the trails which led to a newlife beckoning from three points of the compass. That point which did notbeckon was behind them. Flaxen-haired Swedes and Norwegians; square-jawed, round-headed North Germans; square-shouldered, loose-jointedRussians with heavy contemplative eyes and long hair, looked curiously ateach other and nodded understandingly. Jostling them all, with a jeer andan oblique joke here and there, and crude chaff on each other andeverybody, the settler from the United States asserted himself. Heinvariably obtruded himself, with quizzical inquiry, half contempt andhalf respect, on the young Englishman, who gazed round with phlegm uponhis fellow adventurers, and made up to the sandy-faced Scot or thecheerful Irishman with his hat on the back of his head, who showed in thethrong here and there. This was one of the days when the emigrant andsettlers' trains arrived both from the East and from “theStates,” and Front Street in Lebanon had, from early morning, beenalive with the children of hope and adventure.
With hands plunged deep in the capacious pockets of his grey jacket,Ingolby walked on, seeing everything; yet with his mind occupiedintently, too, on the trouble which must be faced before Lebanon andManitou would be the reciprocating engines of his policy. Coming to aspot where a great gap of vacant land showed in the street-land which hehad bought for the new offices of his railway combine—he stood andlooked at it abstractedly. Beyond it, a few blocks away, was the Sagalac,and beyond the Sagalac was Manitou, and a little way to the right was thebridge which was the symbol of his policy. His eyes gazed almostunconsciously on the people and the horses and wagons coming and goingupon the bridge. Then they were lifted to the tall chimneys rising at twoor three points on the outskirts of Manitou.
“They don't know a good thing when they get it,” he saidto himself. “A strike—why, wages are double what they are inQuebec, where most of 'em come from! Marchand—”
A hand touched his arm. “Have you got a minute to spare, kindsir?” a voice asked.
Ingolby turned and saw Nathan Rockwell, the doctor. “Ah,Rockwell,” he responded cheerfully, “two minutes and a half,if you like! What is it?”
The Boss Doctor, as he was familiarly called by every one, to identifyhim from the newer importations of medical men, drew from his pocket anewspaper.
“There's an infernal lie here about me,” he replied.“They say that I—”
He proceeded to explain the misstatement, as Ingolby studied the papercarefully, for Rockwell was a man worth any amount of friendship.
“It's a lie, of course,” Ingolby said firmly as hefinished the paragraph. “Well?”
“Well, I've got to deal with it.”
“You mean you're going to deny it in the papers?”
“Exactly.”
“I wouldn't, Rockwell.”
“You wouldn't?”
“No. You never can really overtake a newspaper lie. Lots of thepeople who read the lie don't see the denial. Your truth doesn't overtakethe lie—it's a scarlet runner.”
“I don't see that. When you're lied about, when a lie likethat—”
“You can't overtake it, Boss. It's no use. It's sensational, itruns too fast. Truth's slow-footed. When a newspaper tells a lie aboutyou, don't try to overtake it, tell another.”
He blinked with quizzical good-humour. Rockwell could not resist theaudacity. “I don't believe you'd do it just the same,” heretorted decisively, and laughing.
“I don't try the overtaking anyhow; I get something spectacularin my own favour to counteract the newspaper lie.”
“In what way?”
“For instance, if they said I couldn't ride a moke at a villagesteeplechase, I'd at once publish the fact that, with a jack-knife, I'dkilled two pumas that were after me. Both things would be lies, but theone would neutralize the other. If I said I could ride a moke, nobodywould see it, and if it were seen it wouldn't make any impression; but tosay I killed two mountain-lions with a jack-knife on the edge of aprecipice, with the sun standing still to look at it, is as good as theoriginal lie and better; and I score. My reputation increases.”
Nathan Rockwell's equilibrium was restored. “You're certainly awonder,” he declared. “That's why you'vesucceeded.”
“Have I succeeded?”
“Thirty-three-and what you are!”
“What am I?”
“Pretty well master here.”
“Rockwell, that'd do me a lot of harm if it was published. Don'tsay it again. This is a democratic country. They'd kick at my beingcalled master of anything, and I'd have to tell a lie to counteractit.”
“But it's the truth, and it hasn't to be overtaken.”
A grim look came into Ingolby's face. “I'd like to bemaster-boss of life and death, holder of the sword and balances, theSultan, here just for one week. I'd change some things. I'd gag somepeople that are doing terrible harm. It's a real bad business. Thescratch-your-face period is over, and we're in the cut-your-throatepoch.”
Rockwell nodded assent, opened the paper again, and pointed to acolumn. “I expect you haven't seen that. To my mind, in the presentstate of things, it's dynamite.”
Ingolby read the column hastily. It was the report of a sermondelivered the evening before by the Rev. Reuben Tripple, the evangelicalminister of Lebanon. It was a paean of the Scriptures accompanied by acrazy charge that the Roman Church forbade the reading of the Bible. Ithad a tirade also about the Scarlet Woman and Popish idolatry.
Ingolby made a savage gesture. “The insatiable Christianbeast!” he growled in anger. “There's no telling what thismay do. You know what those fellows are over in Manitou. The place isfull of them going to the woods, besides the toughs at the mills and inthe taverns. They're not psalm-singing, and they don't keep the TenCommandments, but they're savagely fanatical, and—”
“And there's the funeral of an Orangeman tomorrow. The OrangeLodge attends in regalia.”
Ingolby started and looked at the paper again. “The sneaking,praying liar,” he said, his jaw setting grimly. “This thing'sa call to riot. There's an element in Lebanon as well that'd rather fightthan eat. It's the kind of lie that—”
“That you can't overtake,” said the Boss Doctorappositely; “and I don't know that even you can tell anotherthat'll neutralize it. Your prescription won't work here.”
An acknowledging smile played at Ingolby's mouth. “We've got tohave a try. We've got to draw off the bull with a red ragsomehow.”
“I don't see how myself. That Orange funeral will bring a row onto us. I can just see the toughs at Manitou when they read this stuff,and know about that funeral.”
“It's announced?”
“Yes, here's an invitation in the Budget to Orangemen to attendthe funeral of a brother sometime of the banks of the Boyne!”
“Who's the Master of the Lodge?” asked Ingolby. Rockwelltold him, urging at the same time that he see the Chief Constable aswell, and Monseigneur Lourde at Manitou.
“That's exactly what I mean to do—with a number of otherthings. Between ourselves, Rockwell, I'd have plenty of lint and bandagesready for emergencies if I were you.”
“I'll see to it. That collision the other day was seriousenough, and it's gradually becoming a vendetta. Last night one of theLebanon champions lost his nose.”
“His nose—how?”
“A French river-driver bit a third of it off.”
Ingolby made a gesture of disgust. “And this is the twentiethcentury!”
They had moved along the street until they reached a barber-shop, fromwhich proceeded the sound of a violin. “I'm going in here,”Ingolby said. “I've got some business with Berry, the barber.You'll keep me posted as to anything important?”
“You don't need to say it. Shall I see the Master of the OrangeLodge or the Chief Constable for you?” Ingolby thought for aminute. “No, I'll tackle them myself, but you get in touch withMonseigneur Lourde. He's grasped the situation, and though he'd like tohave Tripple boiled in oil, he doesn't want broken heads andbloodshed.”
“And Tripple?”
“I'll deal with him at once. I've got a hold on him. I neverwanted to use it, but I will now without compunction. I have the means inmy pocket. They've been there for three days, waiting for thechance.”
“It doesn't look like war, does it?” said Rockwell,looking up the street and out towards the prairie where the day bloomedlike a flower. Blue above—a deep, joyous blue, against which awhite cloud rested or slowly travelled westward; a sky down whose vastcerulean bowl flocks of wild geese sailed, white and grey and black,while the woods across the Sagalac were glowing with a hundred colours,giving tender magnificence to the scene. The busy eagerness of a pioneerlife was still a quiet, orderly thing, so immense was the theatre foreffort and movement. In these wide streets, almost as wide as a Londonsquare, there was room to move; nothing seemed huddled, pushing, orinconvenient. Even the disorder of building lost its ugly crudity in thespace and the sunlight.
“The only time I get frightened in life is when things look likethat,” Ingolby answered. “I go round with a life-preserver onme when it seems as if 'all's right with the world.'“
The violin inside the barber-shop kept scraping out its cheapmusic—a coon-song of the day.
“Old Berry hasn't much business this morning,” remarkedRockwell. “He's in keeping with this surface peace.”
“Old Berry never misses anything. What we're thinking, he'sthinking. I go fishing when I'm in trouble; Berry plays his fiddle. He'sa philosopher and a friend.”
“You don't make friends as other people do.”
“I make friends of all kinds. I don't know why, but I've alwayshad a kind of kinship with the roughs, the no-accounts, and therogues.”
“As well as the others—I hope I don't intrude!”
Ingolby laughed. “You? Oh, I wish all the others were like you.It's the highly respectable members of the community I've always had towatch.”
The fiddle-song came squeaking out upon the sunny atmosphere. Itarrested the attention of a man on the other side of the street— astranger in strange Lebanon. He wore a suit of Western clothes as amilitary man wears mufti, if not awkwardly, yet with a manner not whollynatural—the coat too tight across the chest, too short in the body.However, the man was handsome and unusual in his leopard way, with hisbrown curling hair and well-cared-for moustache. It was Jethro Fawe.
Attracted by the sound of the violin, he stayed his steps and smiledscornfully. Then his look fell on the two figures at the door of thebarber-shop, and his eyes flashed.
Here was the man he wished to see—Max Ingolby, the man who stoodbetween him and his Romany lass. Here was a chance of speaking face toface with the man who was robbing him. What he should do when they metmust be according to circumstances. That did not matter. There was theimpulse storming in his brain, and it drove him across the street as theBoss Doctor walked away, and Ingolby entered the shop. All Jethrorealized was that the man who stood in his way, the big, rich, masterfulGorgio was there.
He entered the shop after Ingolby, and stood for an instant unseen.The old negro barber with his curly white head, slave-black face, andlarge, shrewd, meditative eyes was standing in a corner with a violinunder his chin, his cheek lovingly resting against it, as he drew his bowthrough the last bars of the melody. He had smiled in welcome as Ingolbyentered, instantly rising from his stool, but continuing to play. Hewould not have stopped in the middle of a tune for an emperor, and he putIngolby higher than an emperor. For one who had been born a slave, andhad still the scars of the overseer's whip on his back, he was veryindependent. He cut everybody's hair as he wanted to cut it, trimmed eachbeard as he wished to trim it, regardless of its owner's wishes. If therewas dissent, then his customer need not come again, that was all. Therewere other barbers in the place, but Berry was the master barber. To haveyour head massaged by him was never to be forgotten, especially if youfound your hat too small for your head in the morning. Also he singed thehair with a skill and care, which had filled many a thinly covered scalpwith luxuriant growth, and his hair-tonic, known as “Smilax,”gave a pleasant odour to every meeting-house or church or public hallwhere the people gathered. Berry was an institution even in this newWestern town. He kept his place and he forced the white man, whoever hewas, to keep his place.
When he saw Jethro Fawe enter the shop he did not stop playing, buthis eyes searched the newcomer. Following his glance, Ingolby turnedround and saw the Romany. His first impression was one of admiration, butsuspicion was quickly added. He was a good judge of men, and there wassomething secluded about the man which repelled him. Yet he wasinterested. The dark face had a striking racial peculiarity.
The music died away, and old Berry lowered the fiddle from his chinand gave his attention to the Romany.
“Yeth-'ir?” he said questioningly.
For an instant Jethro was confused. When he entered the shop he hadnot made up his mind what he should do. It had been mere impulse and thefever of his brain. As old Berry spoke, however, his course openedout.
“I heard. I am a stranger. My fiddle is not here. My fingersitch for the cat-gut. Eh?”
The look in old Berry's face softened a little. His instinct had beenagainst his visitor, and he had been prepared to send him to anothershop-besides, not every day could he talk to the greatest man in theWest.
“If you can play, there it is,” he said after a slightpause, and handed the fiddle over.
It was true that Jethro Fawe loved the fiddle. He had played it inmany lands. Twice, in order to get inside the palace of a monarch for apurpose—once in Berlin and once in London—he had played thesecond violin in a Tzigany orchestra. He turned the fiddle slowly round,looking at it with mechanical intentness. Through the passion of emotionthe sure sense of the musician was burning. His fingers smoothed the ovalbrown breast of the instrument with affection. His eyes found joy in thecolour of the wood, which had all the graded, merging tints of Autumnleaves.
“It is old—and strange,” he said, his eyes goingfrom Berry to Ingolby and back again with a veiled look, as though he haddrawn down blinds before his inmost thoughts. “It was not made by aprofessional.”
“It was made in the cotton-field by a slave,” observed oldBerry sharply, yet with a content which overrode antipathy to hisvisitor.
Jethro put the fiddle to his chin, and drew the bow twice or thricesweepingly across the strings. Such a sound had never come from Berry'sviolin before. It was the touch of a born musician who certainly hadskill, but who had infinitely more of musical passion.
“Made by a slave in the cotton-fields!” Jethro said with aveiled look, and as though he was thinking of something else:“'Dordi', I'd like to meet a slave like that!”
At the Romany exclamation Ingolby swept the man with a searching look.He had heard the Romany wife of Ruliff Zaphe use the word many years agowhen he and Charley Long visited the big white house on the hill. Was theman a Romany, and, if so, what was he doing here? Had it anything to dowith Gabriel Druse and his daughter? But no—what was there strangein the man being a Romany and playing the fiddle? Here and there in theWest during the last two years, he had seen what he took to be Romanyfaces. He looked to see the effect of the stranger's remark on oldBerry.
“I was a slave, and I was like that. My father made that fiddlein the cotton-fields of Georgia,” the aged barber said.
The son of a race which for centuries had never known country or flagor any habitat, whose freedom was the soul of its existence, if it had asoul; a freedom defying all the usual laws of social order—the sonof that race looked at the negro barber with something akin to awe. Herewas a man who had lived a life which was the staring antithesis of hisown, under the whip as a boy, confined to compounds; whose vision wasconstricted to the limits of an estate; who was at the will of one man,to be sold and trafficked with like a barrel of herrings, to be worked atanother's will—and at no price! This was beyond the understandingof Jethro Fawe. But awe has the outward look of respect, and old Berrywho had his own form of vanity, saw that he had had a rare effect on thefellow, who evidently knew all about fiddles. Certainly that was awonderful sound he had produced from his own cotton-field fiddle.
In the pause Ingolby said to Jethro Fawe, “Play something, won'tyou? I've got business here with Mr. Berry, but five minutes of goodmusic won't matter. We'd like to hear him play—wouldn't we,Berry?”
The old man nodded assent. “There's plenty of music in thething,” he said, “and a lot could come out in five minutes,if the right man played it.”
His words were almost like a challenge, and it reached to Jethro'sinnermost nature. He would show this Gorgio robber what a Romany coulddo, and do as easily as the birds sing. The Gorgio was a money-master,they said, but he would find that a Romany was a master, too, in his ownway. He thought of one of the first pieces he had ever heard, a rhapsodywhich had grown and grown, since it was first improvised by a Tzigany inHungary. He had once played it to an English lady at the Amphitryon Clubin London, and she had swooned in the arms of her husband's best friend.He had seen men and women avert their heads when he had played it, daringnot to look into each other's eyes. He would play it now—a littleof it. He would play it to her—to the girl who had set him free inthe Sagalac woods, to the ravishing deserter from her people, to the onlywoman who had told him the truth in all his life, and who insulated hismagnetism as a ground-wire insulates lightning. He would summon her hereby his imagination, and tell her to note how his soul had caught themusic of the spheres. He would surround himself with an atmosphere of hisown. His rage, his love, and his malignant hate, his tenderness and hislust should fill the barber's shop with a flood which would drown theGorgio raider. He laughed to himself, almost unconsciously. Then suddenlyhe leaned his cheek to the instrument and drew the bow across the stringswith a savage softness. The old cottonfield fiddle cried out with athrilling, exquisite pain, but muffled, as a hand at the lips turns agonyinto a tender moan. Some one—some spirit—in the fiddle wascalling for its own.
Five minutes later-a five minutes in which people gathered at the doorof the shop, and heads were thrust inside in ravished wonder—thepalpitating Romany lowered the fiddle from his chin, and stood for aminute looking into space, as though he saw a vision.
He was roused by old Berry's voice. “Das a fiddle I wouldn'tsell for a t'ousand dollars. If I could play like dat I wouldn't sell itfor ten t'ousand. You kin play a fiddle to make it worth alot—you.”
The Romany handed back the instrument. “It's got somethinginside it that makes it better than it is. It's not a good fiddle, but ithas something—ah, man alive, it has something!” It was asthough he was talking to himself.
Berry made a quick, eager gesture. “It's got the cotton-fieldsand the slave days in it. It's got the whip and the stocks in it; it'sgot the cry of the old man that'd never see his children ag'in. That'swhat the fiddle's got in it.”
Suddenly, in an apparent outburst of anger, he swept down on the frontdoor and drove the gathering crowd away.
“Dis is a barber-shop,” he said with an angry wave of hishand; “it ain't a circuse.”
One man protested. “I want a shave,” he said. He tried tocome inside, but was driven back.
“I ain't got a razor that'd cut the bristle off yourface,” the old barber declared peremptorily; “and, if I had,it wouldn't be busy on you. I got two customers, and that's all I'm goingto take befo' I have my dinner. So you git away. There ain't goin' to beno more music.”
The crowd drew off, for none of them cared to offend this autocrat ofthe shears and razor.
Ingolby had listened to the music with a sense of being swayed by awind which blew from all quarters of the compass at once. He loved music;it acted as a clearing-house to his mind; and he played the piano himselfwith the enthusiasm of a wilful amateur, who took liberties with everypiece he essayed. There was something in this fellow's playing which thegreat masters, such as Paganini, must have had. As the music ceased, hedid not speak, but remained leaning against the great red-plush barber'schair looking reflectively at the Romany. Berry, however, said to thestill absorbed musician: “Where did you learn to play?”
The Romany started, and a flush crossed his face.“Everywhere,” he answered sullenly.
“You've got the thing Sarasate had,” Ingolby observed.“I only heard him play but once—in London years ago: butthere's the same something in it. I bought a fiddle of Sarasate. I've gotit now.”
“Here in Lebanon?” The eyes of the Romany were burning. Anidea had just come into his brain. Was it through his fiddling that hewas going to find a way to deal with this Gorgio, who had come betweenhim and his own?
“Only a week ago it came,” Ingolby replied. “Theyactually charged me Customs duty on it. I'd seen it advertised, and Imade an offer and got it at last.”
“You have it here—at your house here?” asked oldBerry in surprise.
“It's the only place I've got. Did you think I'd put it in amuseum? I can't play it, but there it is for any one that can play. Howwould you like to try it?” he added to Jethro in a friendly tone.“I'd give a good deal to see it under your chin for an hour.Anyhow, I'd like to show it to you. Will you come?”
It was like him to bring matters to a head so quickly.
The Romany's eyes glistened. “To play the Sarasate alone toyou?” he asked.
“That's it-at nine o'clock to-night, if you can.”
“I will come—yes, I will come,” Jethro answered, thelids drooping over his eyes in which were the shadows of the first murderof the created world.
“Here is my address, then.” Ingolby wrote something on hisvisiting-card. “My man'll let you in, if you show that. Well,good-bye.”
The Romany took the card, and turned to leave. He had been dismissedby the swaggering Gorgio, as though he was a servant, and he had not evenbeen asked his name, of so little account was he! He could come and playon the Sarasate to the masterful Gorgio at the hour which the masterfulGorgio fixed—think of that! He could be—a servant to thepleasure of the man who was stealing from him the wife sealed to him inthe Roumelian country. But perhaps it was all for the best—yes, hewould make it all for the best! As he left the shop, however, and passeddown the street his mind remained in the barber-shop. He saw inimagination the masterful Gorgio in the red-plush chair, and the negrobarber bending over him, with black fingers holding the Gorgio's chin,and an open razor in the right hand lightly grasped. A flash of maliciousdesire came into his eyes as the vision shaped itself in his imagination,and he saw himself, instead of the negro barber, holding the Gorgio chinand looking down at the Gorgio throat with the razor, not lightly, butfirmly grasped in his right hand. How was it that more throats were notcut in that way? How was it that while the scissors passed through thebeard of a man's face the points did not suddenly slip up and stab thelight from helpless eyes? How was it that men did not use their chances?He went lightly down the street, absorbed in a vision which was not likethe reality; but it was evidence that his visit to Max Ingolby's housewas not the visit of a virtuoso alone, but of an evil spirit.
As the Romany disappeared, Max Ingolby had his hand on the oldbarber's shoulder. “I want one of the wigs you made for thattheatrical performance of the Mounted Police, Berry,” he said.“Never mind what it's for. I want it at once—one with thelong hair of a French-Canadian coureur-de-bois. Have you gotone?”
“Suh, I'll send it round-no, I'll bring it round as I come fromdinner. Want the clothes, too?”
“No. I'm arranging for them with Osterhaut. I've sent word byJowett.”
“You want me to know what it's for?”
“You can know anything I know—almost, Berry. You're afriend of the right sort, and I can trust you.”
“Yeth-'ir, I bin some use to you, onct or twict, Iguess.”
“You'll have a chance to be of use more than everpresently.”
“Suh, there's gain' to be a bust-up, but I know who's comin' outon the top. That Felix Marchand and his roughs can't down you. I hear andsee a lot, and there's two or three things I was goin' to put befo' you;yeth-'ir.”
He unloaded his secret information to his friend, and was rewarded byIngolby suddenly shaking his hand warmly.
“That's the line,” Ingolby said decisively. “When doyou go over to Manitou again to cut old Hector Marchand's hair?Soon?”
“To-day is his day—this evening,” was the reply.
“Good. You wanted to know what the wig and the habitant'sclothes are for, Berry—well, for me to wear in Manitou. In disguiseI'm going there tonight among them all, among the roughs and toughs. Iwant to find out things for myself. I can speak French as good as most of'em, and I can chew tobacco and swear with the best.”
“You suhly are a wonder,” said the old man admiringly.“How you fin' the time I got no idee.”
“Everything in its place, Berry, and everything in its time.I've got a lot to do to-day, but it's in hand, and I don't have to fuss.You'll not forget the wig—you'll bring it roundyourself?”
“Suh. No snoopin' into the parcel then. But if you go to Manitouto-night, how can you have that fiddler?”
“He comes at nine o'clock. I'll go to Manitou later. Everythingin its own time.”
He was about to leave the shop when some one came bustling in. Berrywas between Ingolby and the door, and for an instant he did not see whoit was. Presently he heard an unctuous voice: “Ah, good day, goodday, Mr. Berry. I want to have my hair cut, if you please,” itsaid.
Ingolby smiled. The luck was with him to-day so far. The voicebelonged to the Rev. Reuben Tripple, and he would be saved a journey tothe manse. Accidental meetings were better than planned interviews. OldBerry's grizzled beard was bristling with repugnance, and he was about torefuse Mr. Tripple the hospitality of the shears when Ingolby said:“You won't mind my having a word with Mr. Tripple first, will you,Berry? May we use your back parlour?”
A significant look from Ingolby's eyes gave Berry his cue.
“Suh, Mr. Ingolby. I'm proud.” He opened the door ofanother room.
Mr. Tripple had not seen Ingolby when he entered, and he recognizedhim now with a little shock of surprise. There was no reason why heshould not care to meet the Master Man, but he always had an uncannyfeeling when his eye met that of Ingolby. His apprehension had nofoundation in any knowledge, yet he had felt that Ingolby had no love forhim, and this disturbed the egregious vanity of a narrow nature. Hisslouching, corpulent figure made an effort to resist the gesture withwhich Ingolby drew him to the door, but his will succumbed, and heshuffled importantly into the other room.
Ingolby shut the door quietly behind him, and motioned the minister toa chair beside the table. Tripple sank down, mechanically smiling, placedhis hat on the floor, and rested his hands on the table. Ingolby couldnot help but notice how coarse the hands were—with fingers suddenlyending as though they had been cut off, and puffy, yellowish skin thatsuggested fat foods, or worse.
Ingolby came to grips at once. “You preached a sermon last nightwhich no doubt was meant to do good, but will only do harm,” hesaid abruptly.
The flabby minister flushed, and then made an effort to hold hisown.
“I speak as I am moved,” he said, puffing out his lips.“You spoke on this occasion before you were moved—just alittle while before,” answered Ingolby grimly. “The speakingwas last night, the moving comes today.”
“I don't get your meaning,” was the thick rejoinder. Theman had a feeling that there was some real danger ahead.
“You preached a sermon last night which might bring riot andbloodshed between these two towns, though you knew the mess that'sbrewing.”
“My conscience is my own. I am responsible to my Lord for wordswhich I speak in His name, not to you.”
“Your conscience belongs to yourself, but your acts belong toall of us. If there is trouble at the Orange funeral to-morrow it will beyour fault. The blame will lie at your door.”
“The sword of the Spirit—”
“Oh, you want the sword, do you? You want the sword, eh?”Ingolby's jaw was set now like a millstone. “Well, you can have it,and have it now. If you had taken what I said in the right way, I wouldnot have done what I'm going to do. I'm going to send you out of Lebanon.You're a bad and dangerous element here. You must go.”
“Who are you to tell me I must go?”
The fat hands quivered on the table with anger and emotion, but alsowith fear of something. “You may be a rich man and own railways,but—”
“But I am not rich and I don't own railways. Lately bad feelinghas been growing on the Sagalac, and only a spark was needed to fire thericks. You struck the spark in your sermon last night. I don't see theend of it all. One thing is sure—you're not going to take thefuneral service to-morrow.”
The slack red lips of the man of God were gone dry with excitement,the loose body swayed with the struggle to fight it out.
“I'll take no orders from you,” the husky voice protested.“My conscience alone will guide me. I'll speak the truth as I feelit, and the people will stand by me.”
“In that case you WILL take orders from me. I'm going to savethe town from what hurts it, if I can. I've got no legal rights over you,but I have moral rights, and I mean to enforce them. You gabble ofconscience and truth, but isn't it a new passion withyou—conscience and truth?”
He leaned over the table and fastened the minister's eyes with hisown. “Had you the same love of conscience and truth atRadley?”
A whiteness passed over the flabby face, and the beady eyes took on aglazed look. Fight suddenly died out of them.
“You went on a missionary tour on the Ottawa River. At Radleyyou toiled and rested from your toil—and feasted. The girl had nofather or brother, but her uncle was a railway-man. He heard where youwere, and he hired with my company to come out here as a foreman. He cameto drop on you. The day after he came he had a bad accident. I went tosee him. He told me all; his nerves were unstrung, you observe. He meantto ruin you, as you ruined the girl. He had proofs enough. The girlherself is in Winnipeg. Well, I know life, and I know man and man'sfollies and temptations. I thought it a pity that a career and a lifelike yours should be ruined—”
A groan broke from the twitching lips before him, and a heavy sweatstood out on the round, rolling forehead.
“If the man spoke, I knew it would be all up with you, for theworld is very hard on men of God who fall. I've seen men ruined beforethis, because of an hour's passion and folly. I said to myself that youwere only human, and that maybe you had paid heavy in remorse and fear.Then there was the honour of the town of Lebanon. I couldn't let thething take its course. I got the doctor to tell the man that he must gofor special treatment to a hospital in Montreal, and I—well, Ibought him off on his promising to keep his mouth shut. He was a bitstiff in terms, because he said the girl needed the money. The childdied, luckily for you. Anyhow I bought him off, and he went. That was ayear ago. I've got all the proofs in my pocket, even to the three sillyletters you wrote her when your senses were stronger than your judgment.I was going to see you about them to-day.”
He took from his pocket a small packet, and held them before theother's face. “Have a good look at your own handwriting, and see ifyou recognize it,” Ingolby continued.
But the glazed, shocked eyes did not see. Reuben Tripple had passedthe several stages of horror during Ingolby's merciless arraignment, andhe had nearly collapsed before he heard the end of the matter. When heknew that Ingolby had saved him, his strength gave way, and he trembledviolently. Ingolby looked round and saw a jug of water. Pouring out aglassful, he thrust it into the fat, wrinkled fingers.
“Drink and pull yourself together,” he said sternly. Theshaken figure straightened itself, and the water was gulped down.“I thank you,” he said in a husky voice.
“You see I treated you fairly, and that you've been afool?” Ingolby asked with no lessened determination.
“I have tried to atone, and—”
“No, you haven't had the right spirit to atone. You were fatwith vanity and self-conceit. I've watched you.”
“In future I will—”
“Well, that rests with yourself, but your health is bad, andyou're not going to take the funeral tomorrow. You've had a suddenbreakdown, and you're going to get a call from some church in theEast—as far East as Yokohama or Bagdad, I hope; and leave here in afew weeks. You understand? I've thought the thing out, and you've got togo. You'll do no good to yourself or others here. Take my advice, andwherever you go, walk six miles a day at least, work in a garden, eathalf as much as you do, and be good to your wife. It's bad enough for anywoman to be a parson's wife, but to be a parson's wife and your wife,too, wants a lot of fortitude.”
The heavy figure lurched to the upright, and steadied itself with aforce which had not yet been apparent.
“I'll do my best—so help me God!” he said and lookedIngolby squarely in the face for the first time.
“All right, see you keep your word,” Ingolby replied, andnodded good- bye.
The other went to the door, and laid a hand on the knob.
Suddenly Ingolby stopped him, and thrust a little bundle of bills intohis hand. “There's a hundred dollars for your wife. It'll pay theexpense of moving,” he said.
A look of wonder, revelation and gratitude crept into Tripple's face.“I will keep my word, so help me God!” he said again.
“All right, good-bye,” responded Ingolby abruptly, andturned away.
A moment afterwards the door closed behind the Rev. Reuben Tripple andhis influence in Lebanon. “I couldn't shake hands with him,”said Ingolby to himself, “but I'm glad he didn't sniffle. There'ssome stuff in him—if it only has a chance.”
“I've done a good piece of business, Berry,” he saidcheerfully as he passed through the barber-shop. “Suh, if you sayso,” said the barber, and they left the shop together.
Promptly at nine o'clock Jethro Fawe knocked at Ingolby's door, andwas admitted by the mulatto man-servant Jim Beadle, who was to Ingolbylike his right hand. It was Jim who took command of his house,“bossed" his two female servants, arranged his railway tours,superintended his kitchen—with a view to his own individual tastes;valeted him, kept his cigars within a certain prescribed limit by a firmactuarial principle which transferred any surplus to his own use; gavehim good advice, weighed up his friends and his enemies with shrewdsense; and protected him from bores and cranks, borrowers and“dead-beats.”
Jim was accustomed to take a good deal of responsibility, and had morethan once sent people to the right-about who had designs on his master,even though they came accredited. On such occasions he did not lie toprotect himself when called to account, but told the truthpertinaciously. He was obstinate in his vanity, and carried off hismistakes with aplomb. When asked by Ingolby what he called the GovernorGeneral when he took His Excellency over the new railway in Ingolby'sprivate car, he said, “I called him what everybody called him. Icalled him 'Succelency.'“ And “Succelency” for everafter the Governor General was called in the West. Jim's phoneticmouthful gave the West a roar of laughter and a new word to the language.On another occasion Jim gave the West a new phrase to its vocabularywhich remains to this day. Having to take the wife of a high personage ofthe neighbouring Republic over the line in the private car, he hadastounded his master by presenting a bill for finger-bowls before thejourney began. Ingolby said to him, “Jim, what the devil isthis—finger-bowls in my private car? We've never had finger-bowlsbefore, and we've had everybody as was anybody to travel with us.”Jim's reply was final. “Say,” he replied, “we got tohave 'em. Soon's I set my eyes on that lady I said: 'She's a finger-bowllady.'“
“'Finger-bowl lady' be hanged, Jim, we don't—”Ingolby protested, but Jim waved him down.
“Say,” he said decisively, “she'll ask for themfinger-bowls—she'll ask for 'em, and what'd I do if we hadn't got'em.”
She did ask for them; and henceforth the West said of any woman whoput on airs and wanted what she wasn't born to: “She's afinger-bowl lady.”
It was Jim who opened the door to Jethro Fawe, and his first glancewas one of prejudice. His quick perception saw that the Romany woreclothes not natural to him. He felt the artificial element, the qualityof disguise. He was prepared to turn the visitor away, no matter what hewanted, but Ingolby's card handed to him by the Romany made him pause. Hehad never known his master give a card like that more than once or twicein the years they had been together. He fingered the card, scrutinized itcarefully, turned it over, looked heavenward reflectively, as though thefinal permission for the visit remained with him, and finally admittedthe visitor.
“Mr. Ingolby ain't in,” he said. “He went out alittle while back. You got to wait,” he added sulkily, as he showedthe Romany into Ingolby's working-room.
As Jim did so, he saw lying on a chair a suit of clothes on top ofwhich were a wig and false beard and moustache. Instantly he got betweenthe visitor and the make-up. The parcel was closed when he was in theroom a half-hour before. Ingolby had opened it since, had been calledout, and had forgotten to cover the things up or put them away.
“Sit down,” Jim said to the Romany, still covering thedisguise. Then he raised them in his arms, and passed with them intoanother room, muttering angrily to himself.
The Romany had seen, however. They were the first things on which hiseyes had fallen when he entered the room. A wig, a false beard, andworkman's clothes! What were they for? Were these disguises for theMaster Gorgio? Was he to wear them? If so, he—JethroFawe—would watch and follow him wherever he went. Had thesedisguises to do with Fleda— with his Romany lass?
His pulses throbbed; he was in an overwrought mood. He was ready forany illusion, susceptible to any vagary of the imagination.
He looked round the room. So this was the way the swaggering,masterful Gorgio lived?
Here were pictures and engravings which did not seem to belong to anew town in a new land, where everything was useful or spectacular. Herewas a sense of culture and refinement. Here were finished and unfinishedwater-colours done by Ingolby's own hand or bought by him from some hard-up artist earning his way mile by mile, as it were. Here were books, notmany, but well-bound and important-looking, covering fields in whichJethro Fawe had never browsed, into which, indeed, he had never entered.If he had opened them he would have seen a profusion of marginal notes inpencil, and slips of paper stuck in the pages to mark importantpassages.
He turned from them to the welcome array of weapons on thewalls-rifles, shotguns, Indian bows, arrows and spears, daggers, andgreat sheath- knives such as are used from the Yukon to Bolivia, and asabre with a faded ribbon of silk tied to the handle. This was all thatMax Ingolby had inherited from his father—that artillery sabrewhich he had worn in the Crimea and in the Indian Mutiny. Jethro's eyeswandered eagerly over the weapons, and, in imagination, he had each onein his hand. From the pained, angry confusion he felt when he looked atthe books had emerged a feeling of fanaticism, of feud and war, in whichhis spirit regained its own kind of self-respect. In looking at theweapons he was as good a man as any Gorgio. Brains and books were onething, but the strong arm, the quick eye, and the deft lunge home withthe sword or dagger were better; they were of a man's own skill, not theacquired skill of another's brains which books give. He straightened hisshoulders till he looked like a modern actor playing the hero in aromantic drama, and with quick vain motions he stroked and twisted hisbrown moustache, and ran his fingers through his curling hair. In truthhe was no coward; and his conceit would not lessen his courage when thetest of it came.
As his eyes brightened from gloom and sullenness to valiant enmity,they suddenly fell on a table in a corner where lay a black coffin-shapedthing of wood. In this case, he knew, was the Sarasate violin.Sarasate—once he had paid ten lira to hear Sarasate play the fiddlein Turin, and the memory of it was like the sun on the clouds to him now.In music such of him as was real found a home. It fed everything in him—his passion, his vanity; his vagabond taste, his emotions, hisself- indulgence, his lust. It was the means whereby he raised himself toadventure and to pilgrimage, to love and license and loot and spying andsecret service here and there in the east of Europe. It was theflagellation of these senses which excited him to do all that man may doand more.
He was going to play to the masterful Gorgio, and he would play as hehad never played before. He would pour the soul of his purpose into themusic—to win back or steal back, the lass sealed to him by theStarzke River.
“Kismet!” he said aloud, and he rose from the chair to goto the violin, but as he did so the door opened and Ingolby entered.
“Oh, you're here, and longing to get at it,” he saidpleasantly.
He had seen the look in the eyes of the Romany as he entered, andnoted which way his footsteps were tending. “Well, we needn't loseany time, but will you have a drink and a smoke first?” headded.
He threw his hat in a corner, and opened a spirittable where shone ahalf dozen cut-glass, tumblers and several well-filled bottles, whileboxes of cigars and cigarettes flanked them. It was the height of modernluxury imported from New York, and Jethro eyed it with envious inwardcomment. The Gorgio had the world on his key-chain! Every door would opento him —that was written on his face—unless Fate stepped inand closed all doors!
The door of Fleda's heart had already been opened, but he had not yetmade his bed in it, and there was still time to help Fate, if her mysticfinger beckoned.
Jethro nodded in response to Ingolby's invitation to drink. “ButI do not drink much when I play,” he remarked. “There'senough liquor in the head when the fiddle's in the hand. 'Dadia', I donot need the spirit to make the pulses go!”
“As little as you like then, if you'll only play as well as youdid this afternoon,” Ingolby said cheerily. “I will playbetter,” was the reply.
“On Sarasate's violin—well, of course.”
“Not only because it is Sarasate's violin, 'Kowadji'!”“Kowadji! Oh, come now, you may be a Gipsy, but that doesn't meanthat you're an Egyptian or an Arab. Why Arabic—why'kowadji'?”
The other shrugged his shoulders. “Who can tell I speak manylanguages. I do not like the Mister. It is ugly in the ear. Monsieur,signor, effendi, kowadji, they have some respect in them.”
“You wanted to pay me respect, eh?”
“You have Sarasate's violin!”
“I have a lot of things I could do without.”
“Could you do without the Sarasate?”
“Long enough to hear you play it, Mr.—what is your name,may I ask?”
“My name is Jethro Fawe.”
“Well, Jethro Fawe, my Romany 'chal', you shall show me what aviolin can do.”
“You know the Romany lingo?” Jethro asked, as Ingolby wentover to the violin-case.
“A little—just a little.”
“When did you learn it?” There was a sudden savage rage inJethro's heart, for he imagined Fleda had taught Ingolby.
“Many a year ago when I could learn anything and rememberanything and forget anything.” Ingolby sighed. “But thatdoesn't matter, for I know only a dozen words or so, and they won't carryme far.”
He turned the violin over in his hands. “This ought to do a bitmore than the cotton-field fiddle,” he said dryly.
He snapped the strings, looking at it with the love of the naturalconnoisseur. “Finish your drink and your cigarette. I canwait,” he added graciously. “If you like the cigarettes, youmust take some away with you. You don't drink much, that's clear,therefore you must smoke. Every man has some vice or other, if it's onlyhanging on to virtue too tight.”
He laughed eagerly. Strange that he should have a feeling of greatercompanionship for a vagabond like this than for most people he met. Wasit some temperamental thing in him? “Dago,” as he called theRomany inwardly, there was still a bond between them. They understood theglory of a little instrument like this, and could forget the world in thelight on a great picture. There was something in the air they breathedwhich gave them easier understanding of each other and of the world.
Suddenly with a toss Jethro drained the glass of spirit, though he hadnot meant to do so. He puffed the cigarette an instant longer, then threwit on the floor, and was about to put his foot on it, when Ingolbystopped him.
“I'm a slave,” he said. “I've got a master. It'sJim. Jim's a hard master, too. He'd give me fits if we ground ourcigarette ashes into the carpet.”
He threw the refuse into a flower-pot.
“That squares Jim. Now let's turn the world inside out,”he proceeded. He handed the fiddle over. “Here's the little thingthat'll let you do the trick. Isn't it a beauty, Jethro Fawe?”
The Romany took it, his eyes glistening with mingled feelings. Hatredwas in his soul, and it showed in the sidelong glance as Ingolby turnedto place a chair where he could hear and see comfortably; yet he had themusician's love of the perfect instrument, and the woods and the streamsand the sounds of night and the whisperings of trees and the ghosts thatwalked in lonely places and called across the glens—all werepouring into his brain memories which made his pulses move far quickerthan the liquor he had drunk could do.
“What do you wish?” he asked as he tuned the fiddle.
Ingolby laughed good-humouredly. “Something Eastern; somethingyou'd play for yourself if you were out by the Caspian Sea. Somethingthat has life in it.”
Jethro continued to tune the fiddle carefully and abstractedly. Hiseyes were half-closed, giving them a sulky look, and his head wasaverted. He made no reply to Ingolby, but his head swayed from side toside in that sensuous state produced by self-hypnotism, so common amongthe half- Eastern races. By an effort of the will they send through thenerves a flood of feeling which is half-anaesthetic, half-intoxicant.Carried into its fullest expression it drives a man amok or makes of hima howling dervish, a fanatic, or a Shakir. In lesser intensity itproduces the musician of the purely sensuous order, or the dancer thatperforms prodigies of abandoned grace. Suddenly the sensuous exaltationhad come upon Jethro Fawe. It was as though he had discharged into hissystem from some cells of his brain a flood which coursed like a streamof soft fire.
In the pleasurable pain of such a mood he drew his bow across thestrings with a sweeping stroke, and then, for an instant, he ran hitherand thither on the strings testing the quality and finding the range andcapacity of the instrument. It was a scamper of hieroglyphics which couldonly mean anything to a musician.
“Well, what do you think of him?” Ingolby asked as theRomany lowered the bow.“Paganini—Joachim—Sarasate—any one, it is goodenough,” was the half-abstracted reply.
“It is good enough for you—almost, eh?”
Ingolby meant his question as a compliment, but an evil look shot intothe Romany's face, and the bow twitched in his hand. He was not Paganinior Sarasate, but that was no reason why he should be insulted.
Ingolby's quick perception saw, however, what his words had done, andhe hastened to add: “I believe you can get more out of that fiddlethan Sarasate ever could, in your own sort of music anyhow. I've neverheard any one play half so well the kind of piece you played thisafternoon. I'm glad I didn't make a fool of myself buying the fiddle. Ididn't, did I? I gave five thousand dollars for it.”
“It's worth anything to the man that loves it,” was theRomany's response. He was mollified by the praise he had received.
He raised the fiddle slowly to his chin, his eyes wandering round theroom, then projecting themselves into space, from which they onlyreturned to fix themselves on Ingolby with the veiled look which sees butdoes not see—such a look as an oracle, or a death-god, or asoulless monster of some between-world, half-Pagan god would wear. Justsuch a look as Watts's “Minotaur” wears in the Tate Galleryin London.
In an instant he was away in a world which was as far off from thisworld as Jupiter is from Mars. It was the world of his soul'sorigin—a place of beautiful and yet of noisome creations also; ofwhite mountains and green hills, and yet of tarns in which crawled evilthings; a place of vagrant, hurricanes and tidal-waves and cloud-bursts,of forests alive with quarrelling! and affrighted beasts. It was a placewhere birds sang divinely, yet where obscene fowls of prey hovered in theblue or waited by the dying denizens of the desert or the plain; wheredark-eyed women heard, with sidelong triumph, the whispers of passion;where sweet- faced children fled in fear from terrors undefined; whereharpies and witch-women and evil souls waited in ambush; or scurriedthrough the coverts where men brought things to die; or where they fledfor futile refuge from armed foes. It was a world of unbridled will,this, where the soul of Jethro Fawe had its origin; and to it his sensesfled involuntarily when he put Sarasate's fiddle to his chin this Autumnevening.
From that well of the First Things—the first things of his ownlife, the fount from which his forebears drew, backwards through thecenturies, Jethro Fawe quickly drank his fill; and then into the violinhe poured his own story—no improvisation, but musical legends andclassic fantasies and folk-breathings and histories of anguished orjoyous haters or lovers of life; treated by the impressionist who madethat which had been in other scenes to other men the thing of the presentand for the men who are. That which had happened by the Starzke River wasnow of the Sagalac River. The passions and wild love and irresponsibledeeds of the life he had lived in years gone by were here.
It was impossible for Ingolby to resist the spell of the music. Suchabandonment he had never seen in any musician, such riot of musicalmeaning he had never heard. He was conscious of the savagery and thebestial soul of vengeance which spoke through the music, and drowned thejoy and radiance and almost ghostly and grotesque frivolity of theearlier passages; but it had no personal meaning to him, though at timesit seemed when the Romany came near and bent over him with the ecstaticattack of the music, as though there was a look in the black eyes likethat of a man who kills. It had, of course, nothing to do with him; itwas the abandonment of a highly emotional nature, he thought.
It was only after he had been playing, practically without ceasing,for three-quarters of an hour, that there came to Ingolby the trueinterpretation of the Romany mutterings through the man's white,wolf-like teeth. He did not shrink, however, but kept his head andwatched.
Once, as the musician flung his body round in a sweep of passion,Ingolby saw the black eyes flash to the weapons on the wall with a malignlook which did not belong to the music alone, and he took a swiftestimate of the situation. Why the man should have any intentions againsthim, he could not guess, except that he might be one of the madmen whohave a vendetta against the capitalist. Or was he a tool of FelixMarchand? It did not seem possible, and yet if the man was penniless andan anarchist maybe, there was the possibility. Or—the blood rushedto his face—or it might be that the Gipsy's presence here, thisdisplay of devilish antipathy, as though it were all part of the music,was due, somehow, to Fleda Druse.
The music swelled to a swirling storm, crashed and flooded thefeelings with a sense of shipwreck and chaos, through which a voiceseemed to cry- the quiver and delicate shrillness of one isolatedstring—and then fell a sudden silence, as though the end of allthings had come; and on the silence the trembling and attenuated notewhich had quivered on the lonely string, rising, rising, piercing theinfinite distance and sinking into silence again.
In the pause which followed the Romany stood panting, his eyes fixedon Ingolby with an evil exaltation which made him seem taller and biggerthan he was, but gave him, too, a look of debauchery like that on theface of a satyr. Generations of unbridled emotion, of license of thefields and the covert showed in his unguarded features.
“What did the single cry—the motif—express?”Ingolby asked coolly. “I know there was catastrophe, the tumblingsof avalanches, but the voice that cried-the soul of a lover, wasit?”
The Romany's lips showed an ugly grimace. “It was the soul ofone that betrayed a lover, going to eternal tortures.”
Ingolby laughed carelessly. “It was a fine bit of work. Sarasatewould have been proud of his fiddle if he could have heard. Anyhow hecouldn't have played that. Is it Gipsy music?”
“It is the music of a 'Gipsy,' as you call it.”
“Well, it's worth a year's work to hear,” Ingolby repliedadmiringly, yet acutely conscious of danger. “Are you a musician bytrade?” he asked.
“I have no trade.” The glowing eyes kept scanning the wallwhere the weapons hung, and as though without purpose other than to get apipe from the rack on the wall, Ingolby moved to where he could beprepared for any rush. It seemed absurd that there should be such apossibility; but the world was full of strange things.
“What brought you to the West?” he asked as he filled apipe, his back almost against the wall.
“I came to get what belonged to me.”
Ingolby laughed ironically. “Most of us are here for thatpurpose. We think the world owes us such a lot.”
“I know what is my own.”
Ingolby lit his pipe, his eyes reflectively scanning the other.
“Have you got it again out here—your own?”
“Not yet, but I will.”
Ingolby took out his watch, and looked at it. “I haven't foundit easy getting all that belongs to me.”
“You have found it easier getting what belongs to some oneelse,” was the snarling response.
Ingolby's jaw hardened. What did the fellow mean? Did he refer tomoney, or—was it Fleda Druse? “See here,” he said,“there's no need to say things like that. I never took anythingthat didn't belong to me, that I didn't win, or earn or payfor—market price or 'founder's shares'”—he smiledgrimly. “You've given me the best treat I've had in many a day. I'dwalk fifty miles to hear you play my Sarasate—or even old Berry'scotton-field fiddle. I'm as grateful as I can be, and I'd like to pay youfor it; but as you're not a professional, and it's one gentleman toanother as it were, I can only thank you—or maybe help you to getwhat's your own, if you're really trying to get it out here. Meanwhile,have a cigar and a drink.”
He was still between the Romany and the wall, and by a movementforward sought to turn Jethro to the spirit-table. Probably thismanoeuvring was all nonsense, that he was wholly misreading the man; buthe had always trusted his instincts, and he would not let his reason rulehim entirely in such a situation. He could also ring the bell for Jim, orcall to him, for while he was in the house Jim was sure to be near by;but he felt he must deal with the business alone.
The Romany did not move towards the spirit-table, and Ingolby becameincreasingly vigilant.
“No, I can't pay you anything, that's clear,” he said;“but to get your own—I've got some influence outhere—what can I do? A stranger is up against all kinds of things ifhe isn't a native, and you're not. Your home and country's a good wayfrom here, eh?”
Suddenly the Romany faced him. “Yes. I come from places far fromhere. Where is the Romany's home? It is everywhere in the world, but itis everywhere inside his tent. Because his country is everywhere andnowhere, his home is more to him than it is to any other. He is alonewith his wife, and with his own people. Yes, and by long and by last, hewill make the man pay who spoils his home. It is all he has. Good or bad,it is all he has. It is his own.”
Ingolby had a strange, disturbing premonition that he was about tohear what would startle him, but he persisted. “You said you hadcome here to get your own—is your home here?”
For a moment the Romany did not answer. He had worked himself into agreat passion. He had hypnotized himself, he had acted for a while asthough he was one of life's realities; but suddenly there passed throughhis veins the chilling sense of the unreal, that he was only acting apart, as he had ever done in his life, and that the man before him could,with a wave of the hand, raise the curtain on all his disguises andpretences. It was only for an instant, however, for there swept throughhim the feeling that Fleda had roused in him—the first realpassion, the first true love—if what such as he felt can belove—that he had ever known; and he saw her again as she was in thebut in the wood defying him, ready to defend herself against him. All hiserotic anger and melodramatic fervour were alive in him once more.
He was again a man with a wrong, a lover dispossessed. On the instanthis veins filled with passionate blood. The Roscian strain in him had itsown tragic force and reality.
“My home is where my own is, and you, have taken my own from me,as I said,” he burst out. “There was all the world for you,but I had only my music and my wife, and you have taken my wife from me.'Mi Duvel', you have taken, but you shall give back again, or there willbe only one of us in the world! The music I have played foryou—that has told you all: the thing that was music from thebeginning of Time, the will of the First of All. Fleda Druse, she wasmine, she is my wife, and you, the Gorgio, come between, and she will notreturn to me.”
A sudden savage desire came to Ingolby to strike the man in theface— this Gipsy vagabond the husband of Fleda Druse! It was toomonstrous. It was an evil lie, and yet she had said she was a Romany, andhad said it with apparent shame or anxiety. She had given him no promise,had pledged no faith, had admitted no love, and yet already in his heartof hearts he thought upon her as his own. Ever since the day he had heldher in his arms at the Carillon Rapids her voice had sounded in his ears,and a warmth was in his heart which had never been there in all his days.This waif of barbarism even to talk of Fleda Druse as though he was ofthe same sphere as herself invited punishment-but to claim her as hiswife! It was shameless. An ugly mood came on him, the force that had madehim what he was filled all his senses. He straightened himself; contemptof the Ishmael showed at his lips.
“I think you lie, Jethro Fawe,” he said quietly, and hiseyes were hard and piercing. “Gabriel Druse's daughter isnot—never was—any wife of yours. She never called youhusband. She does not belong to the refuse of the world.”
The Romany made a sudden rush towards the wall where the weapons hung,but two arms of iron were flung out and caught him, and he was hurledacross the room. He crashed against a table, swayed, missed a chair whererested the Sarasate violin, then fell to the floor; but he staggered tohis feet again, all his senses in chaos.
“You almost fell on the fiddle. If you had hurt it I'd have hurtyou, Mr. Fawe,” Ingolby said with a grim smile. “Thatfiddle's got too much in it to waste it.”
“Mi Duvel! Mi Duvel!” gasped the Romany in his fury.
“You can say that as much as you like, but if you play any moreof your monkey tricks here, my Paganini, I will wring your neck,”Ingolby returned, his six feet of solid flesh making a movement ofmenace.
“And look,” he added, “since you are here, and Isaid what I meant, that I'd help you to get your own, I'll keep my word.But don't talk in damned riddles. Talk white men's language. You saidthat Gabriel Druse's daughter was your wife. Explain what you meant, andno nonsense.”
The Romany made a gesture of acquiescence. “She was made mineaccording to Romany law by the River Starzke seventeen years ago. I wasthe son of Lemuel Fawe, rightful King of all the Romanys. Gabriel Druseseized the headship, and my father gave him three thousand pounds that weshould marry, she and I, and so bring the headship to the Fawes againwhen Gabriel Druse should die; and so it was done by the River Starzke inthe Roumelian country.”
Ingolby winced, for the man's words rang true. A cloud came over hisface, but he said nothing. Jethro saw the momentary advantage. “Youdid not know?” he asked. “She did not tell you she was mademy wife those years ago? She did not tell you she was the daughter of theRomany King? So it is, you see, she is afraid to tell thetruth.”
Ingolby's knitted bulk heaved with desire to injure. “Yourwife—you melodious sinner! Do you think such tomfoolery has anyeffect in this civilized country? She is about as much your wife as I amyour brother. Don't talk your heathenish rot here. I said I'd help you toget your own, because you played the fiddle as few men can play it, and Iowe you a lot for that hour's music; but there's nothing belonging toGabriel Druse that belongs to you, and his daughter least of all. Lookout— don't sit on the fiddle, damn you!”
The Romany had made a motion as if to sit down on the chair where thefiddle was, but stopped short at Ingolby's warning. For an instant Jethrohad an inclination to seize the fiddle and break it across his knees. Itwould be an exquisite thing to destroy five thousand dollars' worth ofthis man's property at a single wrench and blow. But the spirit of themusician asserted itself before the vengeful lover could carry out hispurpose; as Ingolby felt sure it would. Ingolby had purposely given thewarning about the fiddle, in the belief that it might break the unwelcomeintensity of the scene. He detested melodrama, and the scene cameprecious near to it. Men had been killed before his eyes more than once,but there had been no rodomontade even when there had been a woman in thecase.
This Romany lover, however, seemed anxious to make a Sicilian dramaout of his preposterous claim, and it sickened him. Who was the fellowthat he should appear in the guise of a rival to himself! It washumiliating and offensive. Ingolby had his own kind of pride and vanity,and they were both hurt now. He would have been less irritable if thisrival had been as good a man as himself or better. He was so much agamester that he would have said, “Let the best man win,” andhave taken his chances.
His involuntary strategy triumphed for the moment. The Romany lookedat the fiddle for an instant with murderous eyes, but the cool, quietvoice of Ingolby again speaking sprayed his hot virulence.
“You can make a good musician quite often, but a good fiddle isa prize- packet from the skies,” Ingolby said. “When you geta good musician and a good fiddle together it's a day for a salute of ahundred guns.”
Half-dazed with unregulated emotion, Jethro acted with indecision fora moment, and the fiddle was safe. But he had suffered the indignity ofbeing flung like a bag of bones across the room, and the microbe ofinsane revenge was in him. It was not to be killed by the cold humour ofthe man who had worsted him. He returned to the attack.
“She is mine, and her father knows it is so. I have waited allthese years, and the hour has come. I will—”
Ingolby's eyes became hard and merciless again. “Don't talk yourGipsy rhetoric. I've had enough. No hour has come that makes a woman dowhat she doesn't want to do in a free country. The lady is free to dowhat she pleases here within British law, and British law takes no heedof Romany law or any other law. You'll do well to go back to yourRoumelian country or whatever it is. The lady will marry whom shelikes.”
“She will never marry you,” the Romany said huskily andmenacingly.
“I have never asked her, but if I do, and she said yes, no onecould prevent it.”
“I would prevent it.”
“How?”
“She is a Romany: she belongs to the Romany people; I will finda way.”
Ingolby had a flash of intuition.
“You know well that if Gabriel Druse passed the word, your lifewouldn't be worth a day's purchase. The Camorra would not be more certainor more deadly. If you do anything to hurt the daughter of Gabriel Druse,you will pay the full price, and you know it. The Romanys don't love youbetter than their rightful chief.”
“I am their rightful chief.”
“Maybe, but if they don't say so, too, you might as well betheir rightful slave. You are a genius in your way. Take my advice andreturn to the trail of the Gipsy. Or, there's many an orchestra wouldgive you a good salary as leader. You've got no standing in this country.You can't do anything to hurt me except try to kill me, and I'll take mychance of that. You'd better have a drink now and go quietly home to bed.Try and understand that this is a British town, and we don't settle ouraffairs by jumping from a violin rhapsody to a knife or a gun.” Hejerked his head backwards towards the wall. “Those things are forornament, not for use. Come, Fawe, have a drink and go home like a goodcitizen for one night only.”
The Romany hesitated, then shook his head and mutteredchaotically.
“Very well,” was the decisive reply. Ingolby pressed abell, and, in an instant, Jim Beadle was in the room. He had evidentlybeen at the keyhole. “Jim,” he said, “show thegentleman out.”
But suddenly he caught up a box of cigars from the table and thrust itinto the Romany's hands. “They're the best to be got this side ofHavana,” he said cheerily. “They'll help you put more fancystill into your playing. Good night. You never played better than you'vedone during the last hour, I'll stake my life on that. Good night. ShowMr. Fawe out, Jim.”
The Romany had not time to thrust back the cigars upon his host, anddazed by the strategy of the thing, by the superior force and mind of theman who a moment ago he would have killed, he took the box and turnedtowards the door, taking his hat dazedly from Jim.
At the door, however, catching sight of the sly grin on the mulattoservant's face, his rage and understanding returned to him, and he facedthe masterful Gorgio once again.
“By God, I'll have none of it!” he exclaimed roughly andthrew the box of cigars on the floor of the room. Ingolby was notperturbed. “Don't forget there's an east-bound train everyday,” he said menacingly, and turned his back as the doorclosed.
In another minute Jim entered the room. “Get the clothes and thewig and things, Jim. I must be off,” he said.
“The toughs don't get going till about this time over atManitou,” responded Jim. Then he told his master about the clotheshaving been exposed in the room when the Romany arrived. “But Idon't think he seen them,” Jim added with approval of his ownconduct. “I got 'em out quick as lightning. I covered 'em like ablanket.”
“All right, Jim; it doesn't matter. That fellow's got otherthings to think of than that.”
He was wrong, however. The Romany was waiting outside in the darknessnot far away—watching and waiting.
Felix Marchand was in the highest spirits. His clean-shaven face waswrinkled with smiles and sneers. His black hair was flung in waves oftriumph over his heavily-lined forehead; one hand was on his hip withbrave satisfaction, the other with lighted cigarette was tossed upwardsin exultation.
“I've got him. I've got him—like that!” he saidtransferring the cigarette to his mouth, and clenching his right hand asthough it could not be loosed by an earthquake. “For sure, it's athing finished as the solder of a pannikin—like that.”
He caught up a tin quart-pot from the bar-counter and showed thesoldered bottom of it.
He was alone in the bar of Barbazon's Hotel except for oneperson—the youngest of the officials who had been retired from theoffices of the railways when Ingolby had merged them. This was a man whohad got his position originally by nepotism, and represented the worstelements of a national life where the spoils system is rooted in thepopular mind. He had, however, a little residue of that discipline which,working in a great industrial organization, begets qualms as to extremecourses.
He looked reflectively at the leaden pot and said in reply: “I'dnever believe in anything where that Ingolby is concerned till I had itin the palm of my hand. He's as deep as a well, and when he's quietestit's good to look out. He takes a lot of skinning, thatbadger.”
“He's skinned this time all right,” was Marchand's reply.“To-morrow'll be the biggest day Manitou's had since the Indianlifted his wigwam and the white man put down his store. Listen—hearthem! They're coming!”
He raised a hand for silence, and a rumbling, ragged roar of voicescould be heard without.
“The crowd have gone the rounds,” he continued.“They started at Barbazon's and they're winding up at Barbazon's.They're drunk enough to-night to want to do anything, and to-morrow whenthey've got sore heads they'll do anything. They'll make that funerallook like a squeezed orange; they'll show Lebanon and Master Ingolby thatwe're to be bosses of our own show. The strike'll be on after thefuneral, and after the strike's begun there'll be—eh, biensur!”
He paused sharply, as though he had gone too far. “There'll bewhat?” whispered the other; but Marchand made no reply, save tomake a warning gesture, for Barbazon, the landlord, had entered behindthe bar.
“They're coming back, Barbazon,” Marchand said to thelandlord, jerking his head towards the front door. The noise of the crowdwas increasing, the raucous shouts were so loud that the three had toraise their voices. “You'll do a land-office businessto-night,” he declared.
Barbazon had an evil face. There were rumours that he had been in gaolin Quebec for robbery, and that after he had served his time he had dugup the money he had stolen and come West. He had started the first saloonat Manitou, and had grown with the place in more senses than one. He washeavy and thick-set, with huge shoulders, big hands, and beady eyes thatlooked out of a stolid face where long hours, greed and vices other thandrink had left their mark. He never drank spirits, and was thereforeready to take advantage of those who did drink. More than one horse andcanoe and cow and ox, and acre of land, in the days when land was cheap,had come to him across the bar-counter. He could be bought, couldBarbazon, and he sold more than wine and spirits. He had a wife who hadleft him twice because of his misdemeanours, but had returned andstraightened out his house and affairs once again; and even when she wentoff with Lick Baldwin, a cattle-dealer, she was welcomed back withoutreproaches by Barbazon, chiefly because he had no morals, and herabilities were of more value to him than her virtue. On the whole, GrosBarbazon was a bad lot.
At Marchand's words Barbazon shrugged his shoulders. “The morespent to-night, the less to spend to-morrow,” he growled.
“But there's going to be spending for a long time,”Marchand answered. “There's going to be a riot to-morrow, andthere's going to be a strike the next day, and after that there's goingto be something else.”
“What else?” Barbazon asked, his beady eyes fastened onMarchand's face.
“Something worth while-better than all the rest.”Barbazon's low forehead seemed to disappear almost, as he drew thegrizzled shock of hair down, by wrinkling his forehead with a heavyfrown.
“It's no damn good, m'sieu',” he growled. “Am I afool? They'll spend money to-night, and tomorrow, and the next day, andwhen the row is on; and the more they spend then, the less they'll haveto spend by-and-by. It's no good. The steady trade for me—all thetime. That is my idee. And the something else—what? You thinkthere's something else that'll be good for me? Nom de Dieu, there'snothing you're doing, or mean to do, but'll hurt me andeverybody.”
“That's your view, is it, Barbazon?” exclaimed Marchandloudly, for the crowd was now almost at the door. “You're a niceFrenchman and patriot. That crowd'll be glad to hear you think they'refools. Suppose they took it into their heads to wreck theplace?”
Barbazon's muddy face got paler, but his eyes sharpened, and he leanedover the bar-counter, and said with a snarl: “Go to hell, and saywhat you like; and then I'll have something to say about something else,m'sieu'.”
Marchand was about to reply angrily, but he instantly changed hismind, and before Barbazon could stop him, he sprang over the counter anddisappeared into the office behind the bar.
“I won't steal anything, Barbazon,” he said over hisshoulder as he closed the door behind him.
“I'll see to that,” Barbazon muttered stolidly, but withmalicious eyes.
The front door was flung open now, and the crowd poured into the room,boisterous, reckless, though some were only sullen, watchful and angry.These last were mostly men above middle age, and of a fanatical andracially bitter type. They were not many, but in one sense they were thebackbone and force of the crowd, probably the less intelligent but themore tenacious and consistent. They were black spots of gathering stormin an electric atmosphere.
All converged upon the bar. Two assistants rushed the drinks along thecounter with flourishes, while Barbazon took in the cash and sharplychecked the rougher element, who were inclined to treat the bar as aplace for looting. Most of them, however, had a wholesome fear ofBarbazon, and also most of them wished to stand well withhim—credit was a good thing, even in a saloon.
For a little time the room was packed, then some of the more restlessspirits, their thirst assuaged, sallied forth to taste the lager and oldrye elsewhere, and “raise Cain” in the streets. When theywent, it became possible to move about more freely in the big bar-room,at the end of which was a billiard-table. It was notable, however, thatthe more sullen elements stayed. Some of them were strangers to eachother. Manitou was a distributing point for all radiations of thecompass, and men were thrown together in its streets who only saw oneanother once or twice a year-when they went to the woods in the Fall orworked the rivers in the Summer. Some were Mennonites, Doukhobors andFinlanders, some Swedes, Norwegians and Icelanders. Others again werebirds of passage who would probably never see Manitou in the future, butthey were mostly French, and mostly Catholic, and enemies of the OrangeLodges wherever they were, east or west or north or south. They all had acommon ground of unity—half-savage coureurs-de-bois, river-drivers,railway-men, factory hands, cattlemen, farmers, labourers; they had agift for prejudice, and taking sides on something or other was as thebreath of the nostrils to them.
The greater number of the crowd were, however, excitable, good-naturedmen, who were by instinct friendly, save when their prejudices wereexcited; and their oaths and exclamations were marvels of drollingenuity. Most of them were still too good-humoured with drink to bedangerous, but all hoped for trouble at the Orange funeral on principle,and the anticipated strike had elements of “thrill.” Theywere of a class, however, who would swing from what was good-humour todeadly anger in a minute, and turn a wind of mere prejudice into ahurricane of life and death with the tick of a clock. They would allprobably go to the Orange funeral to-morrow in a savage spirit. Some ofthem were loud in denunciation of Ingolby and “the Lebanongang”; they joked coarsely over the dead Orangeman, but theircheerful violence had not yet the appearance of reality.
One man suddenly changed all that. He was a river-driver of stalwartproportions, with a red handkerchief round his neck, and with loosecorded trousers tucked into his boots. He had a face of natural uglinessmade almost repulsive by marks of smallpox. Red, flabby lips and anoverhanging brow made him a figure which men would avoid on a darknight.
“Let's go over to Lebanon to-night and have it out,” hesaid in French. “That Ingolby—let's go break his windows andgive him a dip in the river. He's the curse of this city. Holy, onceManitou was a place to live in, now it's a place to die in! Thefactories, the mills, they're full of Protes'ants and atheists andshysters; the railway office is gone to Lebanon. Ingolby took it there.Manitou was the best town in the West; it's no good now. Who's the cause?Ingolby's the cause. Name of God, if he was here I'd get him by thethroat as quick as winkin'.”
He opened and shut his fingers with spasmodic malice, and glared roundthe room. “He's going to lock us out if we strike,” he added.“He's going to take the bread out of our mouths; he's going to puthis heel on Manitou, and grind her down till he makes her knuckle toLebanon—to a lot of infidels, Protes'ants, and thieves. Who's goingto stand it? I say-bagosh, I say, who's going to stand it!”
“He's a friend of the Monseigneur,” ventured afactory-hand, who had a wife and children to support, and howeverpartisan, was little ready for that which would stop his supplies.
“Sacre bapteme! That's part of his game,” roared the bigriver-driver in reply. “I'll take the word of Felix Marchand aboutthat. Look at him! That Felix Marchand doesn't try to take the bread outof people's mouths. He gives money here, he gives it there. He wants theold town to stay as it is and not be swallowed up.”
“Three cheers for Felix Marchand !” cried some one in thethrong. All cheered loudly save one old man with grizzled hair and beard,who leaned against the wall half-way down the room smoking a corncobpipe. He was a French Canadian in dress and appearance, and he spat onthe floor like a navvy—he had filled his pipe with the strongesttobacco that one man ever offered to another. As the crowd cheered forFelix Marchand, he made his way up towards the bar slowly. He must havebeen tall when he was young; now he was stooped, yet there was stillsomething very sinewy about him.
“Who's for Lebanon?” cried the big river-driver with anoath. “Who's for giving Lebanon hell, and ducking Ingolby in theriver?”
“I am—I am—I am—all of us!” shouted thecrowd. “It's no good waiting for to-morrow. Let's get the Lebs bythe scruff to-night. Let's break Ingolby's windows and soak him in theSagalac. Allons—allons gai!”
Uproar and broken sentences, threats, oaths, and objurgations soundedthrough the room. There was a sudden movement towards the door, but theexit of the crowd was stopped by a slow but clear voice speaking inFrench.
“Wait a minute, my friends!” it cried. “Wait aminute. Let's ask a few questions first.”
“Who's he?” asked a dozen voices. “What's he goingto say?” The mob moved again towards the bar.
The big river-driver turned on the grizzled old man beside thebar-counter with bent shoulders and lazy, drawling speech.
“What've you got to say about it, son?” he askedthreateningly.
“Well, to ask a few questions first—that's all,” theold man replied.
“You don't belong here, old cock,” the other saidroughly.
“A good many of us don't belong here,” the old man repliedquietly. “It always is so. This isn't the first time I've been toManitou. You're a river-driver, and you don't live here either,” hecontinued.
“What've you got to say about it? I've been coming and goinghere for ten years. I belong—bagosh, what do you want to ask? Hurryup. We've got work to do. We're going to raise hell inLebanon.”
“And give hell to Ingolby,” shouted some one in thecrowd.
“Suppose Ingolby isn't there?” questioned the old man.
“Oh, that's one of your questions, is it?” sneered the bigriver-driver. “Well, if you knew him as we do, you'd know that it'sat night-time he sits studyin' how he'll cut Lebanon's throat. He's home,all right. He's in Lebanon anyhow, and we'll find him.”
“Well, but wait a minute—be quiet a bit,” said theold man, his eyes blinking slowly at the big riverdriver. “I'vebeen 'round a good deal, and I've had some experience in the world. Didyou ever give that Ingolby a chance to tell you what his plans were? Didyou ever get close to him and try to figure what he was driving at?There's no chance of getting at the truth if you don't let a man statehis case—but no. If he can't make you see his case then is the timeto jib, not before.”
“Oh, get out!” cried a rowdy English road-maker in thecrowd. “We know all right what Ingolby's after.”
“Eh, well, what is he after?” asked the old man lookingthe other in the eye.
“What's he after? Oof-oof-oof, that's what he's after. He's forhis own pocket, he's for being boss of all the woolly West. He's afterkeeping us poor and making himself rich. He's after getting the cinch ontwo towns and three railways, and doing what he likes with it all; andwe're after not having him do it, you bet. That's how it is, oldhoss.”
The other stroked his beard with hands which, somehow, gave littleindication of age, and then, with a sudden jerk forward of his head, hesaid: “Oh, it's like that, eh? Is that what M'sieu' Marchand toldyou? That's what he said, is it?”
The big river-driver, eager to maintain his supreme place as leader,lunged forward a step, and growled a challenge.
“Who said it? What does it matter if M'sieu' Marchand saidit—it's true. If I said it, it's true. All of us in this room sayit, and it's true. Young Marchand says what Manitou says.”
The old man's eyes grew brighter—they were exceedingly sharp forone so old, and he said quite gently now:
“M. Marchand said it first, and you all say itafterwards—ah, bah! But listen to me; I know Max Ingolby that youthink is such a villain; I know him well. I knew him when he was a littleboy and—”
“You was his nurse, I suppose!” cried the Englishman'svoice amid a roar of laughter.
“Taught him his A-B-C-was his dear, kind teacher, eh?”hilariously cried another.
The old man appeared not to hear. “I have known him all theyears since. He has only been in the West a few years, but he has livedin the world exactly thirty-three years. He never willingly did anybodyharm—never. Since he came West, since he came to the Sagalac, he'sbrought work to Lebanon and to Manitou. There are hundreds more workmenin both the towns than there were when he came. It was he made otherscome with much money and build the factories and the mills. Work meansmoney, money means bread, bread means life—so.”
The big river-driver, seeing the effect of the old man's words uponthe crowd, turned to them with an angry gesture and a sneer.
“I s'pose Ingolby has paid this old skeesicks for talking thisswash. We know all right what Ingolby is, and what he's done. He's madewar between the two towns—there's hell to pay now on both sides ofthe Sagalac. He took away the railway offices from here, and threw menout of work. He's done harm to Manitou—he's against Manitou everytime.”
Murmurs of approval ran through the crowd, though some were silent,looking curiously at the forceful and confident old man. Even his bentshoulders seemed to suggest driving power rather than the weight ofyears. He suddenly stretched out a hand in command as it were.
“Comrades, comrades,” he said, “every man makesmistakes. Even if it was a mistake for Ingolby to take away the officesfrom Manitou, he's done a big thing for both cities by combining thethree railways.”
“Monopoly,” growled a voice from the crowd. “Notmonopoly,” the old man replied with a ring to his voice, which madeit younger, fresher. “Not monopoly, but better management of therailways, with more wages, more money to spend on things to eat and drinkand wear, more dollars in the pocket of everybody that works in Manitouand Lebanon. Ingolby works, he doesn't loaf.”
“Oh, gosh all hell, he's a dynamo,” shouted a voice fromthe crowd. “He's a dynamo running the whole show-eh!”
The old man seemed to grow shorter, but as he thrust his shouldersforward, it was like a machine gathering energy and power.
“I'll tell you, friends, what Ingolby is trying to do,” hesaid in a low voice vibrating with that force which belongs neither toage nor youth, but is the permanent activity uniting all ages of a man.“Of course, Ingolby is ambitious and he wants power. He tries to dothe big things in the world because there is the big thing todo—for sure. Without such men the big things are never done, andother men have less work to do, and less money and poorer homes. Theydiscover and construct and design and invent and organize and giveopportunities. I am a working man, but I know what Ingolby thinks. I knowwhat men think who try to do the big things. I have tried to dothem.”
The crowd were absolutely still now, but the big river-driver shookhimself free of the eloquence, which somehow swayed them all, andsaid:
“You—you look as if you'd tried to do big things, you do,old skeesicks. I bet you never earned a hundred dollars in yourlife.” He turned to the crowd with fierce gestures. “Let's goto Lebanon and make the place sing,” he roared. “Let's getIngolby out to talk for himself, if he wants to talk. We know what wewant to do, and we're not going to be bossed. He's for Lebanon and we'refor Manitou. Lebanon means to boss us, Lebanon wants to sit on us becausewe're Catholics, because we're French, because we're honest.”
Again a wave of revolution swept through the crowd. The bigriver-driver represented their natural instincts, their nativefanaticism, their prejudices. But the old man spoke once more.
“Ingolby wants Lebanon and Manitou to come together, not to fallapart,” he declared. “He wants peace. If he gets rich here hewon't get rich alone. He's working for both towns. If he brings moneyfrom outside, that's good for both towns. If he—”
“Shut your mouth, let Ingolby speak for himself,” snarledthe big river- driver. “Take his dollars out of your pocket and putthem on the bar, the dollars Ingolby gives you to say all this. Put themdollars of Ingolby's up for drinks, or we'll give you a jar that'll shakeyou, old wart-hog.”
At that instant a figure forced itself through the crowd, and brokeinto the packed circle which was drawing closer upon the old man.
It was Jethro Fawe. He flung a hand out towards the old man.
“You want Ingolby—well, that's Ingolby,” heshouted.
Like lightning the old man straightened himself, snatched the wig andbeard away from his head and face, and with quiet fearlessness said:
“Yes, I am Ingolby.”
For an instant there was absolute silence, in which Ingolby weighedhis chances. He was among enemies. He had meant only to move among thecrowd to discover their attitude, to find things out for himself. He hadsucceeded, and his belief that Manitou could be swayed in the rightdirection if properly handled, was correct. Beneath the fanaticism andthe racial spirit was human nature; and until Jethro Fawe had appeared,he had hoped to prevent violence and the collision at to-morrow'sfuneral.
Now the situation was all changed. It was hard to tell what sharp turnthings might take. He was about to speak, but suddenly from the crowdthere was spat out at him the words, “Spy! Sneak! Spy!”
Instantly the wave of feeling ran against him. He smiled frankly,however, with that droll twist of his mouth which had won so many, andthe raillery of his eyes was more friendly than any appeal.
“Spy, if you like, my friends,” he said firmly andclearly. “Moses sent spies down into the Land of Promise, and theybrought back big bunches of grapes. Well, I've come down into a land ofpromise. I wanted to know just how you all feel without being told it bysome one else. I knew if I came here as Max Ingolby I shouldn't hear thewhole truth; I wouldn't see exactly how you see, so I came as one of you,and you must admit, my French is as good as yours almost.”
He laughed and nodded at them.
“There wasn't one of you that knew I wasn't a Frenchman. That'sin my favour. If I know the French language as I do, and can talk to youin French as I've done, do you think I don't understand the Frenchpeople, and what you want and how you feel? I'm one of the few men in theWest that can talk your language. I learned it when I was a boy, so thatI might know my French fellow-countrymen under the same flag, with thesame King and the same national hope. As for your religion, God knows, Iwish I was as good a Protestant as lots of you are good Catholics. And Itell you this, I'd be glad to have a minister that I could follow andrespect and love as I respect and love Monseigneur Lourde of Manitou. Iwant to bring these two towns together, to make them a sign of what thiscountry is, and what it can do; to make hundreds like ourselves inManitou and Lebanon work together towards health, wealth, comfort andhappiness. Can't you see, my friends, what I'm driving at? I'm for peaceand work and wealth and power—not power for myself alone, but powerthat belongs to all of us. If I can show I'm a good man at my job, maybebetter than others, then I have a right to ask you to follow me. If Ican't, then throw me out. I tell you I'm your friend—Max Ingolby isyour friend.”
“Spy! Spy! Spy!” cried a new voice.
It came from behind the bar. An instant after, the owner of the voiceleaped up on the counter. It was Felix Marchand. He had entered by thedoor behind the bar into Barbazon's office.
“When I was in India,” Marchand cried, “I found asnake in the bed. I killed it before it stung me. There's a snake in thebed of Manitou— what are you going to do with it?”
The men swayed, murmured, and shrill shouts of “Marchand!Marchand! Marchand !” went up. The crowd heaved upon Ingolby.“One minute!” he called with outstretched arm and commandingvoice. They paused. Something in him made him master of them eventhen.
At that moment two men were fiercely fighting their way through thecrowd towards where Ingolby was. They were Jowett and Osterhaut. Ingolbysaw them coming.
“Go back—go back!” he called to them.
Suddenly a drunken navvy standing on a table in front of and to theleft of Ingolby seized a horseshoe hanging on the wall, and flung it withan oath.
It caught Ingolby in the forehead, and he fell to the floor without asound.
A minute afterwards the bar was empty, save for Osterhaut, Jowett, oldBarbazon, and his assistants.
Barbazon and Jowett lifted the motionless figure in their arms, andcarried it into a little room.
Then Osterhaut picked up the horseshoe tied with its gay blue ribbons,now stained with blood, and put it in his pocket.
“For luck,” he said.
Fleda waked suddenly, but without motion; just a wide opening of theeyes upon the darkness, and a swift beating of the heart, but not themovement of a muscle. It was as though some inward monitor, some gnome ofthe hidden life had whispered of danger to her slumbering spirit. Thewaking was a complete emergence, a vigilant and searching attention.
There was something on her breast weighing it down, yet with apressure which was not weight alone, and maybe was not weight at all asweight is understood. Instantly there flashed through her mind theprimitive belief that a cat will lie upon the breasts of children andsuck their breath away. Strange and even absurd as it was, it seemed toher that a cat was pressing and pressing down upon her breast. Therecould be no mistaking the feline presence. Now with a sudden energy ofthe body, she threw the Thing from her, and heard it drop, with thesoftness of feline feet, on the Indian rug upon the floor.
Then she sprang out of bed, and, feeling for the matches, lit a candleon the small table beside her bed, and moved it round searching for whatshe thought to be a cat. It was not to be seen. She looked under the bed;it was not there: under the washstand, under the chest of drawers, underthe improvised dressing-table; and no cat was to be found. She 173 lookedunder the chair over which hung her clothes, even behind the dresses andthe Indian deerskin cape hanging on the door.
There was no life of any kind save her own in the room, so far as shecould see. She laughed nervously, though her heart was still beatinghard. That it should beat hard was absurd, for what had she tofear—she who had lived the wild open-air life of many lands, hadslept among hills infested by animals the enemy of man, and who when alittle girl had faced beasts of prey alone. Yet here in her own safe roomon the Sagalac, with its four walls, but its unlocked doors—forGabriel Druse said that he could not bear that last sign of hisexile—here in the fortress of the town-dweller there was a strangetrembling of her pulses in the presence of a mere hallucination ornightmare—the first she had had ever. Her dreams in the past hadalways been happy and without the black fancies of nightmare. On thenight that Jethro Fawe had first confronted her father and herself, andhe had been carried to the hut in the Wood, her sleep had been disturbedand restless, but dreamless; in her sleep on the night of the day of hisrelease, she had been tossed upon vague clouds of mental unrest; but thatwas the first really disordered sleep she had ever known.
Holding the candle above her head, she looked in the mirror on herdressing-table, and laughed nervously at the shocked look in her eyes, atthe hand pressed upon the bosom whose agitations troubled the delicatelinen at her breast. The pale light of the candle, the reflection fromthe white muslin of her dressing-table and her nightwear, the strange,deep darkness of her eyes, the ungathered tawny hair falling to hershoulders, gave an unusual paleness to her face.
“What a ninny I am!” she said aloud as she looked atherself, her tongue chiding her apprehensive eyes, her laughcontemptuously adding its comment on her tremulousness. “It was areal nightmare—a waking nightmare, that's what it was.”
She searched the room once more, however-every corner, under the bed,the chest of drawers and the dressing-table, before she got into bedagain, her feet icily cold. And yet again before settling down she lookedround, perplexed and inquiring. Placing the matches beside thecandlestick, she blew out the light. Then, half-turning on her side withher face to the wall, she composed herself to sleep.
Resolutely putting from her mind any sense of the supernatural, sheshut her eyes with confidence of coming sleep. While she was, however,still within the borders of wakefulness, and wholly conscious, she feltthe Thing jump from the floor upon her legs, and crouch there with thatdeadening pressure which was not weight. Now with a start of anger sheraised herself, and shot out a determined hand to seize the Thing,whatever it was. Her hand grasped nothing, and again she distinctly hearda soft thud as of something jumping on the floor. Exasperated, she drewherself out of bed, lit the candle again, and began another search.Nothing was to be seen; but she had now the curious sense of an unseenpresence. She went to the door, opened it, and looked out into the narrowhall. Nothing was to be seen there. Then she closed the door again, andstood looking at it meditatively for a moment. It had a lock and key; yetit had never been locked in the years they had lived on the Sagalac. Shedid not know whether the key would turn in the lock. After a moment'shesitation, she shrugged her shoulders and turned the key. It rasped,proved stubborn, but at last came home with a click. Then she turned tothe window. It was open about three inches at the bottom. She closed ittight, and fastened it, then stood for a moment in the middle of the roomlooking at both door and window.
She was conscious of a sense of suffocation. Never in her life had sheslept with door or window or tentflap entirely closed. Never before hadshe been shut in all night behind closed doors and sealed windows. Now,as the sense of imprisonment was felt, her body protested; her spiritresented the funereal embrace of security. It panted for the freedomwhich gives the challenge to danger and the courage to face it.
She went to the window and opened it slightly at the top, and thensought her bed again; but even as she lay down, something whispered toher mind that it was folly to lock the door and yet leave the windowopen, if it was but an inch. With an exclamation of self-reproach, and avague indignation at something, she got up and closed the window oncemore.
Again she composed herself to sleep, lying now with her face turned tothe window and the door. She was still sure that she had been the victimof a hallucination which, emerging from her sleep, had invaded theborders of wakefulness, and then had reproduced itself in a wakingillusion—an imitation of its original existence.
Resolved to conquer any superstitious feeling, she invoked sleep, andwas on its borders once more when she was startled more violently thanbefore.
The Thing had sprung again upon her feet and was crouched there. Wideawake, she waited for a moment to make sure that she was not mad, or thatshe was not asleep or in a half-dream. In the pause, she felt the Thingdraw up towards her knees, dragging its body along with tiger-likecloseness, and with that strange pressure which was not weight butpower.
With a cry which was no longer doubt, but agonized apprehension, shethrew the Thing from her with a motion of both hands and feet; and, asshe did so, she felt a horrible cold air breathing from a bloodless body,chill her hand.
In another instant she was on her feet again. With shaking fingers shelighted the candle yet once more, after which she lighted a lamp standingupon the chest of drawers. The room was almost brilliantly bright now.With a gesture of incredulity she looked round. The doors and windowswere sealed tight, and there was nothing to be seen; yet she was morethan ever conscious of a presence grown more manifest. For a moment shestood staring straight before her at the place where it seemed to be. Sherealized its malice and its hatred, and an intense anger and hatred tookpossession of her. She had always laughed at such things even whenthrilled by wonder and manufactured terrors. But now there was a sense ofconflict, of evil, of the indefinable things in which so manybelieved.
Suddenly she remembered an ancient Sage of her tribe, who, proficientin mysteries and secret rites gathered from nations as old as Phoeniciaand Egypt and as modern as Switzerland, held the Romanys of the world inawe, for his fame had travelled where he could not follow. To Fleda inher earliest days he had been like one inspired, and as she now stoodfacing the intangible Thing, she recalled an exorcism which the Sage hadrecited to her, when he had sufficiently startled her senses by tales ofthe Between World. This exorcism was, as he had told her, more powerfulthan that which the Christian exorcists used, and the symbol of exorcismwas not unlike the sign of the Cross, to which was added genuflection ofAssyrian origin.
At any other time Fleda would have laughed at the idea of using theexorcism; but all the ancient superstition of the Romany people latent inher now broke forth and held her captive. Standing with candle raisedabove her head, her eyes piercing the space before her, she recalledevery word of the exorcism which had caught the drippings from thefountains of Chaldean, Phoenician, and Egyptian mystery.
Solemnly and slowly the exorcism came from her lips, and at the endher right hand made the cabalistic sign; then she stood like onetransfixed with her arm extended towards the Thing she could not see.
Presently there passed from her a sense of oppression. The air seemedto grow lighter, restored self-possession came; there was a gentlebreathing in the room like that of a sleeping child. It was a momentbefore she realized that the breathing was her own, and she looked roundher like one who had come out of a trance.
“It is gone,” she said aloud. “It is gone.” Agreat sigh came from her.
Mechanically she put down the candle, smoothed the pillows of her bed,adjusted the coverings, and prepared to lie down; but, with a suddenimpulse, she turned to the window and the door.
“It is gone,” she said again. With a little laugh ofhushed triumph, she turned and made again the cabalistic sign at the bed,where the Thing had first assaulted her, and then at that point in theroom near the door where she had felt it crouching.
“Oh, Ewie Gal,” she added, speaking to that Romany Sagelong since laid to rest in the Roumelian country, “you did not talkto me for nothing. You were right—yes, you were right, old EwieGal. It was there,”—she looked again at the place where theThing had been—“and your curse drove it away.”
With confidence she went to the door and unlocked it. Going to thewindow she opened it also, but she compromised sufficiently to open it atthe top instead of at the bottom. Presently she laid her head on herpillow with a sigh of content.
Once again she composed herself to sleep in the darkness. But nowthere came other invasions, other disturbers of the night. In herimagination a man came who had held her in his arms one day on theSagalac River, who had looked into her eyes with a masterful butrespectful tenderness. As she neared the confines of sleep, he wassomehow mingled with visions of things which her childhood hadknown—moonlit passes in the Bosnian, Roumelian, and Roumanianhills, green fields by the Danube, with peasant voices drowsing in songbefore the lights went out; a gallop after dun deer far away up theCaspian mountains, over waste places, carpeted with flowers after abenevolent rain; mornings in Egypt, when the camels thudded and slid withmelancholy ease through the sands of the desert, while the Arab driverscalled shrilly for Allah to curse or bless; a tender sunset in Englandseen from the top of a castle when all the western sky was lightly drapedwith saffron, gold and mauve and delicate green and purple.
Now she slept again, with the murmur of the Sagalac in her ears, andthere was a smile at her lips. If one could have seen her through thedarkness, one would have said that she was like some wild creature of avirgin world, whom sleep had captured and tamed; for, behind therefinement which education and the vigilant influence with which MadameBulteel had surrounded her, there was in her the spirit of primitivethings: of the open road and the wilderness, of the undisciplined andvagrant life, however marked by such luxury as the ruler of all theRomanys could buy and use in pilgrimage. There was that in her whichwould drag at her footsteps in this new life.
For a full hour or more she slept, then there crept through thefantasies of sleep something that did not belong to sleep—againsomething from the wakeful world, strange, alien, troubling. At first itwas only as though a wind stirred the air of dreams, then it was like thesounds that gather behind the coming rage of a storm, and again it was asthough a night- prowler plucked at the sleeve of a home-goer. Presently,with a stir of fright and a smothered cry, she waked to a sound which wasnot of the supernatural or of the mind's illusions, but no less dreadfulto her because of that. In some cryptic way it was associated with thedireful experience through which she had just passed.
What she heard in the darkness was a voice which sang there by herwindow—at it or beneath it—the words of a Romany song.
It was a song of violence, which she had heard but a short time beforein the trees behind her father's house, when a Romany claimed her as hiswife:
“Time was I went to my true love,
Time was she came to me—”
Only one man would sing that song at her window, or anywhere in thisWestern world. This was no illusion of her overwrought senses. There,outside her window, was Jethro Fawe.
She sat up and listened, leaning on one arm, and staring into thehalf- darkness beyond the window, the blind of which she had not drawndown. There was no moon, but the stars were shining brightly, relievingthe intensity of the dark. Through the whispering of the trees, andhushing the melancholy of a night-bird's song, came the wild low note ofthe Romany epic of vengeance. It had a thrill of exultation. Something inthe voice, insistent, vibrating, personal, made every note a thrust ofvictory. In spite of her indignation at the insolent serenade, shethrilled; for the strain of the Past was in her, and it had been fightingwith her all night, breaking in upon the Present, tugging at the cords ofyouth.
The man's daring roused her admiration, even as her anger mounted. Ifher father heard the singing, there could be no doubt that Jethro Fawe'sdoom would be sealed. Gabriel Druse would resent this insolence to thedaughter of the Ry of Rys. Word would be passed as silently as theelectric spark flies, and one day Jethro Fawe would be found dead, withno clue to his slayer, and maybe no sign of violence upon him; for whilethe Romany people had remedies as old as Buddha, they had poisons as oldas Sekhet.
Suddenly the song ceased, and for a moment there was silence save forthe whispering trees and the night-bird's song. Fleda rose from her bed,and was about to put on her dressing-gown, when she was startled by avoice loudly whispering her name at her window, as it seemed.
“Daughter of the Ry of Rys !” it called.
In anger she started forward to the window, then, realizing that shewas in her nightgown, caught up her red dressing-gown and put it on. Asshe did so she understood why the voice had sounded so near. Not thirtyfeet from her window there was a solitary oak-tree among the pines, inwhich was a seat among the branches, and, looking out, she could see afigure that blackened the starlit duskiness.
“Fleda—daughter of the Ry of Rys,” the voice calledagain.
She gathered her dressing-gown tight about her, and, going to thewindow, raised it high and leaned out.
“What do you want?” she asked sharply.
“Wife of Jethro Fawe, I bring you news,” the voice said,and she saw a hat waved with mock courtesy. In spite of herself, Fledafelt a shiver of premonition pass through her. The Thing which hadthreatened her in the night seemed to her now like the soul of this darkspirit in the trees.
Resentment seized her. “I have news for you, Jethro Fawe,”she replied. “I set you free, and I gave my word that no harmshould come to you, if you went your ways and did not come again. Youhave come, and I shall do nothing now to save you from the Ry's anger. Goat once, or I will wake him.”
“Will a wife betray her husband?” he asked in softderision.
Stung by his insolence, “I would not throw a rope to you, if youwere drowning,” she declared. “I am a Gorgio, and the thingthat was done by the Starzke River is nothing to me. Now, go.”
“You have forgotten my news,” he said: “It is badnews for the Gorgio daughter of the Romany Ry.” She was silent inapprehension. He waited, but she did not speak.
“The Gorgio of Gorgios of the Sagalac has had a fall,” hesaid.
Her heart beat fast for an instant, and then the presentiment came toher that the man spoke the truth. In the presence of the accomplishedthing, she became calm.
“What has happened?” she asked quietly.
“He went prowling in Manitou, and in Barbazon's Tavern theystruck him down.”
“Who struck him down?” she asked. It seemed to her thatthe night-bird sang so loud that she could scarcely hear her ownvoice.
“A drunken Gorgio,” he replied. “The horseshoe isfor luck all the world over, and it brought its luck to Manitou to-night.It struck down a young Master Gorgio who in white beard and long greyhair went spying.”
She knew in her heart that he spoke the truth. “He isdead?” she asked in a voice that had a strange quietness.
“Not yet,” he answered. “There is time to wish himluck.”
She heard the ribald laugh with a sense of horror and loathing.“The hand that brought him down may have been the hand of a Gorgio,but behind the hand was Jethro Fawe,” she said in a voice grownpassionate again. “Where is he?” she added.
“At his own house. I watched them take him there. It is a nicehouse— good enough for a Gorgio house-dweller. I know it well. Lastnight I played his Sarasate fiddle for him there, and I told him allabout you and me, and what happened at Starzke, andthen—”
“You told him I was a Romany, that I was married to you?”she asked in a low voice.
“I told him that, and asked him why he thought you had deceivedhim, had held from him the truth. He was angry and tried to killme.”
“That is a lie,” she answered. “If he had tried tokill you he would have done so.”
Suddenly she realized the situation as it was—that she wasstanding at her window in the night, scantily robed, talking to a man ina tree opposite her window; and that the man had done a thing whichbelonged to the wild places which she had left so far behind.
It flashed into her mind—what would Max Ingolby think of such athing? She flushed. The new Gorgio self of her flushed, and yet the oldRomany self, the child of race and heredity had taken no exact account ofthe strangeness of this situation. It had not seemed unnatural. Even ifhe had been in her room itself, she would have felt no tithe of the shamethat she felt now in asking herself what the Master Gorgio would think,if he knew. It was not that she had less modesty, that any stir of sexwas in her veins where the Romany chal was concerned; but in the life shehad once lived less delicate cognizance was taken of such things, andsomething of it stayed.
“Listen,” Jethro said with sudden lowering of the voice,and imparting into his tones an emotion which was in part an actor'sgift, but also in large degree a passion now eating at his heart,“you are my wife by all the laws of our people. Nothing can changeit. I have waited for you, and I will wait, but you shall be mine in theend. You see to-night— 'Mi Duvel', you see that fate is with me!The Gorgio has bewitched you. He goes down to-night in that tavern thereby the hand of a Gorgio, and the Romany has his revenge. Fate is alwayswith me, and I will be the gift of the gods to the woman that takes me.The luck is mine always. It will be always with me. I am poor to-day, Ishall be rich to-morrow. I was rich, and I lost it all; and I was poor,and became rich again. Ah, yes, there are ways! Sometimes it is aGovernment, sometimes a prince that wants to know, and Jethro Fawe, theRomany, finds it out, and money fills his pockets. I am here, poor,because last year when I lost all, I said, 'It is because my Romany lassis not with me. I have not brought her to my tan, but when she comes thenthe gold will be here as before, and more when it is wanted.' So, I came,and I hear the road calling, and all the camping places over all theworld, and I see the patrins in every lane, and my heart is lifted up. Iam glad. I rejoice. My heart burns with love. I will forget everything,and be true to the queen of my soul. Men die, and Gabriel Druse, he willdie one day, and when the time comes, then it would be that you and Iwould beckon, and all the world would come to us.”
He stretched out a hand to her in the half-darkness. “I send theblood of my heart to you,” he continued. “I am a son ofkings. Fleda, daughter of the Ry of Rys, come to me. I have been bad, butI can be good. I have killed, but I will live at peace. I have cursed,but I will speak the word of blessing. I have trespassed, but I will keepto my own, if you will come to me.”
Suddenly he dropped to the ground, lighting on his feet like an animalwith a soft rebound. Stretching up his arms, he made soft murmuring ofendearment.
She had listened, fascinated in spite of herself by the fire andmeaning of his words. She felt that in most part it was true, that it wasmeant; and, whatever he was, he was yet a man offering his heart andlife, offering a love that she despised, and yet which was love andpassion of a kind. It was a passion natural to the people from whom shecame, and to such as Jethro Fawe it was something more than sensuallonging and the aboriginal desire of possession. She realized it, and wasnot wholly revolted by it, even while her mind was fleeing to where theMaster Gorgio lay wounded, it might be unto death; even while she knewthat this man before her, by some means, had laid Ingolby low. She wasall at once a human being torn by contending forces.
Jethro's drop to the ground broke the sudden trance into which hiswords had thrown her. She shook herself as with an effort of control.Then leaning over the window-sill, and, looking down at him, now grown sodistinct that she could see his features, her eyes having become used tothe half-light of the approaching dawn, she said with something almostlike gentleness:
“Once more I say, you must go and come no more. You are too faroff from me. You belong to that which is for the ignorant, or the low,the vicious and the bad. Behind the free life of the Romany is only thething that the beasts of the field have. I have done with it for ever.Find a Romany who will marry you. As for me, I would rather die than doso, and I should die before it could come to pass. If you stay herelonger I will call the Ry.”
Presently the feeling that he had been responsible for the disaster toIngolby came upon her with great force, and as suddenly as she hadsoftened towards this man she hardened again.
“Go, before there comes to you the death you deserve,” sheadded, and turned away.
At that moment footsteps sounded near, and almost instantly thereemerged from a pathway which made a short cut to the house, the figure ofold Gabriel Druse. They had not heard him till he was within a few feetof where Jethro Fawe stood. His walking had been muffled in the dust ofthe pathway.
The Ry started when he saw Jethro Fawe; then he made a motion asthough he would seize the intruder, who was too dumbfounded to flee; buthe recovered himself, and gazed up at the open window.
“Fleda!” he called.
She came to the window again.
“Has this man come here against your will?” he asked, notas though seeking information, but confirmation of his ownunderstanding.
“He is not here by my will,” she answered. “He cameto sing the Song of Hate under my window, to tell me that hehad—”
“That I had brought the Master Gorgio to the ground,” saidJethro, who now stood with sullen passiveness looking at GabrielDruse.
“From the Master Gorgio, as you call him, I have justcome,” returned the old man. “When I heard the news, I wentto him. It was you who betrayed him to the mob, and—”
“Wait, wait,” Fleda cried in agitation. “Is—ishe dead?”
“He is alive, but terribly hurt; and he may die,” was thereply.
Then the old man turned to the Romany with a great anger anddetermination in his face. He stretched out an arm, making a sign ascabalistic as that which Fleda had used against her invisible foe in thebedroom.
“Go, Jethro Fawe of all the Fawes,” he said. “Go,and may no patrins mark your road!”
Jethro Fawe shrank back, and half raised his arm, as though to fendhimself from a blow.
The patrin is the clue which Gipsies leave behind them on the roadthey go, that other Gipsies who travel in it may know they have gonebefore. It may be a piece of string, a thread of wool, a twig, or in thedust the ancient cross of the Romany, which preceded the Christian crossand belonged to the Assyrian or Phoenician world. The invocation that nopatrins shall mark the road of a Romany is to make him an outcast, andfor the Ry of Rys to utter the curse is sentence of death upon a Romany,for thenceforward every hand of his race is against him, free to do himharm.
It was that which made Jethro Fawe shrink and cower for a moment.Fleda raised her hand suddenly in protest to Gabriel Druse.
“No, no, not that,” Fleda murmured brokenly to her father,with eyes that looked the pain and horror she felt. Though she repudiatedthe bond by which the barbarian had dared to call her wife, she heard aninner voice that said to her: “What was done by the Starzke Riverwas the seal of blood and race, and this man must be nearer than thestranger, dearer than the kinsman, forgiven of his crimes like a brother,saved from shame, danger or death when she who was sealed to him can savehim.”
She shuddered as she heard the inner voice. She felt that this OtherSelf of her, the inner-seeing soul which had the secret of the far paths,had spoken truly. Even as she begged her father to withdraw the sentence,it flashed into her mind that the grim Thing of the night was the darkspirit of hatred between Jethro Fawe and the Master Gorgio seekingembodiment, as though Jethro's evil soul detached itself from his body topersecute her.
At her appeal, Jethro raised his head. His courage came back, the oldinsolent self-possession took hold of him again. The sentence which theRy had passed was worse than death (and it meant death, too), for it madehim an outcast from his people, and to be outcast was to be thrown intothe abyss. It was as though a man without race or country was banishedinto desolate space. In a vague way he felt its full significance, andthe shadow of it fell on him.
“No, no, no,” Fleda repeated hoarsely, with that new senseof responsibility where Jethro was concerned.
Jethro's eyes were turned upon her now. In the starlit night, justyielding to the dawn, she could faintly see his burning look, could feel,as it were, his hands reach out to claim her; and she felt that while helived she was not wholly free. She realized that the hand of nomad,disorderly barbarism was dragging her with a force which was inhuman, or,maybe, superhuman.
Gabriel Druse could know nothing of the elements fighting in hisdaughter's soul; he only knew that her interest in the Master Gorgio wasone he had never seen before, and that she abhorred the Romany who hadbrought Ingolby low. He had shut his eyes to the man's unruliness and hisdaughter's intervention to free him; but now he was without pity. He hadcome from Ingolby's bedside, and had been told a thing which shook hisrugged nature to its centre—a thing sad as death itself, which hemust tell his daughter.
To Fleda's appeal he turned a stony face. There was none of that ragein his words which had marked the scene when Jethro Fawe first came toclaim what he could not have. There was something in him now more deadlyand inevitable. It made him like some figure of mythology, implacable,fateful. His great height, his bushy beard and stormy forehead, the eyesover which shaggy eyebrows hung like the shrubs on a cliff-edge, his facelined and set like a thing in bronze—all were signs of a powerwhich, in passion, would be like that of OEdipus: in the moment ofjustice or doom would, with unblinking eyes, slay and cast aside asdebris is tossed upon the dust-heap.
As he spoke now his voice was toneless. His mind was flint, and histongue was but the flash of the flint. He looked at his daughter for amoment with no light of fatherhood in his face, then turned from her toJethro Fawe with slow decision and a gesture of authority. His eyesfastened on the face of the son of Lemuel Fawe, as though it was that oldenemy himself.
“I have said what I have said, and there is no more to bespoken. The rule of the Ry will be as water for ever after if thesethings may be done to him and his. For generations have the Rys of allthe Rys been like the trees that bend only to the whirlwind; and whenthey speak there is no more to be said. When it ceases to be so, then theRys will vanish from the world, and be as stubble of the field ready forthe burning. I have spoken. Go! And no patrins shall lie upon yourroad.”
A look of savage obedience and sullen acquiescence came into JethroFawe's face, and he took off his hat as one who stands in the presence ofhis master. The strain of generations, the tradition of the race withouta country was stronger than the revolt in his soul. He was young, hisblood was hot and brawling in his veins, he was all carnal, with thesuperior intelligence of the trained animal, but custom was stronger thanall. He knew now that whatever he might do, some time, not far, his doomwould fall upon him suddenly, as a wind shoots up a ravine from thedesert, or a nightbird rises from the dark.
He set his feet stubbornly, and raised his sullen face and fanaticaleyes. The light of morning was creeping through the starshine, and hisfeatures showed plainly.
“I am your daughter's husband,” he said. “Nothingcan change that. It was done by the River Starzke, and it was the word ofthe Ry of Rys. It stands for ever. There is no divorce except death forthe Romany.”
“The patrins cease to mark the way,” returned the old manwith a swift gesture. “The divorce of death will come.”
Jethro's face grew still paler, and he opened his lips to speak, butpaused, seeing Fleda, with a backward look of pity and of horror, drawback into the darkness of her room.
He made a motion of passion and despair. His voice was almost shrillwhen he spoke. “Till that divorce comes, the daughter of the Ry ofRys is mine!” he cried sharply. “I will not give my wife to aGorgio thief. His hands shall not caress her, his eyes shall not feedupon her—”
“His eyes will not feed upon her,” interrupted the oldman, “So cease the prattle which can alter nothing.Begone.”
For a moment Jethro Fawe stood like one who did not understand whatwas said to him, but suddenly a look of triumph and malice came into hisface, and his eyes lighted with a reckless fire. He threw back his head,and laughed with a strange, offensive softness. Then, waving a hand tothe window from which Fleda had gone, he swung his cap on his head andplunged into the trees.
A moment afterwards his voice came back exultingly, through themorning air:
“But a Gorgio sleeps 'neath the greenwood tree
He'll broach my tan no more:
And my love, she sleeps afar from me
But near to the churchyard door.”
As the old man turned heavily towards the house, and opened the outerdoor, Fleda met him.
“What did you mean when you said that Ingolby's eyes would notfeed upon me?” she asked in a low tone of fear.
A look of compassion came into the old man's face. He took herhand.
“Come and I will tell you,” he said.
In Ingolby's bedroom, on the night of the business at Barbazon'sTavern, Dr. Rockwell received a shock. His face, naturally colourless,was almost white, and his eyes were moist. He had what the West callednerve. That the crisis through which he had passed was that of a friend'slife did not lessen the poignancy of the experience. He had a singularlyreserved manner and a rare economy of words; also, he had the refinementand distinction of one who had, oforetime, moved on the higher ranges ofsocial life. He was always simply and comfortably and in a sensefashionably dressed, yet there was nothing of the dude about him, and hisblack satin tie gave him an air of old-worldishness which somehowcompelled an extra amount of respect. This, in spite of the fact that hehad been known as one who had left the East and come into the wildsbecause of a woman not his wife.
It was not, however, strictly true to say that he had come Westbecause of a woman, for it was on account of three women, who by suddencoincidence or collusion sprang a situation from which the only reliefwas flight. In that he took refuge, not because he was a coward, butbecause it was folly to fight a woman, or three women, and because it wasthe only real solution of an ungovernable situation. At first he haddrifted from one town to another, dissolute and reckless, apparentlyunable to settle down, or to forget the unwholesome three. But one daythere was a terrible railway accident on a construction train, andLebanon and Manitou made a call upon his skill, and held him in bondageto his profession for one whole month. During this time he performed twooperations which the surgeons who had been sent out by the RailwayDirectors at Montreal declared were masterpieces.
When that month was up he was a changed man, and he opened an officein Lebanon. Men trusted him despite his past, and women learned thatthere was never a moment when his pulses beat unevenly in their presence.Nathan Rockwell had had his lesson and it was not necessary to learn itagain. To him, woman, save as a subject of his skill, was a closed book.He regarded them as he regarded himself, with a kindly cynicism. He neverforgot that his own trouble could and would have been avoided had it notbeen for woman's vanity and consequent cruelty. The unwholesome three hadshared his moral lapse with wide-open eyes, and were in no sense victimsof his; but, disregarding their responsibility, they had, from sheerjealousy, wrecked his past, and, to their own surprise, had wreckedthemselves as well. They were of those who act first and thenthink—too late.
Thus it was that both men and women called Rockwell a handsome man,but thought of him as having only a crater of exhausted fires in place ofa heart. They came to him with their troubles—even the women ofManitou who ought to have gone to the priest.
He moved about Lebanon as one who had authority, and desired not touse it; as one to whom life was like a case in surgery to be treated withscientific, coolness, with humanity, but not with undue sympathy; yet theearly morning of the day after Ingolby had had his accident at Barbazon'sHotel found him the slave of an emotion which shook him from head tofoot. He had saved his friend's life by a most skilful operation, but hehad been shocked beyond control when, an hour after the operation wasover, and consciousness returned to the patient in the brilliantlylighted room, Ingolby said:
“Why don't you turn on the light?”
It was thus Rockwell knew that the Master Man, the friend of Lebanonand Manitou, was stone blind. When Ingolby's voice ceased, a horrifiedsilence filled the room for a moment. Even Jim Beadle, his servant,standing at the foot of the bed, clapped a hand to his mouth to stop acry, and the nurse turned as white as the apron she wore.
Dumbfounded as Rockwell was, with instant professional presence ofmind he said:
“No, Ingolby, you must be kept in darkness a while yet.”Then he whipped out a silk handkerchief from his pocket. “We willhave light,” he continued, “but we must bandage you first tokeep out the glare and prevent pain. The nerves of the eyes have beeninjured.”
Hastily and tenderly he bound the handkerchief round the sightlesseyes. Having done so, he said to the nurse with unintentional quotationfrom the Gospel of St. John, and a sad irony: “Let there belight.”
It all gave him time to pull himself together and prepare for themoment when he must tell Ingolby the truth. In one sense the sooner itwas told the better, lest Ingolby should suddenly discover it forhimself. Surprise and shock must be avoided. So now he talked in his low,soothing voice, telling Ingolby that the operation had put him out ofdanger, that the pain now felt came chiefly from the nerves of the eye,and that quiet and darkness were necessary. He insisted on Ingolbykeeping silent, and he gave a mild opiate which induced several hours'sleep.
During this time Rockwell prepared himself for the ordeal which mustbe passed as soon as possible; gave all needed directions, and had aconference with the assistant Chief Constable to whom he confided thetruth. He suggested plans for preserving order in excited Lebanon, whichwas determined to revenge itself on Manitou; and he gave some careful andspecific instructions to Jowett the horse-dealer. Also, he had conferredwith Gabriel Druse, who had helped bear the injured man to his own home.He had noted with admiration the strange gentleness of the giant Romanyas he, alone, carried Ingolby in his arms, and laid him on the bed fromwhich he was to rise with all that he had fought for overthrown, himselfthe blind victim of a hard fate. He had noticed the old man straightenhimself with a spring and stand as though petrified when Ingolby said:“Why don't you turn on the light?” As he looked round in thatinstant of ghastly silence he had observed almost mechanically that theold man's lips were murmuring something. Then the thought of Fleda Druseshot into Rockwell's mind, and it harassed him during the hours Ingolbyslept, and after the giant Gipsy had taken his departure just before thedawn.
“I'm afraid it will mean more there than anywhere else,”he said sadly to himself. “There was evidently something betweenthose two; and she isn't the kind to take it philosophically. Poor girl!Poor girl! It's a bitter dose, if there was anything in it,” headded.
He watched beside the sick-bed till the dawn stared in and his patientstirred and waked, then he took Ingolby's hand, grown a little cooler, inboth his own. “How are you feeling, old man?” he askedcheerfully. “You've had a good sleep-nearly three and a half hours.Is the pain in the head less?”
“Better, Sawbones, better,” Ingolby replied cheerfully.“They've loosened the tie that binds—begad, it did stretchthe nerves. I had gripes of colic once, but the pain I had in my head wastwenty times worse, till you gave the opiate.”
“That's the eyes,” said Rockwell. “I had to lift abit of bone, and the eyes saw it and felt it, and cried out-shrieked, youmight say. They've got a sensitiveness all their own, have theeyes.”
“It's odd there aren't more accidents to them,” answeredIngolby—“just a little ball of iridescent pulp with stringstied to the brain.”
“And what hurts the head may destroy the eyes sometimes,”Rockwell answered cautiously. “We know so little of the delicateunion between them, that we can't be sure we can put the eyes right againwhen, because of some blow to the head, the ricochet puts the eyes out ofcommission.”
“That's what's the matter with me, then?” asked Ingolby,feeling the bandage on his eyes feverishly, and stirring in his bed witha sense of weariness.
“Yes, the ricochet got them, and has put them out ofcommission,” replied Rockwell, carefully dwelling upon each word,and giving a note of meaning to his tone.
Ingolby raised himself in bed, but Rockwell gently forced him downagain. “Will my eyes have to be kept bandaged long? Shall I have togive up work for any length of time?” Ingolby asked.
“Longer than you'll like,” was the enigmatical reply.“It's the devil's own business,” was the weary answer.“Every minute's valuable to me now. I ought to be on deck morning,noon, and night. There's all the trouble between the two towns; there'sthe strike on hand; there's that business of the Orange funeral, and morethan all a thousand times, there's—” he paused.
He was going to say, “There's that devil Marchand's designs onmy bridge,” but he thought better of it and stopped. It had beenhis intention to deal with Marchand directly, to get a settlement oftheir differences without resort to the law, to prevent the criminal actwithout deepening a feud which might keep the two towns apart for years.Bad as Marchand was, to prevent his crime was far better than punishinghim for it afterwards. To have Marchand arrested for conspiracy to commita crime was a business which would gravely interfere with his freedom ofmotion in the near future, would create complications which might cripplehis own purposes in indirect ways. That was why he had declared to Jowettthat even Felix Marchand had his price, and that he would trynegotiations first.
But what troubled him now, as he lay with eyes bandaged and aknowledge that to-morrow was the day fixed for the destruction of thebridge, was his own incapacity. It was unlikely that his head or his eyeswould be right by to-morrow, or that Rockwell would allow him to get up.He felt in his own mind that the injury he had received was a seriousone, and that the lucky horseshoe had done Maxchand's work for him alltoo well. This thought shook him. Rockwell could see his chest heave withan excitement gravely injurious to his condition; yet he must be told theworst, or the shock of discovery by himself that he was blind might givehim brain fever. Rockwell felt that he must hasten the crisis.
“Rockwell,” Ingolby suddenly asked, “is there anychance of my discarding this and getting out to-morrow?” He touchedthe handkerchief round his eyes. “It doesn't matter about the headbandages, but the eyes—can't I slough the wraps to-morrow? I feelscarcely any pain now.”
“Yes, you can get rid of the bandages to-morrow—you canget rid of them to-day, if you really wish,” Rockwell answered,closing in on the last defence.
“But I don't mind being in the dark to-day if it'll make mefitter for to-morrow and get me right sooner. I'm not a fool. There's toomuch carelessness about such things. People often don't give themselves achance to get right by being in too big a hurry. So, keep me in darknessto-day, if you want to, old man. For a hustler I'm not in too big ahurry, you see. I'm for holding back to get a bigger jump.”
“You can't be in a big hurry, even if you want to,Ingolby,” rejoined Rockwell, gripping the wrist of the sick man,and leaning over him.
Ingolby grew suddenly very still. It was as though vague fear hadseized him and held him in a vice. “What is it? What do you want tosay to me?” he asked in a low, nerveless tone.
“You've been hit hard, Chief. The ricochet has done you up forsome time. The head will soon get well, but I'm far from sure about youreyes. You've got to have a specialist about them. You're in the dark, andas for making you see, so am I. Your eyes and you are out of commissionfor some time, anyhow.”
He leaned over hastily, but softly and deftly undid the bandages overthe eyes and took them off. “It's seven in the morning, and thesun's up, Chief, but it doesn't do you much good, you see.”
The last two words were the purest accident, but it was a strange,mournful irony, and Rockwell flushed at the thought of it. He sawIngolby's face turn grey, and then become white as death itself.
“I see,” came from the bluish-white lips, as the strickenman made call on all the will and vital strength in him.
For a long minute Rockwell held the cold hand in the grasp of one wholoves and grieves, but even so the physician and surgeon in him wereuppermost, as they should be, in the hour when his friend was standing onthe brink of despair, maybe of catastrophe irremediable. He did not say aword yet, however. In such moments the vocal are dumb and the blindsee.
Ingolby heaved himself in the bed and threw up his arms, wresting themfrom Rockwell's grasp.
“My God—oh, my God-blind!” he cried in agony.Rockwell drew the head with the sightless eyes to his shoulder.
For a moment he laid one hand on the heart, that, suddenly still, nowwent leaping under his fingers. “Steady,” he said firmly.“Steady. It may be only temporary. Keep your head up to the storm.We'll have a specialist, and you must not get mired till then. Steady,Chief.”
“Chief! Chief!” murmured Ingolby. “Dear God, what achief! I risked everything, and I've lost everything by my own vanity.Barbazon's—the horseshoe—among the wolves, just to show Icould do things better than any one else—as if I had the patent forsetting the world right. And now—now—”
The thought of the bridge, of Marchand's devilish design, shot intohis mind, and once more he was shaken. “The bridge! Blind!Mother!” he called in a voice twisted in an agony which only thosecan feel to whom life's purposes are even more than life itself. Then,with a moan, he became unconscious, and his head rolled over againstRockwell's cheek. The damp of his brow was as the damp of death asRockwell's lips touched it.
“Old boy, old boy!” Rockwell said tenderly, “I wishit had been me instead. Life means so much to you—and so little tome. I've seen too much, and you've only just begun to see.”
Laying him gently down, Rockwell summoned the nurse and Jim Beadle andspoke to them in low tones. “He knows now, and it has hit him hard,but not so hard that he won't stiffen to it. It might have beenworse.”
He gave instructions as to the care that should be taken, and replacedthe bandages on the eyes. It was, however, long before Ingolby wasrestored to consciousness, and when it came, Rockwell put to his lips acooling drink containing a powerful opiate. Ingolby drank it withoutprotest and in silence. He was like one whose sense of life was automaticand of an inner rather than an outer understanding. But when he lay backon the pillow again, he said slowly:
“I want the Chief Constable to come here to-night at eighto'clock. It will be dark then. He must come. It is important. Will yousee to it, Rockwell?”
He thrust out a hand as though to find Rockwell's, and there was agratitude and an appeal in the pressure of his fingers which went toRockwell's heart.
“All right, Chief. I'll have him here,” Rockwell answeredbriskly, but with tears standing in his eyes. Ingolby had, as it were,been stricken out of the active, sentient, companionable world into aworld where he was alone, detached, solitary. His being seemed suspendedin an atmosphere of misery and helplessness.
“Blind! I am blind!” That was the phrase which keptbeating with the pulses in Ingolby's veins, that throbbed, and throbbed,and throbbed like engines in a creaking ship which the storm was shakingand pounding in the vast seas between the worlds. Here was the oneincomprehensible, stupefying fact: nothing else mattered. Every plan hehad ever had, every design which he had made his own by an originalitythat even his foes acknowledged, were passing before his brain in swiftprocession, shining, magnified, and magnificent, and in that suddenclear-seeing of his soul he beheld their full value, their exact concreteforce and ultimate effect. Yet he knew himself detached from them,inactive, incapable, because he could not see with the eyes of the body.The great essential thing to him was that one thing he had lost. A manmight be a cripple and still direct the great concerns of life and thebusiness of life. He might be shorn of limb and scarred of body, but witheye sight still direct the courses of great schemes, in whatever sphereof life his purposes were at work. He might be deaf to every sound andforever dumb, but seeing enabled him still to carry forward everyenterprise. In darkness, however, those things were naught, becausejudgment must depend on the eyes and senses of others. The report mightbe true or false, the deputy might deceive, and his blind chief mightnever know the truth unless some other spectator of his schemes shouldreport it; and the truth could not surely be checked, save by some one,perhaps, whose life was joined to his, by one that truly loved him, whosefate was his.
His brain was afire. By one that truly loved him! Who was there thatloved him? Who was there at one with him in all his deep designs, in allhe had done and meant to do? Neither brother, nor sister, nor friend, norany other. None of his blood was there who could share with him theconstructive work he had set out to do. There was no friend whose fatewas part of his own. There was the Boss Doctor: but Rockwell was tied tohis own responsibilities, and he could not give up, of course, would notgive up his life to the schemes of another. There were a dozen men whomhe had helped to forge ahead by his own schemes, but their destinies werenot linked with his. Only one whose life was linked with his could betrusted to be his eyes, to be the true reporter of all he did, had done,or planned to do. Only one who loved him.
But even one who loved him could not carry through his incompletedwork against the assaults of his enemies, who were powerful, watchful,astute, and merciless; who had a greed which set money higher than allelse in the world. They were of the new order of things in the New World.The business of life was to them not a system of barter and exchange, agiving something of value to get something of value, with a margin ofprofit for each, and a sense of human equity behind; it was a cockpitwhere one man sought to get what another man had—and get it almostanyhow.
It was the work of the faro-bank man, whose sleight of hand deceivedthe man that carried the gun.
All the old humanity and good-fellowship of the trader, the man whoexchanged, as it was in the olden days of the world and continued ingreater or less degree till the present generation—all that wasgone. It was held in contempt. It had prevailed when men were openrobbers and filibusters and warriors, giving their lives, if need be, toget what they wanted, making force their god. It had triumphed over theviolence and robbery of the open road until the dying years of onecentury and the young years of a new century. Then the day of thetrickster came—and men laughed at the idea of fair exchange andstrove to give an illusive value for a thing of real value—theremorseless sleight of hand which the law could not reach. The desire toget profit by honest toiling was dying down to ashes.
Against such men had Ingolby worked—the tricksters, themanipulators. At the basis of his schemes was organization and theeconomy which concentrated and conserved energy begets, together with itsprofit. He had been the enemy of waste, the apostle of frugality andthrift; and it was that which had enabled him, in his short career, towin the confidence of the big men behind him in Montreal, to make goodevery step of the way. He had worked for profit out of legitimate productand industry and enterprise, out of the elimination of waste. It was histheory (and his practice) that no bit of old iron, no bolt or screw, noscrap of paper should be thrown away; that the cinders of the enginescould and should be utilized for that which they would make; and that waswhy there was a paper-mill and foundry on the Sagalac at Manitou. Thatwas why and how, so far, he had beaten the tricksters.
But while his schemes flashed before his mind, as the opiate suspendedhim in the middle heaven between sleep and waking, the tricksters andmanipulators came hurrying after him like marauders that waited for themoment when they could rush the camp in the watches of the night. Hisdisordered imagination saw the ruin and wreck of his work, the seizure ofwhat was his own—the place of control on his railways, the place ofthe Master Man who cared infinitely more to see his designs accomplishedthan for the profit they would bring to himself. Yesterday he had beenjust at the top of the hill. The key in his fingers was turning in thelock which would make safe the securities of his life and career, when itsnapped, and the world grew dark as the black curtain fell and shut outthe lighted room from the wayfarer in the gloom. Then, it was, came theopaque blackness which could be felt, and his voice calling in despair:“Blind! I am blind!”
He did not know that he had taken an opiate, that his friend hadmercifully atrophied his rebellious nerves. These visions he was seeingwere terribly true, but they somehow gave him no physical torture. It wasas though one saw an operation performed upon one's body with the nervesstilled and deadened by ether. Yet he was cruelly conscious of thedisaster which had come to him. For a time at least. Then his mind seemedless acute, the visions came, then without seeing them go, they went. Andothers came in broken patches, shreds, and dreams, phantasmagoria of thebrain, and at last all were mingled and confused; but as they passed theyseemed to burn his sight. How he longed for a cool bandage over his eyes,for a soft linen which would shut out the cumuli of broken hopes anddesigns, life's goals obliterated! He had had enough of the blackprocession of futile things.
His longing was not denied, for even as he roused himself from theoblivion coming on him, as though by a last effort to remember his diremisfortune, maybe his everlasting tragedy, something soothing and softlike linen dipped in dew was laid upon his forehead. A cool, delicioushand covered his eyes caressingly; a voice from spheres so far away thatworlds were the echoing points of the sound, came whispering to him likea stir of wings in a singing grove. With a last effort to remain in thewaking world, he raised his head so very little, but fell gently backagain with one sighing word on his lips:
“Fleda!”
It was no illusion. Fleda had come from her own night of trouble tohis motherless, wifeless home, and would not be denied admittance by thenurse. It was Jim Beadle who admitted her.
“He'd be mad if he knew we wouldn't let her come,” Jim hadsaid to the nurse.
It was Fleda who had warned Ingolby of the dangers that surrounded him—the physical as well as business dangers. She came now to servethe blind victim of that Fate which she had seen hovering over him.
The renegade daughter of the Romanys, as Jethro Fawe had called her,was, for the first time, in the house of her master Gorgio.
For once in its career, Lebanon was absolutely united. The blow thathad brought down the Master Man had also struck the town between theeyes, and there was no one—friend or foe of Ingolby—who didnot regard it as an insult and a challenge. It was now known that theroughs of Manitou, led by the big river-driver, were about to start on araid upon Lebanon and upon Ingolby at the very moment the horseshoe didits work. All night there were groups of men waiting outside Ingolby'shouse. They were of all classes-carters, railway workers, bartenders,lawyers, engineers, bankers, accountants, merchants, ranchmen,carpenters, insurance agents, manufacturers, millers, horse-dealers, andso on.
Some prayed for Ingolby's life, others swore viciously; and those whoswore had no contempt for those who prayed, while those who prayed weretolerant of those who swore. It was a union of incongruous elements. Menwho had nothing in common were one in the spirit of faction; and all weredetermined that the Orangeman, whose funeral was fixed for this memorableSaturday, should be carried safely to his grave. Civic pride had almostbecome civic fanaticism in Lebanon. One of the men beaten by Ingolby inthe recent struggle for control of the railways said to the othersshivering in the grey dawn: “They were bound to get him in theback. They're dagos, the lot of 'em. Skunks are skunks, even when youskin 'em.”
When, just before dawn, old Gabriel Druse issued from the house intowhich he had carried Ingolby the night before, they questioned himeagerly. He had been a figure apart from both Lebanon and Manitou, andthey did not regard him as a dago, particularly as it was more thanwhispered that Ingolby “had a lien” on his daughter. In thegrey light, with his long grizzled beard and iron-grey, shaggy hair,Druse looked like a mystic figure of the days when the gods moved amongmen like mortals. His great height, vast proportions, and silent waysgave him a place apart, and added to the superstitious feeling by whichhe was surrounded.
“How is he?” they asked whisperingly, as they crowdedround him.
“The danger is over,” was the slow, heavy reply. He willlive, but he has bad days to face.”
“What was the danger?” they asked.“Fever—maybe brain fever,” he replied. “We'll seehim through,” someone said.
“Well, he cannot see himself through,” rejoined the oldman solemnly. The enigmatical words made them feel there was somethingbehind.
“Why can't he see himself through?” asked Osterhaut theuniversal, who had just arrived from the City Hall.
“He can't see himself through because he is blind,” wasthe heavy answer.
There was a moment of shock, of hushed surprise, and then a voiceburst forth: “Blind—they've blinded him, boys! The dagos havekilled his sight. He's blind, boys!”
A profane and angry muttering ran through the crowd, who were thirsty,hungry, and weary with watching.
Osterhaut held up the horseshoe which had brought Ingolby down.“Here it is, the thing that done it. It's tied with a blueribbon-for luck,” he added ironically. “It's got his blood onit. I'm keeping it till Manitou's paid the price of it. Then I'll give itto Lebanon for keeps.”
“That's the thing that did it, but where's the man behind thething?” snarled a voice.
Again there was a moment's silence, and then Billy Kyle, the veteranstage-driver, said: “He's in the jug, but a gaol has doors, anddoors'll open with or without keys. I'm for opening the door,boys.”
“What for?” asked a man who knew the answer, but whowanted the thing said.
“I spent four years in Arizona, same as Jowett,” BillyKyle answered, “and I got in the way of thinking as they do there,and acting just as quick as you think. I drove stage down in the VerdeValley. Sometimes there wasn't time to bring a prisoner all the way to ajudge and jury, and people was busy, and hadn't time to wait for thewagon; so they done what was right, and there was always a tree thatwould carry that kind o' fruit for the sake of humanity. It's the bestway, boys.”
“This isn't Arizona or any other lyncher's country,” saidHalliday, the lawyer, making his way to the front. “It isn't thelaw, and in this country it's the law that counts. It's the Gover'ment'sright to attend to that drunken dago that threw the horseshoe, and we'vegot to let the Gover'ment do it. No lynching on my plate, thank you. IfIngolby could speak to us, you can bet your boots it's what he'dsay.”
“What's your opinion, boss?” asked Billy Kyle of GabrielDruse, who had stood listening, his chin on his breast, his sombre eyesfixed on them abstractedly.
At Kyle's question his eyes lighted up with a fire that was struckfrom a flint in other spheres, and he answered: “It is for theruler to take life, not the subject. If it is a man that rules, it is forhim; if it is the law that rules, it is for the law. Here, it is the law.Then it is not for the subject, and it is not for you.”
“If he was your son?” asked Billy Kyle.
“If he was my son, I should be the ruler, not the law,”was the grim, enigmatic reply, and the old man stalked away from themtowards the bridge.
“I'd bet he'd settle the dago's hash that done to his son whatthe Manitou dagos done to Ingolby—and settle it quick,”remarked Lick Farrelly, the tinsmith.
“I bet he's been a ruler or something somewhere,” remarkedBilly Kyle.
“I bet I'm going home to breakfast,” interposed Halliday,the lawyer. “There's a straight day's work before us,gentlemen,” he added, “and we can't do anything here.Orangemen, let's hoof it.”
Twenty Orangemen stepped out from the crowd. Halliday was a pastmaster of their lodge, and they all meant what he meant. They marchedaway in procession—to breakfast and to a meeting of the lodge.Others straggled after, but a few waited for the appearance of thedoctor. When the sun came up and Rockwell, pale and downcast, issuedforth, they gathered round him, and walked with him through the town,questioning, listening and threatening.
A few still remained behind at Ingolby's house. They were of thedevoted slaves of Ingolby who would follow him to the gates of Hades andback again, or not back if need be.
The nigger barber, Berry, was one; another was the Jack-of-all-trades,Osterhaut, a kind of municipal odd-man, with the well-known red hair, theface that constantly needed shaving, the blue serge shirt with a scarffor a collar, the suit of canvas in the summer and of Irish frieze in thewinter; the pair of hands which were always in his own pocket, never inany one else's; the grey eye, doglike in its mildness, and the long nosewhich gave him the name of Snorty. Of the same devoted class also wasJowett who, on a higher plane, was as wise and discerning a scout as anyleader ever had.
While old Berry and Osterhaut and all the others were waiting atIngolby's house, Jowett was scouting among the Manitou roughs for theChief Constable of Lebanon, to find out what was forward. What he hadfound was not reassuring, because Manitou, conscious of being in thewrong, realized that Lebanon would try to make her understand her wrong-doing; and that was intolerable. It was clear to Jowett that, in spite ofall, there would be trouble at the Orange funeral, and that thethreatened strike would take place at the same time in spite of Ingolby'scatastrophe. Already in the early morning revengeful spirits from Lebanonhad invaded the outer portions of Manitou and had taken satisfaction outof an equal number of “Dogans,” as they called the RomanCatholic labourers, one of whom was carried to the hospital with an elbowout of joint and a badly injured back.
With as much information as he needed, Jowett made his way back toLebanon, when, at the approach to the bridge, he met Fleda hurrying withbent head and pale, distressed face in his own direction. Of all Westernmen none had a better appreciation of the sex that takes its toll ofevery traveller after his kind than Aaron Jowett. He had been a real buckin his day among those of his own class, and though the storm of hisromances had become but a faint stirring of leaves which had tinges ofdays that are sear, he still had an eye unmatched for female beauty. Thesun which makes that northern land a paradise in summer caught the gold-brown hair of Gabriel Druse's daughter, and made it glint and shine. Itcoquetted with the umber of her eyes and they grew luminous as a jewel;it struck lightly across the pale russet of her cheek and made it like anapple that one's lips touch lovingly, when one calls it “too goodto eat.” It made an atmosphere of half-silver and half-gold with atouch of sunrise crimson for her to walk in, translating her form intomelting lines of grace.
Jowett knew that Druse's daughter was on her way to the man who hadlooked once, looked twice, looked thrice into her eyes and had seen therehis own image; and that she had done the same; and that the man, it mightbe, would never look into their dark depths again. He might speak once,he might speak twice, he might speak thrice, but would it ever be thesame as the look that needed no words?
When he crossed Fleda Druse's pathway she stopped short. She knew thatJowett was Ingolby's true friend. She had seen him often, and he wasintimately associated with that day when she had run the Carillon Rapidsand had lain (for how long she never dared to think) in Ingolby's arms inthe sight of all the world. First among those who crowded round her atCarillon that day were Jowett and Osterhaut, who had tried to warnher.
“You are going to him?” she said now with confidence inher eyes, and by the intimacy of the phrase (as though she could speak ofIngolby only as him) their own understanding was complete.
“To see how he is and then to do other things,” Jowettanswered.
There was silence for a moment in which they moved slowly forward, andthen she said: “You were at Barbazon's last night?”
“When that Gipsy son of a dog gave him away!” he assented.“I never heard anything like the speech Ingolby made. He had themin the throat. The Gipsy would have had nothing out of it, if it hadn'tbeen for the horseshoe. But in spite of the giveaway, Ingolby was gettingthem where they were soft-fairly drugging them with good news. You neverheard such dope. My, he was smooth! The golden, velvet truth it was, too.That's the only kind he has in stock; and they were sort of stupefied andlocoed as they chewed his word-plant. Cicero must have been a saucysinger of the dictionary, and Paul the Apostle had a dope of his own youcouldn't buy, but the gay gamut that Ingolby run gives them all the coldgood- bye.”
She held herself very still as he spoke. There was, however, astrange, lonely look in her eyes. The man lying asleep in the darkness ofbody and mind yonder was not really her lover, for he had said no worddirect of love to her, and she knew him so little, how could she lovehim? Yet there was something between them which had its authority overtheir lives, overcoming even that maiden modesty which was in contrast tothe bold, physical thing she had done in running the Carillon Rapidsthose centuries ago when she was young and glad-wistfully glad. So muchhad come since that day, she had travelled so far on the highway of Fate,that she looked back from peak to peak of happening to an almostinvisible horizon. So much had occurred and she felt so old this morning;and yet there was in her heart the undefined feeling that she must keepher radiant Spring of life for the blind Gorgio if he needed it-if heneeded it. Would he need it, robbed of sight and with his life- workmurdered?
She shuddered as she thought of what it meant to him. If a man is towork, he must have eyes to see. Yet what had she to do with it, afterall? She had no right to go to him even as she was going. Yet had she notthe right of common humanity? This Gorgio was her friend. Did not theworld know that he had saved her life?
As they came to the Lebanon end of the bridge, Fleda turned to Jowettand, commenting on his description of the scene at Barbazon, said:“He is a great man, but he trusts too much and risks too much. Thatwas no place for him.”
“Big men like him think they can do anything,” Jowettreplied, a little ironically, subtly trying to force a confession of herpreference for Ingolby.
He succeeded. Her eye lighted with indignation. She herself mightchallenge him, but she would not allow another to do so.
“It is not the truth,” she rejoined sharply. “Hedoes not measure himself against the world so. He is like—like achild,” she added.
“It seems to me all big men are like that,” Jowettrejoined; “and he's the biggest man the West has seen. He knowsabout every man's business as though it was his own. I can get a marginoff most any man in the West on a horse-trade, but I'd look shy aboutdoing a trade with him. You can't dope a horse so he won't know. He's onto it, sees it-sees it like as if it was in glass. Sees anything andeverything, and—” He stopped short. The Master Gorgio couldno longer see, and his henchman flushed like a girl at his“break”; though, as a horse-dealer, he had in his timelistened without shame to wilder, angrier reproaches than most menliving.
She glanced at him, saw his confusion, forgave and understood him.
“It was not the horseshoe, it was not the Gipsy,” shereturned. “They did not set it going. It would not have happenedbut for one man.”
“Yes, it's Marchand, right enough,” answered Jowett,“but we'll get him yet. We'll get him with the branding-ironhot.”
“That will not put things right if—” she paused,then with a great effort she added: “Does the doctor think he willget it back and that—”
She stopped suddenly in an agitation he did not care to see and heturned away his head.
“Doctor doesn't know,” he answered. “There's got tobe an expert. It'll take time before he gets here, but—” hecould not help but say it, seeing how great her distresswas—“but it's going to come back. I've seen cases—I sawone down on the Border”—how easily he lied!—“justlike his. It was blasting that done it—the shock. But the sightcome back all right, and quick too—like as I've seen a paraliziteget up all at once and walk as though he'd never been locoed. Why, GodAlmighty don't let men like Ingolby be done like that by reptiles same'sMarchand.”
“You believe in God Almighty?” she said half-wonderingly,yet with gratitude in her tone. “You understand aboutGod?”
“I've seen too many things not to try and deal fair with Him andnot try to cheat Him,” he answered. “I see things lots oftimes that wasn't ever born on the prairie or in any house. I'veseen—I've seen enough,” he said abruptly, and stopped.
“What have you seen?” she asked eagerly. “Was itgood or bad?”
“Both,” he answered quickly. “I was stalkedonce—stalked I was by night and often in the open day, by somesickly, loathsome thing, that even made me fight it with my hands—athing I couldn't see. I used to fire buckshot at it, enough to kill anarmy, till I near went mad. I was really and truly getting loony. Then Itook to prayin' to the best woman I ever knowed. I never had a mother,but she looked after me—my sister, Sara, it was. She brought me up,and then died and left me without anything to hang on to. I didn't knowall I'd lost till she was gone. But I guess she knew what I thought ofher; for she come back—after I'd prayed till I couldn't see. Shecome back into my room one night when the cursed 'haunt' was prowlinground me, and as plain as I see you, I saw her. 'Be at peace,' she said,and I spoke to her, and said, 'Sara- why, Sara' and she smiled, and wentaway into nothing—like a bit o' cloud in the sun.”
He stopped, and was looking straight before him as though he saw avision.
“It went?” she asked breathlessly.
“It went like that—” He made a swift, outwardgesture. “It went and it never came back; and she didn'teither—not ever. My idee is,” he added, “that there'sevil things that mebbe are the ghost-shapes of living men that want to dous harm; though, mebbe, too, they're the ghost-shapes of men that's dead,but that can't get on Over There. So they try to get back to us here; andthey can make life Hell while they're stalking us.”
“I am sure you are right,” she said.
She was thinking of the loathsome thing which haunted her room lastnight. Was it the embodied second self of Jethro Fawe, doing the evilthat Jethro Fawe, the visible corporeal man, wished to do? She shuddered,then bent her head and fixed her mind on Ingolby, whose house was not faraway. She felt strangely, miserably alone this morning. She was in thatfluttering state which follows a girl's discovery that she is a woman,and the feeling dawns that she must complete herself by joining her ownlife with the life of another.
She showed no agitation, but her repression gave an almost statuesquecharacter to her face and figure. The adventurous nature of her earlylife had given her a power to meet shock and danger with coolness, andthough the news of Ingolby's tragedy had seemed to freeze the vitalforces in her, and all the world became blank for a moment, she hadcontrolled herself and had set forth to go to him, come what might.
As she entered the street where Ingolby lived, she suddenly realizedthe difficulty before her. She might go to him, but by only one rightcould she stay and nurse him, and that right she did not possess. Hewould, she knew, understand her, no matter how the world babbled. Whyshould the world babble? What woman could have designs upon a blind man?Was not humanity alone sufficient warrant for staying by his side? Yetwould he wish it? Suddenly her heart sank; but again she remembered theirlast parting, and once more she was sure he would be glad to have herwith him.
It flashed upon her how different it would have been, if he and shehad been Romanys, and this thing had happened over there in the far landsshe knew so well. Who would have hinted at shame, if she had taken him toher father's tan or gone to his tan and tended him as a man might tend aman? Humanity would have been the only convention; there would have beenno sex, no false modesty, no babble, no reproach. If it had been a man asold as the oldest or as young as Jethro Fawe it would have made nodifference.
As young as Jethro Fawe! Why was it that now she could never think ofthe lost and abandoned Romany life without thinking also of Jethro Fawe?Why should she hate him, despise him, revolt against him, and yet feelthat, as it were by invisible cords, he drew her back to that which shehad forsworn, to the Past which dragged at her feet? The Romany was notdead in her; her real struggle was yet to come; and in a vague butprophetic way she realized it. She was not yet one with the settledwestern world.
As they came close to Ingolby's house she heard marching footsteps,and in the near distance she saw fourscore or more men tramping inmilitary order. “Who are they?” she asked of Jowett.
“Men that are going to see law and order kept in Lebanon,”he answered.
A few hours later Fleda slowly made her way homeward through the woodson the Manitou side of the Sagalac. Leaving Ingolby's house, she had seenmen from the ranches and farms and mines beyond Lebanon driving or ridinginto the town, as though to a fair or fete-day. Word of anticipatedtroubles had sped through the countryside, and the innate curiosity of arace who greatly love a row brought in sensation-lovers. Some wereskimming along in one-horse gigs, a small bag of oats dangling beneathlike the pendulum of a great clock. Others were in double or triple-seated light wagons—“democrats” they were called. Womenhad a bit of colour in their hats or at their throats, and the men had onclean white collars and suits of “store-clothes”—a signof being on pleasure bent. Young men and girls on rough but serviceablemounts cantered past, laughing and joking, and their loud talking gratedon the ear of the girl who had seen a Napoleon in the streets of hisMoscow.
Presently there crossed her path a gruesomely ugly hearse, with glasssides and cheap imitation ostrich plumes drawn by gorged ravens of horseswith egregiously long tails, and driven by an undertaker's assistant,who, with a natural gaiety of soul, displayed an idiotic solemnity bydragging down the corners of the mouth. She turned away in loathing.
Her mind fled to a scene far away in the land of the Volga when shewas a child, where she had seen buried two men, who had fought for theirinsulted honour till both had died of their wounds. She remembered thewhite and red sashes and the gay scarfs worn by the women at the burial,the jackets with great silver buttons worn by the men, and the silver-mounted pistols and bright steel knives in the garish belts. She sawagain the bodies of the two gladiators, covered with crimson robes,carried shoulder-high on a soft bed of interlaced branches to the gravesbeneath the trees. There, covered with flowers and sprigs and evergreens,ribbons and favours, the kindly earth hid them, cloaked for their longsleep, while women wept, and men praised the dead, and went back to theopen road again cheerily, as the dead would have them do.
If he had died—the man she had just left behind in that torpidsleep which opiates bring—his body would have been carried to hislast home in just such a hideous equipage as this hearse. A shiver ofrevolt went through her frame, and her mind went to him as she had seenhim lying between the white sheets of his bed, his hands, as they hadlain upon the coverlet, compact of power and grace, knit and muscular andvital—not the hand for a violin but the hand for a sword.
As she had laid her hand upon his hot forehead and over his eyes, hehad unconsciously spoken her name. That had told her more of what reallywas between them than she had ever known. In the presence of thecatastrophe that must endanger, if not destroy the work he had done, thecareer he had made, he thought of her, spoke her name.
What could she do to prevent his ruin? She must do something, else shehad no right to think of him. As though her thoughts had summoned him,she came suddenly upon Felix Marchand at a point where her path resolveditself into two, one leading to Manitou, the other to her own home.
There was a malicious glint in the greenish eyes of the dissolutedemagogue as he saw her. His hat made a half-circle before it found hishead again.
“You pay early visits, mademoiselle,” he said, his teethshowing rat- like.
“And you late ones?” she asked meaningly.
“Not so late that I can't get up early to see what's goingon,” he rejoined in a sour voice.
“Is it that those who beat you have to get up early?” sheasked ironically.
“No one has got up earlier than me lately,” hesneered.
“All the days are not begun,” she remarked calmly.
“You have picked up quite an education since you left the roadand the tan,” he said with the look of one who delivers a smashingblow.
“I am not yet educated enough to know how you get other peopleto commit your crimes for you,” she retorted.
“Who commits my crimes for me?” His voice was sharp andeven anxious.
“The man who told you I was once a Gipsy—JethroFawe.”
Her instinct had told her this was so. But had Jethro told all? Shethought not. It would need some catastrophe which threw him off hisbalance to make him speak to a Gorgio of the inner things of Romany life;and child—marriage was one of them.
He scoffed. “Once a Gipsy always a Gipsy. Race is race, and youcan't put it off and on like—your stocking.”
He was going to say chemise, but race was race, and vestiges of nativeFrench chivalry stayed the gross simile on the lips of the degenerate.Fleda's eyes, however, took on a dark and brooding look which, more thananything else, showed the Romany in her. With a murky flood of resentmentrising in her veins, she strove to fight back the half-savage instinctsof a bygone life. She felt as though she could willingly sentence thisman to death as her father had done Jethro Fawe that very morning.Another thought, however, was working and fighting in her—thatMarchand was better as a friend than an enemy; and that while Ingolby'sfate was in the balance, while yet the Orange funeral had not taken placeand the strikes had not yet come, it might be that he could be won overto Ingolby. Her mind was thus involuntarily reproducing Ingolby's policy,as he had declared it to Jowett and Rockwell. It was to find FelixMarchand's price, and to buy off his enmity—not by money, forMarchand did not need that, but by those other coins of value which areindividual to each man's desires, passions and needs.
“Once a Frenchman isn't always a Frenchman,” she repliedcoolly, disregarding the coarse insolence of his last utterance.“You yourself do not now swear faith to the tricolour or thefleur-de-lis.”
He flushed. She had touched a tender nerve.
“I am a Frenchman always,” he rejoined angrily. “Ihate the English. I spit on the English flag.”
“Yes, I've heard you are an anarchist,” she rejoined.“A man with no country and with a flag that belongs to nocountry—quelle affaire et quelle drolerie!”
She laughed. Taken aback in spite of his anger, he stared at her. Howgood her French accent was! If she would only speak altogether in thatbeloved language, he could smother much malice. She was beautifuland— well, who could tell? Ingolby was wounded and blind, maybe forever, and women are always with the top dog—that was his theory.Perhaps her apparent dislike of him was only a mood. Many women that hehad conquered had been just like that. They had begun by dislikinghim—from Lil Sarnia down—and had ended by being his. Thisgirl would never be his in the way that the others had been,but—who could tell?—perhaps he would think enough of her tomarry her? Anyway, it was worth while making such a beauty care for him.The other kind of women were easy enough to get, and it would be apiquant thing to have one irreproachable affaire. He had never had one;he was not sure that any girl or woman he had ever known had ever lovedhim, and he was certain that he had never loved any girl or woman. To bein love would be a new and piquant experience for him. He did not knowlove, but he knew what passion was. He had ever been the hunter. Thistrail might be dangerous, too, but he would take his chances. He had seenher dislike of him whenever they had met in the past, and he had nevertried to soften her attitude towards him. He had certainly whistled, butshe had not come. Well, he would whistle again—a differenttune.
“You speak French much?” he asked almost eagerly, theinsolence gone from his tone. “Why didn't I know that?”
“I speak French in Manitou,” she replied, “butnearly all the French speak English there, and so I speak more Englishthan French.”
“Yes, that's it,” he rejoined almost angrily again.“The English will not learn French, will not speak French. Theymake us learn English, and—”
“If you don't like the flag and the country, why don't you leaveit?” she interrupted, hardening, though she had meant to try andwin him over to Ingolby's side.
His eyes blazed. There was something almost real in the man afterall.
“The English can kill us, they can grind us to the dust,”he rejoined in French, “but we will not leave the land which hasalways been ours. We settled it; our fathers gave their lives for it in athousand places. The Indians killed them, the rivers and the storms, theplague and the fire, the sickness and the cold wiped them out. They wereburned alive at the stake, they were flayed; their bones were broken topieces by stones—but they blazed trails with their blood in thewilderness from New Orleans to Hudson's Bay. They paid for the land withtheir lives. Then the English came and took it, and since thattime—one hundred and fifty years—we have beenslaves.”
“You do not look like a slave,” she answered, “andyou have not acted like a slave. If you were to do the things in Francethat you've done here, you wouldn't be free as you are to-day.”
“What have I done?” he asked darkly.
“You were the cause of what happened at Barbazon's lastnight,”—he smiled evilly—“you are egging on theroughs to break up the Orange funeral to-day; and there is all the restyou know so well.”
“What is the rest I know so well?” He looked closely ather, his long, mongrel eyes half-closing with covert scrutiny.
“Whatever it is, it is all bad and it is all yours.”
“Not all,” he retorted coolly. “You forget yourGipsy friend. He did his part last night, and he's still free.”
They had entered the last little stretch of wood in which her homelay, and she slackened her footsteps slightly. She felt that she had beenunwise in challenging him; that she ought to try persistently to win himover. It was repugnant to her, still it must be done even yet. Shemastered herself for Ingolby's sake and changed her tactics.
“As you glory in what you have done, you won't mind beingresponsible for all that's happened,” she replied in a morefriendly tone.
She made an impulsive gesture towards him.
“You have shown what power you have—isn't thatenough?” she asked. “You have made the crowd shout, 'ViveMarchand !' You can make everything as peaceful as it is now upset. Ifyou don't do so, there will be much misery. If peace must be got byforce, then the force of government will get it in the end. You have thegift of getting hold of the worst men here, and you have done it; butwon't you now master them again in the other way? You have money andbrains; why not use them to become a leader of those who will win atlast, no matter what the game may be?”
He came close to her. She shrank inwardly, but she did not move. Hisgreenish eyes were wide open in the fulness of eloquence and desire.
“You have a tongue like none I ever heard,” he saidimpulsively. “You've got a mind that thinks, you've got dash andcan take risks. You took risks that day on the Carillon Rapids. It wasonly the day before that I'd met you by the old ford of the Sagalac, andmade up to you. You choked me off as though I was a wolf or a devil onthe loose. The next day when I saw Ingolby hand you out to the crowd fromhis arms, I got nasty—I have fits like that sometimes, when I'vehad a little too much liquor. I felt it more because you're the only kindof woman that could ever get a real hold on me. It was you made me getthe boys rampaging and set the toughs moving. As you say, I can get holdof a crowd. It's not hard—with money and drink. You can buy humannature cheap. Every man has his price they say—and every womantoo—bien sur! The thing is to find out what is the price, and thenhow to buy. You can't buy everyone in the same way, even if you use adifferent price. You've got to find out how they want theprice—whether it's to be handed over the counter, so to speak, orto be kept on the window-sill, or left in a pocket, or dropped in a path,or dug up like a potato, with a funny make- believe that fools nobody,but just plays to the hypocrite in everyone everywhere. I'm saying thisto you because you've seen more of the world, I bet, than one in amillion, even though you're so young. I don't see why we can't cometogether. I'm to be bought. I don't say that my price isn't high. You'vegot your price, too. You wouldn't fuss yourself about things here inManitou and Lebanon, if there wasn't something you wanted to get. Toutca! Well, isn't it worth while making the bargain? You've got such giftof speech that I'm just as if I'd been drugged, and all round, face,figure, eyes, hair, foot, and girdle, you're worth giving up a lot for.I've seen plenty of your sex, and I've heard crowds of them talk, butthey never had anything for me beyond the minute. You've got the realthing. You're my fancy. You've been thinking and dreaming of Ingolby.He's done. He's a back number. There's nothing he's done that isn't onthe tumble since last night. The financial gang that he downed are outalready against him. They'll have his economic blood. He made a splashwhile he was at it, but the alligator's got him. It's 'Exit Ingolby,'now.”
She made a passionate gesture, and seemed about to speak, but he wenton: “No, don't say anything. I know how you feel. You've had yourface turned his way, and you can't look elsewhere all at once. But Timecures quick, if you're a good healthy human being. Ingolby was the kindlikely to draw a girl. He's a six-footer and over; he spangled a lot, andhe smiled pretty—comme le printemps, and was sharp enough to keepclear of women that could hurt him. That was his strongest point afterall, for a little, sly sprat of a woman that's made eyes at you and ledyou on, till you sent her a note in a hurry some time with some loose hotwords in it, and she got what she'd wanted, will make you pay a hundredtimes for the goods you get. Ingolby was sharp enough to walk shy, untilyou came his way, and then he lost his underpinning. But last night gothim in the vitals—hit him between the eyes; and his stock's notworth ten cents in the dollar to-day. But though the pumas are out, andhe's done, and'll never see his way out of the hole he'sin”—he laughed at his grisly joke”—it's naturalto let him down easy. You've looked his way; he did you a good turn atthe Carillon Rapids, and you'd do one for him if you could. I'm the onlyone can stop the worst from happening. You want to pay your debt to him.Good. I can help you do it. I can stop the strikes on the railways and inthe mills. I can stop the row at the Orange funeral. I can stop the runon his bank and the drop in his stock. I can fight the gang that'sagainst him—I know how. I'm the man that can bring things topass.”
He paused with a sly, mean smile of self-approval and conceit, and histongue licked the corners of his mouth in a way that drunkards have inthe early morning when the effect of last night's drinking has worn off.He spread out his hands with the air of a man who had unpacked his soul,but the chief characteristic of his manner was egregious belief inhimself.
At first, in her desire to find a way to meet the needs of Ingolby,Fleda had listened to him with fortitude and even without revolt. But ashe began to speak of women, and to refer to herself with a look ofgloating which men of his breed cannot hide, her angry pulses beat hard.She did not quite know where he was leading, but she was sure he meant tosay something which would vex her beyond bearing. At one moment she meantto cut short his narrative, but he prevented her, and when at last heended, she was almost choking with agitation. It had been borne in uponher as his monologue proceeded, that she would rather die than acceptanything from this man—anything of any kind. To fight him was theonly thing. Nothing else could prevail in the end. His was the service ofthe unpenitent thief.
“And what is it you want to buy from me?” she askedevenly.
He did not notice, and he could not realize that ominous thing in hervoice and face. “I want to be friends with you. I want to see youhere in the woods, to meet you as you met Ingolby. I want to talk withyou, to hear you talk; to learn things from you I never learned before;to—”
She interrupted him with a swift gesture. “And then—afterthat? What do you want at the end of it all? One cannot spend one's timetalking and wandering in the woods and teaching and learning. After that,what?”
“I have a house in Montreal,” he said evasively. “Idon't want to live there alone.” He laughed. “It's big enoughfor two, and at the end it might be us two, if—”
With sharp anger, yet with coolness and dignity, she broke in on hiswords. “Might be us two!” she exclaimed. “I have neverthought of making my home in a sewer. Do you think—but, no, itisn't any use talking! You don't know how to deal with man or woman. Youare perverted.”
“I did not mean what you mean; I meant that I should want tomarry you,” he protested. “You think the worst of me. Someonehas poisoned your mind against me.”
“Everyone has poisoned my mind against you,” she returned,“and yourself most of all. I know you will try to injure Mr.Ingolby; and I know that you will try to injure me; but you will notsucceed.”
She turned and moved away from him quickly, taking the path towardsher own front door. He called something after her, but she did not orwould not hear.
As she entered the open space in front of the house, she heardfootsteps behind her and turned quickly, not without apprehension. Awoman came hurrying towards her. She was pale, agitated, haggard withfatigue.
“May I speak with you?” she asked in French.“Surely,” replied Fleda.
“What is it?” asked Fleda, opening the door of thehouse.
“I want to speak to you about m'sieu',” replied thesad-faced woman. She made a motion of her head backwards towards thewood. “About M'sieu' Marchand.”
Fleda's face hardened; she had had more than enough of “M'sieu'Marchand.” She was bitterly ashamed that she had, even for amoment, thought of using diplomacy with him. But this woman's face was soforlorn, apart, and lonely, that the old spirit of the Open Road workedits will. In far-off days she had never seen a human being turned awayfrom a Romany tent, or driven from a Romany camp. She opened the door andstood aside to admit the wayfarer.
A few moments later, the woman, tidied and freshened, sat at the amplebreakfast which was characteristic of Romany home-life. The woman's platewas bountifully supplied by Fleda, and her cup filled more than once byMadame Bulteel, while old Gabriel Druse bulked friendly over all. Hisface now showed none of the passion and sternness which had been presentwhen he passed the Sentence of the Patrin upon Jethro Fawe; nothing ofthe gloom filling his eyes as he left Ingolby's house. The gracious,bountiful look of the patriarch, of the head of the clan, was uponhim.
The husband of one wife, the father of one child, yet the Ry of Ryshad still the overlooking, protective sense of one who had the care ofgreat numbers of people. His keen eyes foresaw more of the story thewoman was to tell presently than either of the women of his household. Hehad seen many such women as this, and had inflexibly judged between themand those who had wronged them.
“Where have you come from?” he asked, as the meal drew toa close.
“From Wind River and under Elk Mountain,” the womananswered with a look of relief. Her face was of those who no longer canbear the soul's secrets.
There was silence while the breakfast things were cleared away, andthe window was thrown wide to the full morning sun. It broke through thebranches of pine and cedar and juniper; it made translucent the leaves ofthe maples; it shimmered on Fleda's brown hair as she pulled a rose fromthe bush at the window, and gave it to the forlorn creature in the grey“linsey-woolsey” dress and the loose blue flannel jacket,whose skin was coarsened by outdoor life, but who had something of realbeauty in the intense blue of her eyes. She had been a very comely figurein her best days, for her waist was small, her bosom gently and firmlyrounded, and her hands were finer than those of most who live and workmuch in the open air.
“You said there was something you wished to tell me,” saidFleda, at last.
The woman gazed slowly round at the three, as though with puzzledappeal. There was the look of the Outlander in her face; of one who hadbeen exiled from familiar things and places. In manner she was like achild. Her glance wandered over the faces of the two women, then her eyesmet those of the Ry, and stayed there.
“I am old and I have seen many sorrows,” said GabrielDruse, divining what was in her mind. “I will try tounderstand.”
“I have known all the bitterness of life,” interposed thelow, soft voice of Madame Bulteel.
“All ears are the same here,” Fleda added, looking thewoman in the eyes.
“I will tell everything,” was the instant reply. Herfingers twined and untwined in her lap with a nervousness shown byneither face nor body. Her face was almost apathetic in its despair, buther body had an upright courage.
She sighed heavily and began.
“My name is Arabella Stone. I was married from my home overagainst Wind River by the Jumping Sandhills.
“My father was a lumberman. He was always captain of the gang inthe woods, and captain of the river in the summer. My mother was deaf anddumb. It was very lonely at times when my father was away. I loved aboy—a good boy, and he was killed breaking horses. When I wastwenty-one years old my mother died. It was not good for me to be alone,my father said, so he must either give up the woods and the river, or heor I must marry. Well, I saw he would not marry, for my mother's face wasone a man could not forget.”
The old man stirred in his seat. “I have seen such,” hesaid in his deep voice.
“So it was I said to myself I would marry,” she continued,“though I had loved the Boy that died under the hoofs of the blackstallion. There weren't many girls at the Jumping Sandhills, and so therewere men, now one, now another, to say things to me which did not touchmy heart; but I did not laugh, because I understood that they werelonely. Yet I liked one of them more than all the others.
“So, for my father's sake, I came nearer to Dennis, and at lastit seemed I could bear to look at him any time of the day or night hecame to me. He was built like a pine-tree, and had a playful tongue, andalso he was a ranchman like the Boy that was gone. It all came about onthe day he rode in from the range the wild wicked black stallion whichall range- riders had tried for years to capture. It was like a brotherof the horse which had killed my Boy, only bigger. When Dennis masteredhim and rode him to my door I made up my mind, and when he whispered tome over the dipper of buttermilk I gave him, I said, 'Yes.' I was proudof him. He did things that a woman likes, and said the things a womanloves to hear, though they be the same thing said over and overagain.”
Madame Bulteel nodded her head as though in a dream, and the Ry of Ryssat with his two great hands on the chair-arm and his chin dropped on hischest. Fleda's hands were clasped in her lap, and her big eyes never leftthe woman's face.
“Before a month was gone I had married him,” the, low,tired voice went on. “It was a gay wedding; and my father was veryhappy, for he thought I had got the desire of a woman's life—a homeof her own. For a time all went well. Dennis was gay and careless andwilful, but he was easy to live with, too, except when he came back fromthe town where he sold his horses. Then he was different, because of thedrink, and he was quarrelsome with me—and cruel, too.
“At last when he came home with the drink upon him, he wouldsleep on the floor and not beside me. This wore upon my heart. I thoughtthat if I could only put my hand on his shoulder and whisper in his ear,he would get better of his bad feeling; but he was sulky, and he wouldnot bear with me. Though I never loved him as I loved my Boy, still Itried to be a good wife to him, and never turned my eyes to any otherman.”
Suddenly she stopped as though the pain of speaking was too great.Madame Bulteel murmured something, but the only word that reached theears of the others was the Arabic word 'mafish'. Her pale face wassuffused as she said it.
Two or three times the woman essayed to speak again, but could not. Atlast, however, she overcame her emotion and said: “So it was whenM'sieu' Felix Marchand came up from the Sagalac.”
The old man started and muttered harshly, but Fleda had foreseen theentrance of the dissolute Frenchman into the tale, and gave no sign ofsurprise.
“M'sieu' Marchand bought horses,” the sad voice trailedon. “One day he bought the mining-claims Dennis had been holdingtill he could develop them or sell them for good money. When Dennis wentto town again he brought me back a present of a belt with silver clasps;but yet again that night he slept upon the floor alone. So it went on. M.Marchand, he goes on to the mountains and comes back; and he buys morehorses, and Dennis takes them to Yargo, and M. Marchand goes with him,but comes back before Dennis does. It was then M'sieu' begun to talk tome; to say things that soothe a woman when she is hurt. I knew now Dennisdid not want me as when he first married me. He was that kind ofman—quick to care and quicker to forget. He was weak, he could notfasten where he stood. It pleased him to be gay and friendly with me whenhe was sober, but there was nothing behind it—nothing, nothing atall. At last I began to cry when I thought of it, for it went on and on,and I was too much alone. I looked at myself in the glass, and I saw Iwas not old or lean. I sang in the trees beside the brook, and my voicewas even a little better than in the days when Dennis first came to myfather's house. I looked to my cooking, and I knew that it was as good asever. I thought of my clothes, and how I did my hair, and asked myself ifI was as fresh to see as when Dennis first came to me. I could see nodifference. There was a clear pool not far away under the little hillswhere the springs came together. I used to bathe in it every morning anddry myself in the sun; and my body was like a child's. That being so,should my own man turn his head away from me day or night? What had Idone to be used so, less than two years after I had married!”
She paused and hung her head, weeping gently. “Shame stings awoman like nothing else,” Madame Bulteel said with a sigh.
“It was so with me,” continued Dennis's wife. “Thenat last the thought came that there was another woman. And all the timeM. Marchand kept coming and going, at first when Dennis was there, andalways with some good reason for coming—horses, cattle, shooting,or furs bought of the Indians. When Dennis was not there, he came atfirst for an hour or two, as if by chance, then for a whole day, becausehe said he knew I was lonely. One day, I was sitting by the pool—itwas in the evening. I was crying because of the thought that followed meof another woman somewhere, who made Dennis turn from me. Then it wasM'sieu' came and put a hand on my shoulder—he came so quietly thatI did not hear him till he touched me. He said he knew why I cried, andit saddened his soul.”
“His soul—the jackal!” growled the old man in hisbeard.
The woman nodded wearily and went on. “For all of ten days I hadbeen alone, except for the cattlemen camping a mile away and an oldIndian helper who slept in his tepee within call. Loneliness makes youweak when there's something tearing at the heart. So I let M'sieu'Marchand talk to me. At last he told me that there was a woman atYargo—that Dennis did not go there for business, but to her.Everyone knew it except me, he said. He told me to ask old Throw Hard,the Indian helper, if he had spoken the truth. I was shamed, and angryand crazy, too, I think, so I went to old Throw Hard and asked him. Hesaid he could not tell the truth, and that he would not lie to me. So Iknew it was all true.
“How do I know what was in my mind? Is a woman not mad at such atime! There I was, tossed aside for a flyaway, who was for any man thatwould come her way. Yes, I think I was mad. The pride in me washurt—as only a woman can understand.” She paused and lookedat the two women who listened to her. Fleda's eyes were on the worldbeyond the window of the room.
“Surely we understand,” whispered Madame Bulteel.
The woman's courage returned, and she continued: “I could not goto my father, for he was riding the river scores of miles away. I wasterribly alone. It was then that M'sieu' Marchand, who had bribed thewoman to draw Dennis away, begged me to go away with him. He swore Ishould marry him as soon as I could be free of Dennis. I scarcely knewwhat I said or thought; but the place I had loved was hateful to me, so Iwent away with him.”
A sharp, pained exclamation broke from the lips of Madame Bulteel, butpresently she reached out and laid a hand upon the woman's arm. “Ofcourse you went with him,” she said. “You could not staywhere you were and face the return of Dennis. There was no child to keepyou, and the man that tempted you said he adored you?”
The woman looked gratefully at her. “That was what hesaid,” she answered. “He said he was tired of wandering, andthat he wanted a home- and there was a big house in Montreal.”
She stopped suddenly upon an angry, smothered word from Fleda's lips.A big house in Montreal! Fleda's first impulse was to break in upon thewoman's story and tell her father what had happened just now outsidetheir own house; but she waited.
“Yes, there was a big house in Montreal?” said Fleda, hereyes now resting sadly upon the woman.
“He said it should be mine. But that did not count. To be faraway from all that had been was more than all else. I was not thinking ofthe man, or caring for him, I was flying from my shame. I did not seethen the shame to which I was going. I was a fool, and I was mad and badalso. When I waked—and it was soon—there was quickunderstanding between us. The big house in Montreal—that was nevermeant for me. He was already married.”
The old man stretched heavily to his feet, leaned both hands on thetable, and looked at the woman with glowering eyes, while Fleda's heartseemed to stop beating.
“Married!” growled Gabriel Druse, with a blur of passionin his voice. He knew that Felix Marchand had followed his daughter asthough he were a single man.
Fleda saw what was working in his mind. Since her father suspected, heshould know all.
“He almost offered me the big house in Montreal thismorning,” she said evenly and coldly.
A malediction broke from the old man's lips.
“He almost thought he wanted me to marry him,” Fleda addedscornfully.
“And what did you say?” Druse asked.
“There could only be one thing to say. I told him I had neverthought of making my home in a sewer.” A grim smile broke over theold man's face, and he sat down again.
“Because I saw him with you I wanted to warn you,” thewoman continued. “Yesterday, I came to warn him of his danger, andhe laughed at me. From Madame Thibadeau I heard he had said he would makeyou sing his song. When I came to tell you, there he was with you. Butwhen he left you I was sure there was no need to speak. Still I felt Imust tell you— perhaps because you are rich and strong, and willstop him from doing more harm.”
“How do you know we are rich?” asked Druse in a roughtone.
“It is what the world says,” was the reply. “Isthere harm in that? In any case it was right to tell you all; so that onewho had herded with a woman like me should not be friends withyou.”
“I have seen worse women than you,” murmured the oldman.
“What danger did you come to warn M. Marchand about?”asked Fleda.
“To his life,” answered the woman.
“Do you want to save his life?” asked the old man.
“Ah, is it not always so?” intervened Madame Bulteel in alow, sad voice. “To be wronged like that does not make a womanjust.”
“I am just,” answered the woman. “He deserves todie, but I want to save the man that will kill him when theymeet.”
“Who will kill him?” asked Fleda. “Dennis—hewill kill Marchand if he can.”
The old man leaned forward with puzzled, gloomy interest. “Why?Dennis left you for another. You say he had grown cold. Was that not whathe wanted—that you should leave him?”
The woman looked at him with tearful eyes. “If I had knownDennis better, I should have waited. What he did is of the moment only. Aman may fall and rise again, but it is not so with a woman. She thinksand thinks upon the scar that shows where she wounded herself; and shenever forgets, and so her life becomes nothing—nothing.”
No one saw that Madame Bulteel held herself rigidly, and was so whitethat even the sunlight was gold beside her look. Yet the strangest,saddest smile played about her lips; and presently, as the eyes of theothers fastened on the woman and did not leave her, she regained herusual composure.
The woman kept looking at Gabriel Druse. “When Dennis found thatI had gone, and knew why—for I left word on a sheet ofpaper—he went mad like me. Trailing to the south, to find M'sieu'Marchand, he had an accident, and was laid up in a shack for weeks on theTanguishene River, and they could not move him. But at last a ranchmanwrote to me, and the letter found me on the very day I left M'sieu'. WhenI got that letter begging me to go to the Tanguishene River, to nurseDennis who loved me still, my heart sank. I said to myself I could notgo; and Dennis and I must be apart always to the end of time. But then Ithought again. He was ill, and his body was as broken as his mind. Well,since I could do his mind no good, I would try to help his body. I coulddo that much for him. So I went. But the letter to me had been long onthe way, and when I got to the Tanguishene River he was almostwell.”
She paused and rocked her body to and fro for a moment as though inpain.
“He wanted me to go back to him then. He said he had never caredfor the woman at Yargo, and that what he felt for me now was differentfrom what it had ever been. When he had settled accounts we could go backto the ranch and be at peace. I knew what he meant by settling accounts,and it frightened me. That is why I am here. I came to warn the man,Marchand, for if Dennis kills him, then they will hang Dennis. Do you notsee? This is a country of law. I saw that Dennis had the madness in hisbrain, and so I left him again in the evening of the day I found him, andcame here—it is a long way. Yesterday, M'sieu' Marchand laughed atme when I warned him. He said he could take care of himself. But such menas Dennis stop at nothing; there will be killing, if M'sieu' stayshere.”
“You will go back to Dennis?” asked Fleda gently.“Some other woman will make him happy when he forgets me,”was the cheerless, grey reply.
The old man got up and, coming over, laid a hand upon hershoulder.
“Where did you think of going from here?” he asked.
“Anywhere—I don't know,” was the reply.
“Is there no work here for her?” he asked, turning toMadame Bulteel.
“Yes, plenty,” was the reply. “And room also?”he asked again.
“Was ever a tent too full, when the lost traveller stumbled intocamp in the old days?” rejoined Fleda. The woman trembled to herfeet, a glad look in her eyes. “I ought to go, but I am tired and Iwill gladly stay,” she said and swayed against the table.
Madame Bulteel and Fleda put their arms round her, steadying her.
“This is not the way to act,” said Fleda with a touch ofsharp reproof. Had she not her own trouble to face?
The stricken woman drew herself up and looked Fleda in the eyes.“I will find the right way, if I can,” she said withcourage.
A half-hour later, as the old man sat alone in the room where he hadbreakfasted, a rifle-shot rang out in the distance.
“The trouble begins,” he said, as he rose and hastenedinto the hallway.
Another shot rang out. He caught up his wide felt hat, reached for agreat walking-stick in the corner, and left the house hurriedly.
It was a false alarm which had startled Gabriel Druse, but it hadsignificance. The Orange funeral was not to take place until eleveno'clock, and it was only eight o'clock when the Ry left his home. Arifle-shot had, however, been fired across the Sagalac from the Manitouside, and it had been promptly acknowledged from Lebanon. There was ashort pause, and then came another from the Lebanon side. It was merely awarning and a challenge. The only man who could have controlled theposition was blind and helpless.
As Druse walked rapidly towards the bridge, he met Jowett. Jowett wasone of the few men in either town for whom the Ry had regard, and thefriendliness had had its origin in Jowett's knowledge of horseflesh. Thiswas a field in which the Ry was himself a master. He had ever been toohigh-placed among his own people to trade and barter horses except when,sending a score of Romanys on a hunt for wild ponies on the hills ofEastern Europe, he had afterwards sold the tamed herd to the highestbidders in some Balkan town; but he had an infallible eye for ahorse.
It was a curious anomaly also that the one man in Lebanon who wouldnot have been expected to love and pursue horse-flesh was the ReverendReuben Tripple to whom Ingolby had given his conge, but who loved a horseas he loved himself.
He was indeed a greater expert in horses than in souls. One of thesights of Lebanon had been the appearance in the field of the“Reverend Tripple,” who owned a great, raw-boned bay mare oflank proportions, the winner of a certain great trotting-race which haddelighted the mockers.
For two years Jowett had eyed Mr. Tripple's rawbone with a piraticaleye.
Though it had won only a single great race, that, in Jowett's view,was its master's fault. As the Arabs say, however, Allah is with thepatient; and so it was that on the evening of the day in which Ingolbymet disaster, Mr. Tripple informed Jowett that he was willing to sell hisrawbone.
He was mounted on the gawky roadster when he met Gabriel Druse makingfor the bridge. Their greeting was as cordial as hasty. Anxious as wasthe Ry to learn what was going on in the towns, Jowett's mount caught hiseye. It was but a little time since they had met at Ingolby's house, andthey were both full of the grave events afoot, but here was a horse-dealof consequence, and the bridle-rein was looseflung.
“Yes, I got it,” said Jowett, with a chuckle, interpretingthe old man's look. “I got it for good—a wonder fromWonderville. Damned queer- looking critter, but there, I guess we knowwhat I've got. Outside like a crinoline, inside like a pair of ankles ofthe Lady Jane Plantagenet. Yes, I got it, Mr. Druse, got itdead-on!”
“How?” asked the Ry, feeling the clean fetlocks withaffectionate approval.
“He's off East, so he says,” was the joyous reply;“sudden but sure, and I dunno why. Anyway, he's got the door-handleoffered, and he's off without his camel.” He stroked the neck ofthe bay lovingly. “How much?”
Jowett held up his fingers. The old man lifted his eyebrowsquizzically. “That-h'm! Does he preach as well as that?” heasked.
Jowett chuckled. “He knows the horse-country better than the NewJerusalem, I guess; and I wasn't off my feed, nor hadn't lost my headneither. I wanted that dust-hawk, and he knew it; but I got in on himwith the harness and the sulky. The bridle he got from a Mexican thatcome up here a year ago, and went broke and then went dead; and therebeing no padre, Tripple did the burying, and he took the bridle as hisfee, I s'pose. It had twenty dollars' worth of silver on it—look atthese conchs.”
He trifled with the big beautiful buttons on the head-stall.“The sulky's as good as new, and so's the harness almost; andthere's the nose-bag and the blankets, and a saddle and a monkey-wrenchand two bottles of horse-liniment, and odds and ends. I only paidthat”—and he held up his fingers again as though it was asacred rite—“for the lot. Not bad, I want to say. Isn't hegood for all day, this one?”
The old man nodded, then turned towards the bridge. “Thegun-shots— what?” he asked, setting forward at a walk whichtaxed the rawbone's stride.
“An invite—come to the wedding; that's all. Only it's afuneral this time, and, if something good doesn't happen, there'll bemore than one funeral on the Sagalac to-morrow. I've had my try, but Idunno how it'll come out. He's not a man of much dictionary is theMonseenoor.”
“The Monseigneur Lourde? What does he say?”
“He says what we all say, that he is sorry. 'But why have theOrange funeral while things are as they are?' he says, and he asks forthe red flag not to be shook in the face of the bull.”
“That is not the talk of a fool, as most priests are,”growled the other.
“Sure. But it wants a real wind-warbler to make them see it inLebanon. They've got the needle. They'll pray to-day with the taste ofblood in their mouths. It's gone too far. Only a miracle can keep thingsright. The Mayor has wired for the mounted police—our own battalionof militia wouldn't serve, and there'd be no use ordering themout—but the Riders can't get here in time. The train's due the verytime the funeral's to start, but that train's always late, though theysay the ingine-driver is an Orangeman! And the funeral will start at thetime fixed, or I don't know the boys that belong to the lodge. So it's upto We, Us &Co. to see the thing through, or go bust. It don't suitme. It wouldn't have been like this, if it hadn't been for what happenedto the Chief last night. There's no holding the boys in. One thing'ssure, the Gipsy that give Ingolby away has got to lie low if he hasn'tgot away, or there'll be one less of his tribe to eat the juicy hedgehog.Yes, sir-ee!”
To the last words of Jowett the Ry seemed to pay no attention, thoughhis lips shut tight and a menacing look came into his eyes. They were nowupon the bridge, and could see what was forward on both sides of theSagalac. There was unusual bustle and activity in the streets and on theriver-bank of both towns. It was noticeable also that though the millswere running in Manitou, there were fewer chimneys smoking, and far moremen in the streets than usual. Tied up to the Manitou shore were a half-dozen cribs or rafts of timber which should be floating eastward down theSagalac.
“If the Monseenoor can't, or don't, step in, we're bound for ashindy over a corpse,” continued Jowett after a moment.
“Can the Monseigneur cast a spell over them all?” remarkedthe Ry ironically, for he had little faith in priests, though he had forthis particular one great respect.
“He's a big man, that preelate,” answered Jowett quicklyand forcibly. “He kept the Crees quiet when they was going to rise.If they'd got up, there'd have been hundreds of settlers massacreed. Herisked his life to do that—went right into the camp in face oflevelled rifles, and sat down and begun to talk. A minute afterwards allthe chiefs was squatting, too. Then the tussle begun between a man with asoul and a heathen gang that eat dog, kill their old folks, theircripples and their deformed children, and run sticks of wood throughtheir bleeding chests, just to show that they're heathens. But he wonout, this Jesueete friend o' man. That's why I'm putting my horses and myland and my pants and my shirt and the buff that's underneath on thelittle preelate.”
Gabriel Druse's face did not indicate the same confidence. “Itis not an age of miracles; the priest is not enough,” he saidsceptically.
By twos, by threes, by tens, men from Manitou came sauntering acrossthe bridge into Lebanon, until a goodly number were scattered atdifferent points through the town. They seemed to distribute themselvesby a preconceived plan, and they were all habitants. There were noRussians, Finns, Swedes, Norwegians, or Germans among them. They werelow-browed, sturdy men, dressed in red or blue serge shirts, some withsashes around their waists, some with ear-rings in their ears, some inknee-boots, and some with the heavy spiked boots of the river-driver.None appeared to carry any weapon that would shoot, yet in their beltswas the sheath- knife, the invariable equipment of their class. It wouldhave seemed more suspicious if they had not carried them. The railwaymen,miners, carters, mill-hands, however, appeared to carry nothing savetheir strong arms and hairy hands, and some were as hairy as animals.These backwoodsmen also could, without weapons, turn a town into ageneral hospital. In battle they fought not only with hands but also withteeth and hoofs like wild stallions. Teeth tore off an ear or sliced awaya nose, hands smote like hammers or gouged out eyes, and their nailedboots were weapons of as savage a kind as could be invented. They couldspring and strike an opponent with one foot in the chest or in the face,and spoil the face for many a day, or for ever. It was a gift of thebackwoods and the lumber-camps, practised in hours of stark monotony whenthe devils which haunt places of isolation devoid of family life, wheremen herd together like dogs in a kennel, break loose. There the man thatdips his fingers “friendly-like” in the dish of his neighbourone minute wants the eye of that neighbour the next not so much in innateor momentary hatred, as in innate savagery and the primeval sense ofcombat, the war which was in the blood of the first man.
The unarmed appearance of these men did not deceive the pioneer folkof Lebanon. To them the time had come when the reactionary forces ofManitou must receive a check. Even those who thought the funeralfanatical and provocative were ready to defend it.
The person who liked the whole business least was Rockwell. He wassubject to the same weariness of the flesh and fatigue of the spirit asall men; yet it was expected of him that at any hour he should be at thedisposal of suffering humanity—of criminal or idiotichumanity—patient, devoted, calm, nervestrung, complete. He was theone person in the community who was the universal necessity, and yet forwhom the community had no mercy in its troubles or out of them. Therewere three doctors in Lebanon, but none was an institution, none hadprestige save Rockwell, and he often wished that he had less prestige,since he cared nothing for popularity.
He had made his preparations for possible “accidents” inno happy mood. Fresh from the bedside of Ingolby, having had no sleep,and with many sick people on his list, he inwardly damned the foolishnessof both towns. He even sharply rebuked the Mayor, who urged surgicalpreparations upon him, for not sending sooner to the Government for aforce which could preserve order or prevent the procession.
It was while he was doing so that Jowett appeared with Gabriel Druseto interview the Mayor.
“It's like this,” said Jowett. “In another hour thefuneral will start. There's a lot of Manitou huskies in Lebanon now, andtheir feet is loaded, if their guns ain't. They're comin' by driblets,and by-and-bye, when they've all distributed themselves, there'll be amarching column of them from Manitou. It's all arranged to make troubleand break the law. It's the first real organized set-to we've had betweenthe towns, and it'll be nasty. If the preelate doesn't dope them,there'll be pertikler hell to pay.”
He then gave the story of his visit to Monseigneur Lourde, and thedetails of what was going forward in Manitou so far as he had learned.Also the ubiquitous Osterhaut had not been idle, and his bulletin hadjust been handed to Jowett.
“There's one thing ought to be done and has got to bedone,” Jowett added, “if the Monseenoor don't pull if off.The leaders have to be arrested, and it had better be done by one that,in a way, don't belong to either Lebanon or Manitou.”
The Mayor shook his head. “I don't see how I can authorizeMarchand's arrest—not till he breaks the law, in anycase.”
“It's against the law to conspire to break the law,”replied Jowett. “You've been making a lot of special constables.Make Mr. Gabriel Druse here a special constable, then if the law's broke,he can have a right to take a hand in.”
The giant Ry had stood apart, watchful and ruminant, but he nowstepped forward, as the Mayor turned to him and stretched out a hand.
“I am for peace,” the old man said. “To keep thepeace the law must be strong.”
In spite of the gravity of the situation the Mayor smiled. “Youwouldn't need much disguise to stand for the law, Mr. Druse,” heremarked. “When the law is seven feet high, it stands wellup.”
The Ry did not smile. “Make me the head of the constables, and Iwill keep the peace,” he said. There was a sudden silence. Theproposal had come so quietly, and it was so startling, that even the calmRockwell was taken aback. But his eye and the eye of the Mayor met, andthe look in both their faces was the same.
“That's bold play,” the Mayor said, “but I guess itgoes. Yesterday it couldn't be done. To-day it can. The Chief Constable'sdown with smallpox. Got it from an Injun prisoner days ago. He's been badfor three days, but hung on. Now he's down, and there's no Chief. I wasgoing to act myself, but the trouble was, if anything happened to me,there'd be no head of anything. It's better to have two strings to yourbow. It's a go-it's a straight go, Mr. Druse. Seven foot of ChiefConstable ought to have its weight with the roughnecks.”
A look of hopefulness came into his face. This sage, huge, commandingfigure would have a good moral effect on the rude elements ofdisorder.
“I'll have you read the Riot Act instead of doing itmyself,” added the Mayor. “It'll be a good introduction foryou, and as you live in Manitou, it'll be a knock-out blow to the toughs.Sometimes one man is as good as a hundred. Come on to the Courthouse withme,” he continued cheerfully. “We'll fix the whole thing. Allthe special constables are waiting there with the regular police. Anextra foot on a captain's shoulders is as good as a battery ofguns.”
“You're sure it's according to Hoyle?” asked Jowettquizzically.
He was so delighted that he felt he must “make the Mayor showoff self,” as he put it afterwards. He did not miscalculate; theMayor rose to his challenge.
“I'm boss of this show,” he said, “and I can go italone if necessary when the town's in danger and the law's being hustled.I've had a meeting of the Council and I've got the sailing-orders I want.I'm boss of the place, and Mr. Druse is my—” he stopped,because there was a look in the eyes of the Ry which demandedconsideration—“And Mr. Druse is lawboss,” he added.
The old ineradicable look of command shone in the eyes of GabrielDruse. Leadership was written all over him. Power spoke in every motion.The square, unbowed shoulders, the heavily lined face, with thepatriarchal beard, the gnarled hands, the rough-hewn limbs, the eye ofbright, brooding force proclaimed authority.
Indeed in that moment there came into the face of the old Nomad thelook it had not worn for many a day. The self-exiled ruler had paid aheavy price for his daughter's vow, though he had never acknowledged itto himself. His self-ordained impotency, in a camp that was never moved,within walls which never rose with the sunset and fell with the morning;where his feet trod the same roadway day after day; where no man askedfor justice or sought his counsel or fell back on his protection; wherehe drank from the same spring and tethered his horse in the same paddockfrom morn to morn: all these things had eaten at his heart and bowed hisspirit in spite of himself.
He was not now of the Romany world, and he was not of the Gorgioworld; but here at last was the old thing come back to him in a new way,and his bones rejoiced. He would entitle his daughter to her place amongthe Gorgios. Perhaps also it would be given him, in the name of the law,to deal with a man he hated.
“We've got Mister Marchand now,” said Jowett softly to theold chieftain.
The Ry's eyes lighted and his jaw set. He did not speak, but his handsclenched, opened and clenched again. Jowett saw and grinned.
“The Mayor and the law-boss'll win out, I guess,” he saidto himself.
Even more than Dr. Rockwell, Berry, the barber, was the most troubledman in Lebanon on the day of the Orange funeral. Berry was a good exampleof an unreasoning infatuation. The accident which had come to his idol,with the certain fall of his fortunes, hit him so hard, that, for thefirst time since he became a barber, his razor nipped the flesh of morethan one who sat in his red-upholstered chair.
In his position, Berry was likely to hear whatever gossip was going.Who shall have perfect self-control with a giant bib under the chin,tipped back on a chair that cannot be regulated, with a face covered bylather, and two plantation fingers holding the nose? In thesecircumstances, with much diplomacy, Berry corkscrewed his way intoconfidence, and when he dipped a white cloth in bay-rum andeau-de-cologne, and laid it over the face of the victim, with thefinality of a satisfied inquisitor, it was like giving the last smotherto human individuality. An artist after his kind, he no sooner got whathe wanted than he carefully coaxed his victim away from thoughts of thedisclosures into the vague distance of casual gossip once more.
Gradually and slowly he shepherded his patient back to the realms ofself-respect and individual personality. The border-line was at the pointwhere the fingers of his customer fluttered at a collar-button; forBerry, who realized the power that lies in making a man look ridiculous,never allowed a customer to be shaved or have his hair cut with a collaron. When his customers had corns, off came the boots also, and thenBerry's triumph over the white man was complete. To call attention to anexaggerated bunion when the odorous towel lay upon the hidden features ofwhat once was a “human,” was the last act in the drama of theUnmaking of Man.
Only when the client had felt in his pocket for the price of theflaying, and laid it, with a ten-cent fee, on the ledge beneath themirror, where all the implements of the inquisition and the restorationwere assembled, did he feel manhood restored. If, however, he tried tokeep a vow of silence in the chair of execution, he paid a heavy price;for Berry had his own methods of punishment. A little tighter grasp ofthe nose; a little rougher scrape of the razor, and some sharp, stingingliquid suddenly slapped with a cold palm on the excoriated spot, with thedevilish hypocrisy of healing it; a longer smothering-period under thetowel, when the corners of it were tucked behind the ears and a crease ofit in the mouth-all these soon induced vocal expression again, and Berrystarted on his inquisition with gentle certainty. When at last he dustedthe face with a little fine flour of oatmeal, “to heal the cuticleand 'manoor' the roots,” and smelled with content the hands whichhad embalmed the hair in verbena-scented oil, a man left his presencefeeling that he was ready for the wrath to come.
Such was Berry when he had under his razor one of Ingolby's businessfoes of Manitou, who had of late been in touch with Felix Marchand. Bothwere working for the same end, but with different intentions. Marchandworked with that inherent devilishness which sometimes takes possessionof low minds; but the other worked as he would have done against his ownbrother, for his own business success; and it was his view that one mancould only succeed by taking the place of another, as though the Age ofExpansion had ceased and the Age of Smother had begun.
From this client while in a state of abject subjection, Berry, whoseheart was hard that day, but whose diplomacy was impeccable, discovered athing of moment. There was to be a procession of strikers from twofactories in Manitou, who would throw down their tools or leave theirmachines at a certain moment. Falling into line these strikers wouldmarch across the bridge between the towns at such time as would bringthem into touch with the line of the Orange funeral—two processionsmeeting at right angles. If neither procession gave way, the Orangefuneral could be broken up, ostensibly not from religious fanaticism, butfrom the “unhappy accident” of two straight lines colliding.It was a juicy plot; and in a few minutes the Mayor and Gabriel Druseknew of it from the faithful Berry.
The bell of the meeting-house began to toll as the Orangeman whosedeath had caused such commotion was carried to the waiting carriage wherehe would ride alone. Almost simultaneously with the starting of the gaudyyet sombre Orange cortege, with its yellow scarfs, glaring banners,charcoal plumes and black clothes, the labour procession approached theManitou end of the Sagalac bridge. The strikers carried only three orfour banners, but they had a band of seven pieces, with a drum and a pairof cymbals. With frequent discord, but with much spirit, the Bleaters, asthese musicians were called in Lebanon, inspired the steps of the Manitoufanatics and toughs. As they came upon the bridge they were playing agross paraphrase of The Marseillaise.
At the head of the Orange procession was a silver-cornet band whichthe enterprise of Lebanon had made possible. Its leader was ane'er-do-well young Welshman, who had been dismissed from leadershipafter leadership of bands in the East till at last he had drifted intoLebanon. Here, strange to say, he had never been drunk but once; and thatwas the night before he married the widow of a local publican, who had anice little block of stock in one of Ingolby's railways, which yieldedher seven per cent., and who knew how to handle the citizens of the Cityof Booze. When she married Tom Straker, her first husband, he drank on anaverage twenty whiskies a day. She got him down to one; and then he diedand had as fine a funeral as a judge. There were those who said that ifTom's whiskies hadn't been cut down so—but there it was: Tom was inthe bosom of Abraham, and William Jones, who was never called anythingelse than Willy Welsh, had been cut down from his unrecorded bibulationsto none at all; but he smoked twenty-cent cigars at the ex-widow'sexpense.
To-day Willy Welsh played with heart and courage, “I'm GoingHome to Glory,” at the head of the Orange procession; for who thathas faced such a widow as was his for one whole year could fear the onsetof faction fighters! Besides, as the natives of the South Seas will nevereat a Chinaman, so a Western man will never kill a musician. Senators,magistrates, sheriffs, police, gamblers, horse-stealers, bankers, andbroncho-riders all die unnatural deaths at times, but a musician in theWest is immune from all except the hand of Fate. Not one can be spared.Even a tough convicted of cheating at cards, or breaking a boom on ariver, has escaped punishment because he played the concertina.
The discord and jangle between the two bands was the first collisionof this fateful day. While yet there was a space between the twoprocessions, the bands broke into furious contest. It was then that,through the long funeral line, men with hard-set faces came closer uptogether, and forty, detaching themselves from the well-kept run ofmarching lodgemen, closed up around the horses and the hearse, making asolid flanking force. At stated intervals also, outside the lodgemen inthe lines, were special constables, many of whom had been thestage-drivers, hunters, cattlemen, prospectors, and pioneers of the earlydays. Most of them had come of good religious stock-Presbyterians,Baptists, Methodists, Unitarians; and though they had little piety, andhad never been able to regain the religious customs and habits of theirchildhood, they “Stood for the Thing the Old Folks standfor.” They were in a mood which would tear cotton, as the sayingwas. There was not one of them but expected that broken heads andbloodshed would be the order of the day, and they were stonily,fearlessly prepared for the worst.
Since the appearance of Gabriel Druse on the scene, the feeling hadgrown that the luck would be with them. When he started at the head ofthe cortege, they could scarce forbear to cheer. Such a champion inappearance had never been seen in the West, and, the night before, he hadproved his right to the title by shaking a knot of toughs into spots ofdisconcerted humanity.
As they approached the crossroads of the bridge, his voice, clear andsonorous, could be heard commanding the Orange band to cease playing.
When the head of the funeral procession was opposite thebridge—the band, the hearse, the bodyguard of thehearse—Gabriel Druse stood aside, and took his place at the pointwhere the lines of the two processions would intersect.
It was at this moment that the collision came. There were only aboutsixty feet of space between the two processions, when a voice rang out ina challenge so offensive, that the men of Manitou got their cue forattack without creating it themselves. Every Orangeman of the Lodge ofLebanon afterwards denied that he had raised the cry; and the chances arethat every one spoke the truth. It was like Felix Marchand to arrange forjust such an episode, and so throw the burden of responsibility on theOrangemen.
“To hell with the Pope! To hell with the Pope!” the voicerang out, and it had hardly ceased before the Manitou procession made arush forward. The apparent leader of the Manitou roughs was ablackbearded man of middle height, who spoke raucously to the crowdbehind him.
Suddenly a powerful voice rang out.
“Halt, in the name of the Queen!” it called. Surprise isthe very essence of successful war. The roughs of Manitou had not lookedfor this. They had foreseen the appearance of the official ChiefConstable of Lebanon; they had expected his challenge and warning in thevernacular; but here was something which struck them with consternation—first, the giant of Manitou in the post of command, looking likesome berserker; and then the formal reading of that stately document inthe name of the Queen.
Far back in the minds of every French habitant present was the oldmonarchical sense. He makes, at worst, a poor anarchist, though he is agood revolutionist; and the French colonials had never been divorced frommonarchical France.
In the eyes of the most forward of those on the Sagalac bridge, therewas a sudden wonderment and confusion. To the dramatic French mind,ceremonial is ever welcome; and for a moment it had them in its grip, asold Gabriel Druse read out in his ringing voice, the trenchant royalsummons.
It was a strange and dramatic scene—the Orange funeral standingstill, garish yet solemn, with hundreds of men, rough and coarse, quietand refined, dissolute and careless, sober and puritanic, broad andtolerant, sharp and fanatical; the labour procession, polyglot inappearance, but with Gallic features and looseness of dresspredominating; excitable, brutish, generous, cruel; without intellect,but with an intelligence which in the lowest was acute, and withtemperaments responsive to drama.
As Druse read, his eyes now and then flashed, at first he knew notwhy, to the slim, bearded figure of the apparent leader. At length hecaught the feverish eye of the man, and held it for a moment. It wasfamiliar, but it eluded him; he could not place it.
He heard, however, Jowett's voice say to him, scarce above awhisper:
“It's Felix Marchand, boss!”
Jowett also had been puzzled at first by the bearded figure, but itsuddenly flashed upon him that the beard and wig were a disguise, thatMarchand had resorted to Ingolby's device. It might prove as dangerous astratagem with him as it had to Ingolby.
There was a moment's hesitation after Druse had finishedreading—as though the men of Manitou had not quite recovered fromtheir surprise— then the man with the black beard said something tothose nearest him. There was a start forward, and someone cried,“Down with the Orangemen —et bas l'Orange!”
Like a well-disciplined battalion the Orangemen rolled up quickly intoa compact mass, showing that they had planned their defence well, and themoment was black with danger, when, suddenly, Druse strode forward.Flinging right and left two or three river-drivers, he caught the manwith the black beard, snatched him out from among the oncoming crowd, andtore off the black beard and wig. Felix Marchand stood exposed.
A cry of fury rang out from the Orangemen behind, and a dozen menrushed forward, but Gabriel Druse acted with the instant decision of areal commander. Seeing that it would be a mistake to arrest Marchand atthat moment, he raised the struggling figure of the wrecker above hishead and, with Herculean effort, threw him up over the heads of theFrenchmen in front of him.
So extraordinary was the sight that, as if fascinated, the crowdbefore and behind followed the action with staring eyes and tense bodies.The faces of all the contending forces were as concentrated for theinstant, as though the sun were falling out of the sky. It was so great afeat, one so much in consonance with the spirit of the frontier world,that gasps of praise broke from both crowds. As though it were athunderbolt, the Manitou roughs standing where Marchand was like to fall,instead of trying to catch him, broke away from beneath the bundle offalling humanity, and Marchand fell on the dusty cement of the bridgewith a dull thud, like a bag of bones.
For a moment there was no motion on the part of either procession.Banners drooped and swayed as the men holding them were lost in theexcitement.
Time had only been gained, however. There was no reason to think thatthe trouble was over, or that the special constables who had gatheredclose behind Gabriel Druse would not have to strike heavy blows for thecause of peace.
The sudden appearance of a new figure in the narrow, open spacebetween the factions in that momentary paralysis was not a coincidence.It was what Jowett had planned for, the factor for peace in which he mostbelieved.
A small, spare man in a scarlet cassock, white chasuble, and blackbiretta, suddenly stole out from the crowd on the Lebanon side of thebridge, carrying the elements of the Mass. His face was shining white,and in the eyes was an almost unearthly fire. It was the belovedMonseigneur Lourde.
Raising the elements before him toward his own people on the bridge,he cried in a high, searching voice:
“I prayed with you, I begged you to preserve the peace. Lastnight I asked you in God's name to give up your disorderly purposes. Ithought then I had done my whole duty; but the voice of God has spoken tome. An hour ago I carried the elements to a dying woman here in Lebanon,and gave her peace. As I did so the funeral bell rang out, and it came tome, as though the One above had spoken, that peace would be slain and Hisname insulted by all of you—by all of you, Catholic and Protestant.God's voice bade me come to you from the bed of one who has gone hencefrom peace to Peace. In the name of Christ, peace, I say! Peace, in thename of Christ!”
He raised the sacred vessel high above his head, so that his eyeslooked through the walls of his uplifted arms. “Kneel!” hecalled in a clear, ringing voice which yet quavered with age.
There was an instant's hush, and then great numbers of the crowd infront of him, toughs and wreckers, blasphemers, turbulent ones andevil-livers, yet Catholics all, with the ancient root of the Great Thingin them, sank down; and the banners of the labour societies droopedbefore the symbol of peace won by sacrifice.
Even the Orangemen bared their heads in the presence of that Poperywhich was anathema to them, which they existed to combat, and had beentaught to hate. Some, no doubt, would rather have fought than have hadpeace at the price; but they could not free their minds from the sacredforce which had brought most of the crowd of faction-fighters to theirknees.
With a wave of the hand, Gabriel Druse ordered the cortege forward,and silently the procession with its yellow banners and its sable,drooping plumes moved on.
Once on its way again, Willy Welsh and his silver-cornet band struckup the hymn, “Lead, Kindly Light.” It was the one realcoincidence of the day that this moving hymn was written by a cardinal ofthe Catholic Church. It was also an irony that, as the crowd of sullenFrenchmen turned back to Manitou, the train bearing the Mounted Police,for whom the Mayor had sent to the capital, steamed noisily in, andredcoats showed at its windows and on the steps of the cars.
The only casualty that the day saw was the broken arm and badlybruised body of Felix Marchand, who was gloomily helped back to his homeacross the Sagalac.
There were few lights showing in Lebanon or Manitou; but here andthere along the Sagalac was the fading glimmer of a camp-fire, and inTekewani's reservation one light glowed softly like a star. It came froma finely-made and chased safety-lantern given to Tekewani by theGovernment, as a symbol of honour for having kept the braves quiet whenan Indian and half-breed rising was threatened; and to the powerlesschief it had become a token of his authority, the sign of the Great WhiteMother's approval. By day a spray of eagle's feathers waved over histepee, but the gleam of the brass lantern every night was like a sentryat the doorway of a monarch.
It was a solace to his wounded spirit; it allayed the smart ofsubjection; made him feel himself a ruler in retirement, even as GabrielDruse was a self-ordained exile.
These two men, representing the primitive nomad life, had been drawntogether in friendship. So much so, that to Tekewani alone of all theWest, Druse gave his confidence and told his story. It came in thespringtime, when the blood of the young bucks was simmering and, theancient spell was working. There had preceded them generations of hunterswho had slain their thousands and their tens of thousands of wild animalsand the fowls of the air; had killed their enemies in battle; had seizedthe comely women of their foes and made them their own. No thrill of thehunter's trail now drew off the overflow of desire. In the days of risingsap, there were only the young maidens or wives of their own tribe topursue, and it lacked in glory. Also in the springtime, Tekewani himselfhad his own trials, for in his blood the old medicine stirred. His faceturned towards the prairie North and the mountain West where yet remainedthe hunter's quarry; and he longed to be away with rifle and gun, withhis squaw and the papooses trailing after like camp- followers, to eatthe fruits of victory. But that could not be; he must remain in the placethe Great White Mother had reserved for him; he and his braves mustassemble, and draw their rations at the appointed times and seasons, andgrunt thanks to those who ruled over them.
It was on one of these virginal days, when there was a restlessstirring among the young bucks, who smelled the wide waters, the pinesand the wild shrubs; who heard the cry of the loon on the lonely lake andthe whir of the wild duck's wings, who answered to the phantom cry ofancient war; it was on such a day that the two chiefs opened their heartsto each other.
Near to the boscage on a little hill overlooking the great river,Gabriel Druse had come upon Tekewani seated in the pine-dust, rocking toand fro, and chanting a low, sorrowful refrain, with eyes fixed on thesetting sun. And the Ry of Rys understood, with the understanding whichonly those have who live close to the earth, and also near to the heavensof their own gods. He sat down beside the forlorn chief, and in thesilence their souls spoke to each other. There swept into the veins ofthe Romany ruler something of the immitigable sadness of the Indianchief; and, with a sudden premonition that he also was come to the sunsetof his life, his big nomad eyes sought the westering rim of the heavens,and his breast heaved.
In that hour the two men declared themselves to each other, andGabriel Druse told Tekewani all that he had hidden from the people of theSagalac, and was answered in kind. It seemed to them that they were asbrothers who were one and who had parted in ages long gone; and havingmet were to part and disappear once more, beginning still another trailin an endless reincarnation.
“Brother,” said Tekewani, “it was while there was abridge of land between the continents at the North that we met. Again Isee it. I forgot it, but again I see. There was war, and you went uponone path and I upon another, and we met no more under all the moons tillnow.”
“'Dordi', so it was and at such a time,” answered the Ryof Rys. “And once more we will follow after the fire-flies whichgive no light to the safe places but only lead farther into thenight.”
Tekewani rocked to and fro again, muttering to himself, but presentlyhe said:
“We eat from the hands of those who have driven away thebuffalo, the deer, and the beaver; and the young bucks do naught to earnthe joy of women. They are but as lusting sheep, not as the wild-goatthat chases its mate over the places of death, till it comes upon her atlast, and calls in triumph over her as she kneels at his feet. So it is.Like tame beasts we eat from the hand of the white man, and the white manleaves his own camp where his own women are, and prowls in our camps, sothat not even our own women are left to us.”
It was then that Gabriel Druse learned of the hatred of Tekewani forFelix Marchand, because of what he had done in the reservation, prowlingat night like a fox or a coyote in the folds.
They parted that hour, believing that the epoch of life in which theywere and the fortunes of time which had been or were to come, were butturns of a wheel that still went on turning; and that whatever chanced ofgood or bad fortune in the one span of being, might be repaired in thenext span, or the next, or the next; so, through their creed ofreincarnation, taking courage to face the failure of the life they nowlived. Not by logic or the teaching of any school had they reached thisrevelation, but through an inner sense. They were not hopeful andwondering and timid; they were only sure. Their philosophy, theirreligion, whether heathen or human, was inborn. They had comfort in itand in each other.
After that day Gabriel Druse always set a light in his window whichburned all night, answering to the lantern-light at the door ofTekewani's home—the lights of exile and of an alliance which hadbehind it the secret influences of past ages and vanished peoples.
There came a night, however, when the light at the door of Tekewani'stepee did not burn. At sunset it was lighted, but long before midnight itwas extinguished. Looking out from the doorway of his home (it was thenight after the Orange funeral), Gabriel Druse, returned from his newduties at Lebanon, saw no light in the Indian reservation. With anxiety,he set forth in the shine of the moon to visit it.
Arrived at the chief's tepee, he saw that the lantern of honour wasgone, and waking Tekewani, he brought him out to see. When the old Indianknew his loss, he gave a harsh cry and stooped, and, gathering a handfulof dust from the ground, sprinkled it on his head. Then with armsoutstretched he cursed the thief who had robbed him of what had been tohim like a never-fading mirage, an illusion blinding his eyes to thebitter facts of his condition.
To his mind all the troubles come to Lebanon and Manitou had had onesource; and now the malign spirit had stretched its hand to spoil thosealready dispossessed of all but the right to live. One name was upon thelips of both men, as they stood in the moonlight by Tekewani's tepee.
“There shall be an end of this,” growled the Romany.
“I will have my own,” said Tekewani, with malediction onthe thief who had so shamed him.
Black anger was in the heart of Gabriel Druse as he turned againtowards his own home, and he was glad of what he had done to FelixMarchand at the Orange funeral.
“Like the darkness of the grave, which is darknessitself—”
Most of those who break out of the zareba of life, who lay violenthands upon themselves, do so with a complete reasoning, which in itselfis proof of their insanity. It may be domestic tragedy, or ill-health, orcrime, or broken faith, or shame, or insomnia, or betrayed trust—whatever it is, many a one who suffers from such things, tries to end itall with that deliberation, that strategy, and that cunning which belongonly to the abnormal.
A mind which has known a score or more of sleepless nights acquires aninvincible clearness of its own, seeing an end which is withoutperadventure. It finds a hundred perfect reasons for not going on, everyone of which is in itself sufficient; every one of which knits into theother ninety and nine with inevitable affinity.
To the mind of Ingolby came a hundred such reasons for breaking out oflife's enclosure, as the effect of the opiate Rockwell had given him woreoff, and he regained consciousness. As he did so, someone in the room wastelling of that intervention of Gabriel Druse and the Monseigneur at theOrange funeral, which had saved the situation. At first he listened towhat was said—it was the nurse talking to Jim Beadle with no sharpperception of the significance of the story; though it slowly pierced thelethargy of his senses, and he turned over in the bed to face thewatchers.
“What time is it, Jim?” he asked heavily. They told him itwas sunset.
“Is it quiet in both towns?” he asked after a pause. Theytold him that it was.
“Any telegrams for me?” he asked.
There was an instant's hesitation. They had had no instructions onthis point, and they hardly knew what to say; but Jim's mind had its ownlogic, and the truth seemed best to him now. He answered that there wereseveral wires, but that they “didn't amount to nothin'.”
“Have they been opened?” Ingolby asked with a frown,half-raising himself. It was hard to resign the old masterfulness andself-will.
“I'd like to see anybody open 'em 'thout my pe'mision,”answered Jim imperiously. “When you's asleep, Chief, I'm awake; andI take care of you' things, same as ever I done. There ain't no wiresbeen opened, and there ain't goin' to be whiles I'm runnin' the show foryou.”
“Open and read them to me,” commanded Ingolby. AgainIngolby was conscious of hesitation on Jim's part. Already the acutenessof the blind was possessing him, sharpening the senses left unimpaired.Although Jim moved, presumably, towards the place where the telegramslay, Ingolby realized that his own authority was being crossed by that ofthe doctor and the nurse.
“You will leave the room for a moment, nurse,” he saidwith a brassy vibration in the voice—a sign of nervous strain. Witha smothered protest the nurse left, and Jim stood beside the bed with thetelegrams.
“Read them to me, Jim,” Ingolby repeated irritably.“Be quick.”
They were not wires which Ingolby should have heard at the time, whenhis wound was still inflamed, when he was still on the outer circle ofthat artificial sleep which the opiates had secured. They were fromMontreal and New York, and, resolved from their half-hidden suggestioninto bare elements, they meant that henceforth others would do the workhe had done. They meant, in effect, that save for the few scores ofthousand dollars he had made, he was now where he was when he cameWest.
When Jim had finished reading them, Ingolby sank back on the pillowsand said quietly:
“All right, Jim. Put them in the drawer of the table and I'llanswer them to-morrow. I want to get a little more sleep, so give me adrink, and then leave me alone—both nurse and you—till I ringthe bell. There's a bell on the table, isn't there?”
He stretched out a hand towards the table beside the bed, and Jimsoftly pushed the bell under his fingers.
“That's right,” he added. “Now, I'm not to bedisturbed unless the doctor comes. I'm all right, and I want to be aloneand quiet. No one at all in the room is what I want. You understand,Jim?”
“My head's just as good to get at what you want as ever it was,and you goin' have what you want, I guess, while I'm on deck,” wasJim's reply.
Jim put a glass of water into his hand. He drank very slowly, wasindeed only mechanically conscious that he was drinking, for his mind wasfar away.
After he had put the glass down, Jim still stood beside the bed,looking at him.
“Why don't you go, as I tell you, Jim?” Ingolby askedwearily.
“I'm goin'”—Jim tucked the bedclothes incarefully—“I'm goin', but, boss, I jes' want to say dat disthing goin' to come out all right bime- by. There ain't no doubt 'boutdat. You goin' see everything, come jes' like what youwant—suh!”
Ingolby did not reply. He held out his hand, and black fingers shotover and took it. A moment later the blind man was alone in the room.
The light of day vanished, and the stars came out. There was no moon,but it was one of those nights of the West when millions of stars glimmerin the blue vault above, and every planet and every star and cluster ofstars are so near that it might almost seem they could be caught by anexpert human hand. The air was very still, and a mantle of peace wasspread over the tender scene. The window and the glass doors that gavefrom Ingolby's room upon the veranda on the south side of the house, wereopen, and the air was warm as in Midsummer. Now and then the note of anight-bird broke the stillness, but nothing more.
It was such a night as Ingolby loved; it was such a night as oftenfound him out in the restful gloom of the trees, thinking and brooding,planning, revelling in memories of books he had read, and in dreaming ofbooks he might write-if there were time. Such a night insulated the darkmoods which possessed him occasionally almost as effectively as fishingdid; and that was saying much.
But the darkest mood of all his days was upon him now. When Rockwellcame, soon after Jim and the nurse left him, he simulated sleep, for hehad no mind to talk; and the doctor, deceived by his even breathing, hadleft, contented. At last he was wholly alone with his own thoughts, as hedesired. From the moment Jim had read him the wires, which were the realrevelation of the situation to which he had come, he had been travellinghard on the road leading to a cul-de-sac, from which there was no egresssave by breaking through the wall. Never, it might have seemed, had hismind been clearer, but it was a clearness belonging to the abnormal. Itwas a straight line of thought which, in its intensity, gathered allother thoughts into its wake, reduced them to the control of anobsession. It was borne in on his mind that his day was done, thatnothing could right the disorder which had strewn his path with brokenhopes and shattered ambitions. No life-work left, no schemes toaccomplish, no construction to achieve, no wealth to gain, no public goodto be won, no home to be his, no woman, his very own, to be hiscounsellor and guide in the natural way!
As myriad thoughts drove through his brain on this Indian-summernight, they all merged into the one obsession that he could no longerstay. The irresistible logic of the brain stretched to an abnormaltenuity, and an intolerable brightness was with him. He was in the throesof that intense visualization which comes with insomnia, when one isawake yet apart from the waking world, where nothing is really real andnothing normal. He had a call to go hence, and he must go. Minute afterminute passed, hours passed, and the fight of the soul to maintain itselfagainst the disordered mind went on. All his past seemed but part of adesert, lonely and barren and strange.
In the previous year he had made a journey to Arizona with Jowett, tosee some railway construction there, and at a ranch he had visited hecame upon some verses which had haunted his mind ever since. Theyfastened upon his senses now. They were like a lonesome monotone which atlength gave calm to his torturing reflections. In his darkness the verseskept repeating themselves:
“I heard the desert calling, and my heart stoodstill
There was Winter in my world and in my heart:
A breath came from the mesa and a message stirred my will,
And my soul and I arose up to depart.
I heard the desert calling; and I knew that over there,
In an olive-sheltered garden where the mesquite grows,
Was a woman of the sunrise, with the starshine in herhair,
And a beauty that the almond-blossom blows.
In the night-time when the ghost-trees glimmered in themoon,
Where the mesa by the watercourse was spanned,
Her loveliness enwrapped me like the blessedness of June,
And all my life was thrilling in her hand.
I hear the desert calling, and my heart stands still;
There is Summer in my world and in my heart;
A breath comes from the mesa, and a will beyond my will
Binds my footsteps as I rise up to depart.”
This strange, half-mystic song of the mesa and the olive-groves, ofthe ghost-trees and the moon, kept playing upon his own heated senseslike the spray from a cooling stream, and at last it quieted him. Thedark spirit of self-destruction loosened its hold.
His brain had been strained beyond the normal, almost unconsciouslyhis fingers had fastened on the pistol in the drawer of the table by hisbed. It had been there since the day when he had travelled down fromAlaska— loaded as it had been when he had carried it down thesouthern trail. But as his fingers tightened on the little engine ofdeath, from the words which had been ringing in his brain came the flashof a revelation:
”. . . And a will beyond my will
Binds my footsteps as I rise up to depart.”
A will beyond his will! It was as though Fleda's fingers were laidupon his own; as though she whispered in his ear and her breath swept hischeek; as though she was there in the room beside him, making thedarkness light, tempering the wind of chastisement to his naked soul. Inthe overstrain of his nervous system the illusion was powerful. Hethought he heard her voice. The pistol slipped from his fingers, and hefell back on the pillow with a sigh. The will beyond his will bound hisfootsteps.
Who can tell? The grim, malign experience of Fleda in her bedroom withthe Thing she thought was from beyond the bounds of her own life; thevoice that spoke to Ingolby, and the breath that swept over his cheekwere, perhaps, as real in a sense as would have been the corporealpresence of Jethro Fawe in one case and of Fleda Druse in the other. Itmay be that in very truth Fleda Druse's spirit with its poignantsolicitude controlled his will as he “rose up to depart.” Butif it was only an illusion, it was not less a miracle. Some power ofsuggestion bound his fleeing footsteps, drew him back from the Brink.
He slept. Once the nurse came and looked at him and returned to theother room; and twice Jim stole in silently for a moment and retiredagain to his own chamber. The stars shone in at the doors that opened outfrom the quiet room into the night, the watch beside the bed ticked on,the fox-terrier which always slept on a mat at the foot of the bed sighedin content, while his master breathed heavily in a sleep full of dreamsthat hurried past like phantasmagoria—of a hundred things that hadbeen in his life, and that had never been; of people he had known,distorted, ridiculous and tremendous. There were dreams of fiddlers andbarbers, of crowds writhing in passion in a room where there was abilliard-table and a lucky horseshoe on the wall. There were dreams thattossed and mingled in one whirlpool vision; and then at last came a dreamwhich was so cruel and clear that it froze his senses.
It was the dream of a great bridge over a swiftflowing river; of hisown bridge over the Sagalacof that bridge being destroyed by men whocrept through the night with dynamite in their hands.
With a hoarse, smothered cry he awoke. His eyes opened wide. His heartwas beating like a hammer against his side. Only the terrier at his feetheard the muttered agony. With an instinct all its own, it slipped to thefloor.
It watched its master get out of bed, cross the room and feel for acoat along the wall—an overcoat which he used as a dressing-gown attimes. Putting it on hastily, with outstretched hands Ingolby felt hisway to the glass doors opening on the veranda. The dog, as though to lethim know he was there, rubbed against his legs. Ingolby murmured a soft,unintelligible word, and, in his bare feet, passed out on to the veranda,and from there to the garden and towards the gate at the front of thehouse.
The nurse heard the gate click lightly, but she was only half-awake,and as all was quiet in the next room, she composed herself in her chairagain with the vain idea that she was not sleeping. And Jim the faithfulone, as though under a narcotic of fate, was snoring softly beside thevacant room. The streets were still. No lights burned anywhere so far aseye could see. But now and then, in the stillness through which the riverflowed on, murmuring and rhythmic, there rose the distant sounds ofdisorderly voices. Ingolby was in a state which was neither sleep norwaking, which was in part delirium, in part oblivion to all things in theworld save one—an obsession so complete, that he movedautomatically through the street in which he lived towards that which ledto the bridge.
His terrier, as though realizing exactly what he wished, seemed toguide him by rubbing against his legs, and even pressing hard againstthem when he was in any danger of losing the middle of the road, orswerving towards a ditch or some obstruction. Only once did they pass anyhuman being, and that was when they came upon a camp of road-builders,where a red light burned, and two men slept in the open by a dying fire.One of them raised his head when Ingolby passed, but being more thanhalf- asleep, and seeing only a man and a dog, thought nothing of it, anddropped back again upon his rough pillow. He was a stranger to Lebanon,and there was little chance of his recognizing Ingolby in the semi-darkness.
As they neared the river, Ingolby became deeply agitated. He movedwith his hands outstretched. Had it not been for his dog he wouldprobably have walked into the Sagalac; for though he seemed to have aninstinct that was extra-natural, he swayed and staggered in the deliriumdriving him on. There was one dreadful moment when, having swerved fromthe road leading on to the bridge, he was within a foot of theriver-bank. One step farther, and he would have plunged down thirty feetinto the stream, to be swept to the Rapids below.
But for the first time the terrier made a sound. He gave a whiningbark almost human in its meaning, and threw himself at the legs of hismaster, pushing him backwards and over towards the road leading upon thebridge, as a collie guides sheep. Presently Ingolby felt the floor of thebridge under his feet; and now he hastened on, with outstretched arms andhead bent forward, listening intently, the dog trotting beside, with whatknowledge working in him Heaven alone knew.
The roar of the Rapids below was a sonorous accompaniment to Ingolby'swild thoughts. One thing only he felt, one thing only heard—the menin Barbazon's Tavern saying that the bridge should be blown up on theSaturday night; and this was Saturday night—the night of the dayfollowing that of the Orange funeral. He had heard the criminal hirelingof Felix Marchand say that it should be done at midnight, and that theexplosive should be laid under that part of the bridge which joined theManitou bank of the Sagalac. As though in very truth he saw with hiseyes, he stopped short not far from the point where the bridge joined theland, and stood still, listening.
For several minutes he was motionless, intent, as an animal waitingfor its foe. At last his newly-sensitive ears heard footsteps approachingand low voices. The footsteps came nearer, the voices, though so low,became more distinct. They were now not fifty feet away, but to thedelirious Ingolby they were as near as death had been when his fingersclosed on the pistol in his room.
He took a step forward, and with passionate voice and armsoutstretched, he cried:
“You shall not do it-by God, you shall not touch mybridge!
I built it. You shall not touch it. Back, youdevils-back!”
The terrier barked loudly.
The two men in the semi-darkness in front of him cowered at the sightof this weird figure holding the bridge they had come to destroy. Hiswords, uttered in so strange and unnatural a voice, shook their nerves.They shrank away from the ghostly form with the outstretched arms.
In the minute's pause following on his words, a giant figure suddenlyappeared behind the dynamiters. It was the temporary Chief Constable ofLebanon, returning from his visit to Tekewani. He had heard Ingolby'swild words, and he realized the situation.
“Ingolby—steady there, Ingolby !” he called.“Steady! Steady! Gabriel Druse is here. It's all right.”
At the first sound of Druse's voice the two wreckers turned andran.
As they did so, Ingolby's hands fell to his side, and he staggeredforward.
“Druse—Fleda,” he murmured, then swayed, trembledand fell.
With words that stuck in his throat Gabriel Druse stooped and liftedhim up in his arms. At first he turned towards the bridge, as though tocross over to Lebanon, but the last word Ingolby had uttered rang in hisears, and he carried him away into the trees towards his own house, thefaithful terrier following. “Druse—Fleda !” They werethe words of one who had suddenly emerged from the obsession of deliriuminto sanity, and then had fallen into as sudden unconsciousness.
“Fleda! Fleda!” called Gabriel Druse outside the door ofhis house a quarter of an hour later, and her voice in reply was that ofone who knew that the feet of Fate were at her threshold.
“It's a fine day.”
“Yes, it's beautiful.”
Fleda wanted to ask how he knew, but hesitated from feelings ofdelicacy. Ingolby seemed to understand. A faint reflection of the oldwhimsical smile touched his lips, and his hands swept over the coverletas though smoothing out a wrinkled map.
“The blind man gets new senses,” he said dreamily.“I feel things where I used to see them. How did I know it was afine day? Simple enough. When the door opened there was only the lightestbreath of wind, and the air was fresh and crisp, and I could smell thesun. One sense less, more degree of power to the other senses. The sunwarms the air, gives it a flavour, and between it and the light frost,which showed that it was dry outside, I got the smell of a fine Fall day.Also, I heard the cry of the wild fowl going South, and they wouldn'thave made a sound if it hadn't been a fine day. And also, and likewise,and besides, and howsomever, I heard Jim singing, and that nigger neversings in bad weather. Jim's a fair-weather raven, and this morning he wassinging like a 'lav'rock in the glen.'“
Being blind, he could not see that, suddenly, a storm of emotion sweptover her face.
His cheerfulness, his boylike simplicity, his indomitable spirit,which had survived so much, and must still face so much, his almostchildlike ways, and the naive description of a blind man's perception,waked in her an almost intolerable yearning. It was not the yearning of amaid for a man. It was the uncontrollable woman in her, the mother-thing,belonging to the first woman that ever was-protection of the weak,hovering love for the suffering, the ministering spirit.
Since Ingolby had been brought to the house in the pines, MadameBulteel and herself, with Jim, had nursed him through the Valley of theShadow. They had nursed him through brain-fever, through agonies whichcould not have been borne with consciousness. The tempest of the mind andthe pains of misfortune went on from hour to hour, from day to day,almost without ceasing, until at last, a shadow of his former self, butwith a wonderful light on his face which came from something within, hewaited patiently for returning strength, propped up with pillows in thebed which had been Fleda's own, in the room outside which Jethro Fawe hadsung his heathen serenade.
It was the room of the house which, catching the morning sun, was bestsuited for an invalid. So she had given it to him with an eagernessbehind which was the feeling that somehow it made him more of the innercircle of her own life; for apart from every other feeling she had, therewas in her a deep spirit of comradeship belonging to far-off times whenher life was that of the open road, the hillside and the vale. In thosedays no man was a stranger; all belonged.
To meet, and greet, and pass was the hourly event, but the meeting andthe greeting had in it the familiarity of a common wandering, thesympathy of the homeless. Had Ingolby been less to her than he was, therewould still have been the comradeship which made her the great creatureshe was fast becoming. It was odd that, as Ingolby became thinner andthinner, and ever more wan, she, in spite of her ceaseless nursing,appeared to thrive physically. She had even slightly increased thefulness of her figure. The velvet of her cheeks had grown richer, and hereyes deeper with warm fire. It was as though she flourished on giving: asthough a hundred nerves of being and feeling had opened up within her andhad expanded her life like some fine flower.
Gazing at Ingolby now there was a great hungering desire in her heart.She looked at the sightless eyes, and a passionate protest sprang to herlips which, in spite of herself, broke forth in a sort of moan.
“What is it?” Ingolby asked, with startled face.
“Nothing,” she answered, “nothing. I pricked myfinger badly, that's all.”
And, indeed, she had done so, but that would not have brought the moanto her lips.
“Well, it didn't sound like a pricked finger complaint,”he remarked. “It was the kind of groan I'd give if I had a bad paininside.”
“Ah, but you're a man!” she remarked lightly, though twotears fell down her cheeks.
With an effort she recovered herself. “It's time for yourtonic,” she added, and she busied herself with giving it to him.“As soon as you have taken it, I'm going for a walk, so you mustmake up your mind to have some sleep.”
“Am I to be left alone?” he asked, with an assumedgrievance in his voice.
“Madame Bulteel will stay with you,” she replied.
“Do you need a walk so very badly?” he askedpresently.
“I don't suppose I need it, but I want it,” she answered.“My feet and the earth are very friendly.”
“Where do you walk?” he asked.
“Just anywhere,” was her reply. “Sometimes up theriver, sometimes down, sometimes miles away in the woods.”
“Do you never take a gun with you?”
“Of course,” she answered, nodding, as though he couldsee. “I get wild pigeons and sometimes a wild duck or aprairie-hen.”
“That's right,” he remarked; “that'sright.”
“I don't believe in walking just for the sake of walking,”she continued. “It doesn't do you any good, but if you go forsomething and get it, that's what puts the mind and the bodyright.”
Suddenly his face grew grave. “Yes, that's it,” heremarked.
“To go for something you want, a long way off. You don't feelthe fag when you're thinking of the thing at the end; but you've got tohave the thing at the end, to keep making for it, or there's no goodgoing—none at all. That's life; that's how it is. It's no good onlywalking— you've got to walk somewhere. It's no good simplygoing—you've got to go somewhere. You've got to fight forsomething. That's why, when they take the something you fight foraway—when they break you and cripple you, and you can't go anywherefor what you want badly, life isn't worth living.”
An anxious look came into her face. This was the first time, sincerecovering consciousness, that he had referred, even indirectly, to allthat had happened. She understood him well—ah, terribly well! Itwas the tragedy of the man stopped in his course because of one mistake,though he had done ten thousand wise things. The power taken from hishands, the interrupted life, the dark future, the beginning again, ifever his sight came back: it was sickening, heartbreaking.
She saw it all in his face, but as if some inward voice had spoken tohim, his face cleared, the swift-moving hands clasped in front of him,and he said quietly: “But because it's life, there it is. You haveto take it as it comes.”
He stopped a moment, and in the pause she reached out her hand with asudden passionate gesture, to touch his shoulder, but she restrainedherself in time.
He seemed to feel what she was doing, and turned his face towards her,a slight flush coming to his cheeks. He smiled, and then he said:“How wonderful you are! You look—”
He checked himself, then added with a quizzical smile:
“You are looking very well to-day, Miss Fleda Druse, very wellindeed. I like that dark-red dress you're wearing.”
An almost frightened look came into her eyes. It was as though hecould see, for she was wearing a dark-reddress—“wine-coloured,” her father called it,“maroon,” Madame Bulteel called it. Could he then see, afterall?
“How did you know it was dark-red?” she asked, her voiceshaking.
“Guessed it! Guessed it!” he answered almost gleefully.“Was I right? Is it dark-red?”
“Yes, dark-red,” she answered. “Was it really aguess?”
“Ah, but the guessiest kind of a guess,” he replied.“But who can tell? I couldn't see it, but is there any reason whythe mind shouldn't see when the eyes are no longer working? Comenow,” he added, “I've a feeling that I can tell things withmy mind just as if I saw them. I do see. I'll guess the timenow—with my mind's eye.”
Concentration came into his face. “It's three minutes to twelveo'clock,” he said decisively.
She took up the watch which lay on the table beside the bed.
“Yes, it's just three minutes to twelve,” she declared inan awe-struck voice. “That's marvellous—how wonderful youare!”
“That's what I said of you a minute ago,” he returned.Then, with a swift change of voice and manner, he added, “How longis it?”
“You mean, since you came here?” she asked, divining whatwas in his mind.
“Exactly. How long?”
“Six weeks,” she answered. “Six weeks and threedays.”
“Why don't you add the hour, too,” he urgedhalf-plaintively, though he smiled.
“Well, it was three o'clock in the morning to the minute,”she answered.
“Old Father Time ought to make you his chief of staff,” heremarked gaily. “Now, I want to know,” he added, with avisible effort of determination, “what has happened since threeo'clock in the morning, six weeks and three days ago. I want you to tellme what has happened to my concerns—to the railways, and also tothe towns. I don't want you to hide anything, because, if you do, I'llhave Jim in, and Jim, under proper control, will tell me the whole truth,and perhaps more than the truth. That's the way with Jim. When he getsstarted he can't stop. Tell me exactly everything.”
Anxiety drove the colour from her cheeks. She shrank back.
“You must tell me,” he urged. “I'd rather hear itfrom you than from Dr. Rockwell, or Jim, or your father. Your tellingwouldn't hurt as much as anybody else's, if there has to be any hurt.Don't you understand— but don't you understand?” heurged.
She nodded to herself in the mirror on the wall opposite. “I'lltry to understand,” she replied presently; “Tell me, then:have they put someone in my place?”
“I understand so,” she replied.
He remained silent for a moment, his face very pale. “Who isrunning the show?” he asked.
She told him.
“Oh, him!” he exclaimed. “He's dead against mypolicy. He'll make a mess.”
“They say he's doing that,” she remarked.
He asked her a series of questions which she tried to answer frankly,and he came to know that the trouble between the two towns, which, afterthe Orange funeral and his own disaster had subsided, was up again; thatthe railways were in difficulties; that there had been several failuresin the town; that one of the banks—the Regent-had closed its doors;that Felix Marchand, having recovered from the injury he had receivedfrom Gabriel Druse on the day of the Orange funeral, had gone East for amonth and had returned; that the old trouble was reviving in the mills,and that Marchand had linked himself with the enemies of the groupcontrolling the railways hitherto directed by himself.
For a moment after she had answered his questions, there was strongemotion in his face, and then it cleared.
He reached out a hand towards her. How eagerly she clasped it! It wascold, and hers was so warm and firm and kind.
“True friend o' mine!” he said with feeling. “Howwonderful it is that somehow it all doesn't seem to matter so much. Iwonder why? I wonder— Tell me about yourself, about yourlife,” he added abruptly, as though it had been a question he hadlong wished to ask. In the tone was a quiet certainty suggesting that shewould not hesitate to answer.
“We have both had big breaks in our lives,” he went on.“I know that. I've lost everything, in a way, by the break in mylife, and I've an idea that you gained everything when the break in yourscame. I didn't believe the story Jethro Fawe told me, but still I knewthere was some truth in it; something that he twisted to suit himself. Istarted life feeling I could conquer the world like another Alexander orNapoleon. I don't know that it was all conceit. It was the wish to do, tosee how far this thing on my shoulders”—he touched hishead—“and this great physical machine”—he touchedhis breast with a thin hand—“would carry me. I don't believethe main idea was vicious. It was wanting to work a human brain to itslast volt of capacity, and to see what it could do. I suppose I becameselfish as I forged on. I didn't mean to be, but concentration upon thethings I had to do prevented me from being the thing I ought to be. Iwanted, as they say, to get there. I had a lot of irons in thefire—too many—but they weren't put there deliberately. Onething led to another, and one thing, as it were, hung upon another, untilthey all got to be part of the scheme. Once they got there, I had tocarry them all on, I couldn't drop any of them; they got to be my life.It didn't matter that it all grew bigger and bigger, and the risks gotgreater and greater. I thought I could weather it through, and so I couldhave done, if it hadn't been for a mistake and an accident; but themistake was mine. That's where the thing nips—the mistake was mine.I took too big a risk. You see, I'd got so used to being lucky, it seemedas if I couldn't go wrong. Everything had come my way. Ever since I beganin that Montreal railway office, after leaving college, I hadn't a singlesetback. I pulled things off. I made money, and I plumped it all into myrailways and the Regent Bank; and as you said a minute ago, the RegentBank has closed down. That cuts me clean out of the game. What was thematter with the bank? The manager?”
His voice was almost monotonous in its quietness. It was as though hetold the story of something which had passed beyond chance or change. Asit unfolded to her understanding, she had seated herself near to his bed.The door of the room was open, and in view outside on the landing satMadame Bulteel reading. She was not, however, near enough to hear theconversation.
Ingolby's voice was low, but it sounded as loud as a waterfall in theears of the girl, who, in a few weeks, had travelled great distances onthe road called Experience, that other name for life.
“It was the manager?” he repeated.
“Yes, they say so,” she answered. “He speculatedwith bank money.”
“In what?”
“In your railways,” she answered hesitatingly.“Curious—I dreamed that,” Ingolby remarked quietly, andleaned down and stroked the dog lying at his feet. It had been with himthrough all his sickness. “It must have been part of my delirium,because, now that I've got my senses back, it's as though someone hadtold me about it. Speculated in my railways, eh? Chickens come home toroost, don't they? I suppose I ought to be excited over it all,” hecontinued. “I suppose I ought. But the fact is, you only have justthe one long, big moment of excitement when great trouble and tragedycome, or else it's all excitement, all the time, and then you go mad.That's the test, I think. When you're struck by Fate, as a hideouswar-machine might strike you, and the whole terror of loss and ruin bearsdown on you, you're either swept away in an excitement that hasn't anyend, or you brace yourself, and become master of the shatteringthing.”
“You are a master,” she interposed. “You are theMaster Man,” she repeated admiringly.
He waved a hand deprecatingly. “Do you know, when we talkedtogether in the woods soon after you ran the Rapids—you rememberthe day—if you had said that to me then, I'd have cocked my headand thought I was a jim- dandy, as they say. A Master Man was what Iwanted to be. But it's a pretty barren thing to think, or to feel, thatyou're a Master Man; because, if you are—if you've had a 'scoop'all the way, as Jowett calls it, you can be as sure as anything that noone cares a rap farthing what happens to you. There are plenty whopretend they care, but it's only because they're sailing with the wind,and with your even keel. It's only the Master Man himself that doesn'tknow in the least he's that who gets anything out of it all.”
“Aren't you getting anything out of it?” she asked softly.“Aren't you —Chief?”
At the familiar word—Jowett always called him Chief—asmile slowly stole across his face. “I really believe I am, thanksto you,” he said nodding.
He was going to say, “Thanks to you, Fleda,” but herestrained himself. He had no right to be familiar, to give an intimateturn to things. His game was over; his journey of ambition was done. Hesaw this girl with his mind's eye—how much he longed to see herwith the eyes of the body —in all her strange beauty; and he knewthat even if she cared for him, such a sacrifice as linking her life withhis was impossible. Yet her very presence there was like a garden ofbloom to him: a garden full of the odour of life, of vital things, ofsweet energy and happy being. Somehow, he and she were strangely alike.He knew it. From the time he held her in his arms at Carillon, he knewit. The great adventurous spirit which was in him belonged also to her.That was as sure as light and darkness.
“No, there's no master man in me, but I think I know what onecould be like,” he remarked at last. He straightened himselfagainst the pillows. The old look of power came to a face hardly strongenough to bear it. It was so fine and thin now, and the spirit in him wasso prodigious.
“No one cares what happens to the man who always succeeds; noone loves him,” he continued. “Do you know, in my troubleI've had more out of nigger Jim's affection than I've ever had in mylife. Then there's Rockwell, Osterhaut and Jowett, and there's yourfather. It was worth while living to feel the real thing.” Hishands went out as though grasping something good and comforting. “Idon't suppose every man needs to be struck as hard as I've been to learnwhat's what, but I've learned it. I give you my word of honour, I'velearned it.”
Her face flushed and her eyes kindled greatly. “Jim, Rockwell,Osterhaut, Jowett, and my father!” she exclaimed. “Of coursetrouble wouldn't do anything but make them come closer round you. Poorpeople live so near to misfortune all the time—I mean poor peoplelike Jim, Osterhaut, and Jowett—that changes of fortune are justnatural things to them. As for my father, he has had to stretch out hishands so often to those in trouble—”
“That he carried me home on his shoulders from the bridge sixweeks and three days ago, at three o'clock in the morning,”interjected Ingolby with a quizzical smile.
“Why did you omit Madame Bulteel and myself when you mentionedthose who showed their—friendship?” she asked, hesitating atthe last word. “Haven't we done our part?”
“I was talking of men,” he answered. “One knows whatwomen do. They may leave you in the bright days, not in the dark days. Onthe majority of them you couldn't rely in prosperity, but in misfortuneyou couldn't do anything else. They are there with you. They're made thatway. The best life can give you in misfortune is a woman. It's the greatbeginning-of-the-world thing in them. Men can't stand prosperity, butwomen can stand misfortune. Why, if Jim and Osterhaut and Jowett and allthe men of Lebanon and Manitou had deserted me, I shouldn't have beensurprised; but I'd have had to recast my philosophy if Fleda Druse hadturned her bonny brown head away.”
It was evident he was making an effort to conquer emotions which wererising in him; that he was playing on the surface to prevent his deepfeelings from breaking forth. “Instead of which,” he addedjubilantly, “here I am, in the nicest room in the world, in a finebed with springs like an antelope's heels.”
He laughed, and hunched his back into the mattress. It was the laughof the mocker, but he was mocking himself. She did not misunderstand. Itwas a nice room, as he said. He had never seen it with his eyes, but ifhe had seen it he would have realized how like herself itwas—adorably fresh, happily coloured, sumptuous and fine. It hadsimple curtains, white sheets, and a warm carpet on the floor; and yetwith something, too, that struck the note of a life outside. A pennant ofmany colours hung where two soft pink curtains joined, and at the windowand over the door was an ancient cross in bronze and gold. It was not thesimple Christian cross of the modern world, but an ancient one which hadbecome a symbol of the Romanys, a sign to mark the highways, the guide ofthe wayfarers. The pennant had been on the pole of the Ry's tent infar-off days in the Roumelian country. In the girl herself there was thatwhich corresponded to the gorgeous pennant and the bronze cross. It wasnot in dress or in manner, for there was no sign of garishness, of theunusual anywhere—in manner she was as well controlled as any womanof fashion, in dress singularly reserved—but in the depths of theeyes there was some restless, unsettled thing, some flicker of strangebanners akin to the pennant at the joining of the pink curtains. Therehad been something of the same look in Ingolby's eyes in the past, onlywith him it was the sense of great adventure, intrepid enterprise, atouch of vision and the beckoning thing. That look was not in his eyesnow. Nothing was there; no life, no soul; only darkness. But did thatlook still inhabit the eyes of the soul?
He answered the question himself. “I'd start again in adifferent way if I could,” he said musingly, his face towards thegirl. “It's easy to say that, but I would. It isn't only the thingsyou get, it's how you use them. It isn't only the things you do, it's whyyou do them. But I'll never have a chance now; I'll never have a chanceto try the new way. I'm done.”
Something almost savage leaped into her eyes—a wild, bitterprotest, for it was her tragedy, too, if he was not to regain his sight.The great impulse of a nature which had been disciplined into reservebroke forth.
“It isn't so,” she said with a tremor in her voice. Allthat he—and she—was in danger of losing came home to her.“It isn't so. You shall get well again. Your sight will come back.To-morrow; perhaps to-day, Hindlip, the great oculist comes from NewYork. Mr. Warbeck, the Montreal man, holds out hopes. If the New York mansays the same, why despair? Perhaps in another month you will be on yourfeet again, out in the world, fighting, working, mastering, just as youused to do.”
A sudden stillness seemed to take possession of him. His lips parted;his head was thrust forwards slightly as though he saw something in thedistance. He spoke scarcely above a whisper.
“I didn't know the New York man was coming. I didn't know therewas any hope at all,” he said with awe in his tones.
“We told you there was,” she answered.
“Yes, I know. But I thought you were all only trying to make iteasier for me, and I heard Warbeck say to Rockwell, when they thought Iwas asleep, 'It's ten to one against him.'“
“Did you hear that?” she said sorrowfully. “I'm sosorry; but Mr. Warbeck said afterwards—only a week ago—thatthe chances were even. That's the truth. On my soul and honour it's thetruth. He said the chances were even. It was he suggested Mr. Hindlip,and Hindlip is coming now. He's on the way. He may be here to-day. Oh, besure, be sure, be sure, it isn't all over. You said your life was broken.It isn't. You said my life had been broken. It wasn't. It was only thewrench of a great change. Well, it's only the wrench of a great change inyour life. You said I gained everything in the great change of my life. Idid; and the great change in your life won't be lost, it will be gain,too. I know it; in my heart I know it.”
With sudden impulse she caught his hand in both of hers, and then withanother impulse, which she could not control, she caught his head to herbosom. For one instant her arms wrapped him round, and she murmuredsomething in a language he did not understand—the language of theRoumelian country. It was only one swift instant, and then with shockedexclamation she broke away from him, dropped into a chair, and buried herface in her hands.
He blindly reached out his hand towards her as if to touch her.“Mother- girl, dear mother-girl—that's what you are,”he said huskily. “What a great, kind heart you've got!”
She did not reply, but sat with face hidden in her hands, rockingbackwards and forwards. He understood; he tried to help her. There was agreat joy in his heart, but he dared not give it utterance.
“Please tell me about your life—about that great change init,” he said at last in a low voice. “Perhaps it would helpme. Anyhow, I'd like to know, if you feel you can tell me.”
For a moment she was silent. Then she said to him with an anxious notein her voice: “What do you know about my life-about the 'greatchange,' as you call it?”
He reached out over the coverlet, felt for a sock which he had beenlearning to knit and, slowly plying the needles, replied: “I onlyknow what Jethro Fawe told me, and he was a promiscuous liar.”
“I don't think he lied about me,” she answered quietly.“He told you I was a Gipsy; he told you that I was married to him.That was true. I was a Gipsy. I was married to him in the Romany way,when I was a child of three, and I never saw him again until here, theother day, on the Sagalac.”
“You were married to him as much as I am,” he interjectedscornfully. “That was a farce. It was only a promise to pay on thepart of your father. There was nothing in that. Jethro Fawe could notclaim on that.”
“He has tried to do so,” she answered, “and if Iwere still a Gipsy he would have the right to do so from hisstandpoint.”
“That sounds silly to me,” Ingolby remarked, his fingersmoving now more quickly with the needles. “No, it isn'tsilly,” she said, her voice almost as softly monotonous as his hadbeen when he told her of his life a little while before. It was as thoughshe was looking into her own mind and heart and speaking to herself.“It isn't silly,” she repeated. “I don't think youunderstand. Just because a race like the Gipsies have no country and nohome, so they must have things that bind them which other people don'tneed in the same way. Being the vagrants of the earth, so they must havethings that hold them tighter than any written laws made by King orParliament. Unless the Gipsies kept their laws sacred they couldn't holdtogether at all. They're iron and steel, the Gipsy laws. They can't bestretched, and they can't be twisted. They can only be broken, and thenthere's no argument about it. When they are broken, there's the penalty,and it has to be met.”
Ingolby stopped knitting for a moment. “You don't mean that apenalty could touch you?” he asked incredulously.
“Not for breaking a law,” she answered. “I'm not aGipsy any more. I gave my word about that, and so did my father; and I'llkeep it.”
“Please tell me about it,” he urged. “Tell me, sothat I can understand everything.”
There was a long pause in which Ingolby inspected carefully with hisfingers the work which he was doing, but at last Fleda's voice came tohim, as it seemed out of a great distance, while she began to tell of herfirst memories: of her life by the Danube and the Black Sea, and drew forhim a picture, so far as she could recall it, of her marriage withJethro, and of the years that followed. Now and again as she told of somesordid things, of the challenge of the law in different countries, of thecoarse vagabondage of the Gipsy people in this place or in that, and someindignity put upon her father, or some humiliating incident, her voicebecame low and pained. It seemed as if she meant that he should see allshe had been in that past, which still must be part of the present andhave its place in the future, however far away all that belonged to itwould be. She appeared to search her mind to find that which wouldprejudice him against her. While speaking with slow scorn of the lifewhich she had lived as a Gipsy, yet she tried to make him understand,too, that, in the days when she belonged to it, it all seemed natural toher, and that its sordidness, its vagabondage did not produce repugnancein her mind when she was part of it. Unwittingly she over- coloured thepicture, and he knew she did.
In spite of herself, however, some aspects of the old life calledforth pictures of happy Nature, of busy animal life of wood and glen andstream and footpath which was exquisite in its way. She was in spirit atone with the multitudinous world of nature among which so many men andwomen lived, without seeing or knowing. It was all undesignedly a part ofherself, and she was one of a population in a universal nation whosedevout citizen she was. Sometimes, in response to an interjection fromIngolby, deftly made, she told of some incident which revealed as great apoetic as dramatic instinct. As she talked, Ingolby in his imaginationpictured her as a girl of ten or twelve, in a dark-red dress, brown curlsfalling in profusion on her shoulders, with a clear, honest, beautifuleye, and a face that only spoke of a joy of living, in which the smallthings were the small things and the great things were the great: theperfect proportion of sane life in a sane world.
Now and again, carried away by the history of things remembered, shevisualized scenes for him with the ardour of an artist and a lover ofcreated things. He realized how powerful a hold the old life still hadupon her. She understood it, too, for when at last she told of the greatevent in England which changed her life, and made her a deserter fromGipsy life; when she came to the giving of the pledge to a dying woman,and how she had kept that pledge, and how her father had kept it,sternly, faithfully, in spite of all it involved, she said to him:
“It may seem strange to you, living as I live now in one spot,with everything to make life easy, that I should long sometimes for thatold life. I hate it in my heart of hearts, yet there's something about itthat belongs to me, that's behind me, if that tells you anything. It's asthough there was some other self in me which reached far, far back intocenturies, that wills me to do this and wills me to do that. It soundsmad to you of course, but there have been times when I have had a wildlonging to go back to it all, to what some Gorgio writers call the pariahworld—the Ishmaelites.”
More than once Ingolby's heart throbbed heavily against his breast ashe felt the passion of her nature, its extraordinary truthfulness, makingit clear to him by indirect phrases that even Jethro Fawe, whom shedespised, still had a hateful fascination for her. It was all at varianceto her present self, but it summoned her through the long avenues ofancestry, predisposition; through the secret communion of those who,being dead, yet speak.
“It's a great story told in a great way,” he said, whenshe had finished. “It's the most honest thing I ever heard, butit's not the most truthful thing I ever heard. I don't think we can tellthe exact truth about ourselves. We try to be honest; we are savagely inearnest about it, and so we exaggerate the bad things we do, and we oftenshow distrust of the good things we do. That's not a fair picture. Ibelieve you've told me the truth as you see it and feel it, but I don'tthink it's the real truth. In my mind I sometimes see an oriel window inthe college where I spent three years. I used to work and think for hoursin that oriel window, and in the fights I've been having lately I'velooked back and thought I wanted it again; wanted to be there in thepeace of it all, with the books, and the lectures, and the drone ofhistory, and the drudgery of examinations; but if I did go back to it,three days'd sicken me, and if you went back to the Gipsy life threedays'd sicken you.”
“Yes, I know. Three hours would sicken me. But what might nothappen in those three hours! Can't you understand?”
Suddenly she got to her feet with a passionate exclamation, herclenched hands went to her temples in an agony of emotion. “Can'tyou understand?” she repeated. “It's the going back at allfor three days, for three hours, for three minutes that counts. It mightspoil everything; it might kill my life.”
His face flushed, crimsoned, then became pale; his hands ceasedmoving; the knitting lay still on his knee. “Maybe, but you aren'tgoing back for three minutes, any more than I'm going back to the orielwindow for three seconds,” he said. “We dreamers have a lotof agony in thinking about the things we're never going to do—justas much agony as in thinking about the things we've done. Every one of usdreamers ought to be insulated. We ought to wear emotional lightning-rodsto carry off the brain-waves into the ground.
“I've never heard such a wonderful story,” he added, afteran instant, with an intense longing to hold out his arms to her, and astill more intense will to do no such wrong. A blind man had no right ortitle to be a slave-owner, for that was what marriage to him would be. Awife would be a victim. He saw himself, felt himself being graduallydevitalized, with only the placid brain left, considering only theproblem of hourly comfort, and trying to neutralize the penalties ofblindness. She must not be sacrificed to that, for apart from all elseshe had greatness of a kind in her. He knew far better than he had saidof the storm of emotion in her, and he knew that she had not exaggeratedthe temptation which sang in her ears. Jethro Fawe—the thought ofthe man revolted him; and yet there was something about the fellow, atemperamental power, the glamour and garishness of Nature's gifts,prostituted though they were, finding expression in a strikingpersonality, in a body of athletic grace—a man-beauty.
“Have you seen Jethro Fawe lately?” he asked. “Notsince”—she was going to say not since the morning her fatherhad passed the sentence of the patrin upon him; but she paused in time.“Not since everything happened to you,” she addedpresently.
“He knows the game is up,” Ingolby remarked with forcedcheerfulness. “He won't be asking for any more.”
“It's time for your milk and brandy,” she said suddenly,emotion subsiding and a look of purpose coming into her face. She pouredout the liquid, and gave the glass into his hand. His fingers touchedhers.
“Your hands are cold,” she said to him. “Cold hands,warm heart,” he chattered.
A curious, wilful, rebellious look came into her eyes. “Ishouldn't have thought it in your case,” she said, and with suddenresolve turned towards the door. “I'll send Madame Bulteel,”she added. “I'm going for a walk.”
She had betrayed herself so much, had shown so recklessly what shefelt, and yet, yet why did he not—she did not know what she wantedhim to do. It was all a great confusion. Vaguely she realized what hadbeen working in him, but yet the knowledge was dim indeed. She was awoman. In her heart of hearts she knew that he did care for her, and yetin her heart of hearts she denied that he cared.
She was suddenly angry with herself, angry with him, the poor blindman, back from the Valley of the Shadow. She had not reached the door,however, when Madame Bulteel entered the room.
“The doctor from New York has come,” she said, holding outa note from Dr. Rockwell. “He will be here in a couple ofhours.”
Fleda turned back towards the bed.
“Good luck!” she said. “You'll see, it will be allright.”
“Certainly I'll see if it's all right,” he saidcheerfully. “Am I tidy? Have I used Pears' soap?” He wouldhave his joke at his own funeral if possible.
“There are two hours to get you fit to be seen,” sherejoined with raillery, infected by his cheerfulness in spite of herself.“Madame Bulteel is very brave. Nothing is too hard forher!”
An instant later she was gone, with her heart telling her to go backto him, not to leave him, but yet with a longing stronger still drivingher to the open world, to which she could breathe her trouble in greatgasps, as she sped onward through the woods and by the river. To love ablind man was sheer madness, but in her was a superstitious belief thathe would see again. It prevailed against the doubts and terrors. It madeher resent his own sense of fatality, his own belief that he would be indarkness all his days.
In the room where he awaited the verdict of the expert, he kept sayingto himself:
“She would have made everything else look cheap—if itcould have been.”
The last rays of the setting sun touched the gorgeous Autumn woodswith a loving, bright glow, and the day stole pensively away into apurple bed beyond the sight of the eyes. From a lonely spot by the river,Fleda watched the westering gleam until it vanished, her soul alive tothe melancholy beauty of it all. Not a human being seemed to be withinthe restricted circle of her vision. There were only to be seen the deepwoods, in myriad tints of bronze and red and saffron, and the swift-flowing river. Overhead was the Northern sky, so clear, so thrilling, andthe stars were beginning to sparkle in the incredibly swift twilightwhich links daytime and nighttime in that Upper Land. Lonely anddelicately sad it all looked, but there was no feeling of lonelinessamong those who lived the life of the Sagalac. Many a man has stood on awide plain of snow, white to the uttermost horizon, or in the yellow-brown grass of the Summer prairie, empty of all human life so far as eyecould see, and yet has felt no solitude. It is as though the air itselfis inhabited by a throng of happy comrades whispering in the communion ofthe invisible world.
As a child Fleda had often gazed upon just such scenes, lonely andluminous, but she was only conscious then of a vague and pleasant awe, akindly confusion, which, like the din of innumerable bees, lulled wonderto sleep. Even as a child, however, something of what it meant hadpierced her awe and wonder. Once as she crossed a broken, bare mountainof Roumania she had seen a wild ass perched upon a high summit gazing, asit were, over the wide valley, where beneath, among the rocks, other wildasses wandered. There was something so statue-like in this immovable wildcreature that Fleda had watched it till it was hid from her view by ajutting rock. But the thing which made a lasting impression, drawing hernearer to nature-life than all that had chanced since she was born, wasthe fact that on returning, hours after, the wild ass was still standingupon the summit of the hill, still gazing across the valley. Or was itgazing across the valley? Was there some other vision commanding itssight?
So a young wife not yet a mother loses herself for hours together in avista of unexplored experience. Fleda had passed on, out of sight of thewild ass on the hills, but for ever after the memory of it remained withher and the picture of it sprang to her eye innumerable times. Thehypnotized wild thing—hypnotized by its own vague instincts, or bysomething outside itself-became to her as the Sphinx to the Egyptian, theeverlasting question of existence.
Now, as she watched the day fleeing, and night with swift stealthinesscoming on, that unforgettable picture of the Roumanian hills came to heragain. The instinct of those far-off days which had been little removedfrom the finest animal intelligence had now developed into thought. Brainand soul strove to grasp what it all meant, and what the revelation wasbetween Nature and herself. Nature was so vast; she was so insignificant;changes in its motionless inorganic life were imperceptible save throughthe telescopes of years; but she, like the wind, the water, and theclouds, was variable, inconstant. Was there any real relation between thevast, imperturbable earth, its seas, its forests, its mountains and itsplains, its life of tree and plant and flower and the men and womendotted on its surface? Did they belong to each other, or were mankindonly, as it were, vermin infesting the desirable world? Did they belongto each other? It meant so much if they did belong, and she loved tothink they did. Many a time she kissed the smooth bole of a maple orwhispered to it; or laid her cheek against a mossy rock and murmured agreeting in the spirit of a companionship as old as the making of theworld.
On the evening of this day of her destiny—carrying the story ofher own fate within its twenty-four hours—she was in a mood ofdetachment from life's routine. As at a great opera, a sensitive spiritloses itself in visions alien to the music and yet born of it, so she,lost in this primeval scene before her, saw visions of things to be.
If Ingolby's sight came back! In her abstraction she saw him withsight restored and by her side, and even in that joy her mind felt ahovering sense of invasion, no definite, visible thing, but a presencewhich made shadow. Suddenly oppressed by it, she turned back into thewoods from the river-bank to make for home. She had explored nearly everyportion of this river-country for miles up and down, but on this evening,lost in her dreams, she had wandered into less familiar regions. Therewas no chance of her being lost, so long as she kept near to the river,and indeed by instinct and not by thought or calculation she made her wayabout at all times. Turned homeward, she walked for about a quarter of amile, retreading the path by which she had come. It was growing darker,and, being in unfamiliar surroundings, she hurried on, though she knewwell what course to take. Following the bank of the river she would haveincreased her walk greatly, as the stream made a curve at a point aboveManitou, and then came back again to its original course; so she cutacross the promontory, taking the most direct line homeward.
Presently, however, she became conscious of other people in the woodbesides herself. She saw no one, but she heard breaking twigs, the stirof leaves, the flutter of a partridge which told of human presence. Theunderbrush was considerable, darkness was coming on, and she had a senseof being surrounded. It agitated her, but she pulled herself together,stood still and admonished herself. She called herself a fool; she askedherself if she was going to be a coward. She laughed out loud at her ownapprehension; but a chill stole into her blood when she heard nearby— there was no doubt about it now—mockery of her ownlaughter. Then suddenly, before she could organize her senses, a score ofmen seemed to rise up from the ground around her, to burst out from thebushes, to drop from the trees, and to storm upon her. She had only timeto realize that they were Romanys, before scarfs were thrown around herhead, bound around her body, and, unconscious, she was carried away intothe deep woods.
When she regained consciousness Fleda found herself in a tent, set ina kind of prairie amphitheatre valanced by shrubs and trees. Bright firesburned here and there, and dark-featured men squatted upon the ground,cared for their horses, or busied themselves near two large caravans, atthe doors or on the steps of which now and again appeared a woman.
She had waked without moving, had observed the scene without drawingthe attention of a man—a sentry—who sat beside the tent-door.The tent was empty save for herself. There was little in it besides thecamp-bed against the tent wall, upon which she lay, and the cushionssupporting her head. She had waked carefully, as it were: as though someinward monitor had warned her of impending danger. She realized that shehad been kidnapped by Romanys, and that the hand behind the business wasthat of Jethro Fawe. The adventurous and reckless Fawe family had itsmany adherents in the Romany world, and Jethro was its head, thehereditary claimant for its leadership.
Notwithstanding the Ry of Rys' prohibition, there had drawn nearer andever nearer to him, from the Romany world he had abandoned, many of hispeople, never, however, actually coming within his vision till theappearance of Jethro Fawe. Here and there on the prairie, to a point justbeyond Gabriel Druse's horizon, they had come from all parts of theworld; and Jethro, reckless and defiant under the Sentence, and knowingthat the chances against his life were a million to one, had determinedon one bold stroke which, if it failed, would make his fate no worse,and, if it succeeded, would give him his wife and, maybe, headship overall the Romany world. For weeks he had planned, watched and waited,filling the woods with his adherents, secretly following Fleda day byday, until, at last, the place, the opportunity, seemed perfect; and hereshe lay in a Romany tan once more, with the flickering fires outside inthe night, and the sentry at her doorway. This watchman was not JethroFawe, but she knew well that Jethro was not far off.
Through the open door of the tent, for some minutes, her eyes studiedthe segment of the circle within her vision, and she realized that herewas an organized attempt to force her back into the Romany world. If sherepudiated the Gorgio life and acknowledged herself a Romany once again,she knew her safety would be secured; but in truth she had no fear forher life, for no one would dare to defy the Ry of Rys so far as to killhis daughter. But she was in danger of another kind—in deep andterrible danger; and she knew it well. As the thought of it tookpossession of her, her heart seemed almost to burst. Not fear, but angerand emotion possessed her. All the Romany in her stormed back again fromthe past. It sent her to her feet with a scarcely smothered cry. She wasnot quicker, however, than was the figure at the tent door, which, with ahalf-dozen others, sprang up as she appeared. A hand was raised, and, asif by magic, groups of Gipsies, some sitting, some standing, some withthe Gipsy fiddle, one or two with flutes, began a Romany chant in a high,victorious key, and women threw upon the fire powders from which flamedup many coloured lights.
In a moment the camp was transformed. From the woods around cameswarthy-faced men, with great gold rings in their ears and bright scarfsaround their necks or waists, some of them handsome, dirty and insolent;others ugly, watchful, and quiet in manner and face; others still mostfriendly and kind in face and manner. All showed instant respect forFleda. They raised their hands in a gesture of salutation as a Zulu chiefthrusts up a long arm and shouts “Inkoos!” to one whom hehonours. Some, however, made the sweeping Oriental gesture of the righthand, palm upward, and almost touching the ground—a sign ofobedience and infinite respect. It had all been well arranged. Skilfullymanaged as it was, however, there was something in it deeper thantheatrical display or dramatic purpose.
It was clear that many of them were deeply moved at being in thepresence of the daughter of the Ry of Rys, who had for so long exiledhimself. Racial, family, clan feeling spoke in voice and gesture, in lookand attitude; but yet there were small groups of younger men whosesalutations were perfunctory, not to say mocking. These were they whoresented deeply Fleda's defection, and truthfully felt that she hadpassed out of their circle for ever; that she despised them, and lookeddown on them from another sphere. They were all about the age of JethroFawe, but were of a less civilized type, and had semi-barbarism writtenall over them. Unlike Jethro they had never known the world of cities.They repudiated Fleda, because their ambition could not reach to her.They recognized the touch of fashion and of form, of a worldly education,of a convention which lifted her away from the tan and the caravan, fromthe everlasting itinerary. They had not had Jethro's experiences infashionable hotels of Europe, at midnight parties, at gay suppers, atgarish dances, where Gorgio ladies answered the amorous looks of theambitious Romany with the fiddle at his chin. Because these young Romanysknew they dare not aspire, they were resentful; but Jethro, the head ofthe rival family and the son of the dead claimant to the headship, hadnot such compulsory modesty. He had ranged far and wide, and hisexpectations were extensive. He was nowhere to be seen in the groupswhich sang and gestured in the light of the many coloured fires, thoughonce or twice Fleda's quickened ear detected his voice, exulting, in thechorus of song.
Presently, as she stood watching, listening, and strangely moved inspite of herself by the sudden dramatic turn which things had taken, aseat was brought to her. It was a handsome stool, looted perhaps fromsome chateau in the Old World, and over it was thrown a dark-red clothwhich gave a semblance of dignity to the seat of authority, which it wasmeant to be.
Fleda did not refuse the honour. She had choked back the indignantwords which had rushed to her lips as she left the tent where she hadbeen lying. Prudence had bade her await developments. She could not yetmake up her mind what to do. It was clear that a bold and deep purposelay behind it all, and she could not tell how far-reaching it was, norwhat it represented of rebellion against her father's authority. That itdid represent rebellion she had no doubt. She was well enough aware ofthe claims of Jethro's dead father to the leadership, abandoned for threethousand pounds and marriage with herself; and she was also aware thatwhile her father's mysterious isolation might possibly have developed areverence for him, yet active pressure and calumny might well have doneits work. Also, if the marriage was repudiated, Jethro would be justifiedin resuming the family claim to the leadership.
She seated herself upon the scarlet seat with a gesture of thanks,while the salutations and greetings increased; then she awaited events,thrilled by the weird and pleasant music, with its touches of Easternfantasy. In spite of herself she was moved, as Romanys, men and women,ran forward in excitement with arms raised towards her as though theymeant to strike her, then suddenly stopped short, made obeisance, calleda greeting, and ran backwards to their places.
Presently a group of men began a ceremony or ritual, before which thespectators now and again covered their eyes, or bent their heads low, orturned their backs, and raised their hands in a sort of ascription. Asthe ceremony neared its end, with its strange genuflections, a womandressed in white was brought forward, her hands bound behind her, herhair falling over her shoulders, and after a moment of apparentdenunciation on the part of the head of the ceremony, she was suddenlythrown to the ground, and the pretence of drawing a knife across herthroat was made. As Fleda watched it she shuddered, but presently bracedherself, because she knew that this ritual was meant to show what the endmust be of those who, like herself, proved traitor to the traditions ofrace.
It was at this point, when fifty knives flashed in the air, withvengeful exclamations, that Jethro Fawe appeared in the midst of thecrowd. He was dressed in the well-known clothes which he had worn sincethe day he first declared himself at Gabriel Druse's home, and, comparedwith his friends around him, he showed to advantage. There was command inhis bearing, and experience of life had given him primitivedistinction.
For a moment he stood looking at Fleda in undisguised admiration, forshe made a remarkable picture. Animal beauty was hers, too. There was adelicate, athletic charm in her body and bearing; but it added to, ratherthan took away from, the authority of her presence, so differing fromJethro. She had never compared herself with others, and her passionateintelligence would have rebelled against the supremacy of the body. Shehad no physical vanity, but she had some mental vanity, and it placedmind so far above matter that her beauty played no part in hercalculations. At sight of him, Fleda's blood quickened, but inindignation and in no other sense. As he came towards her, however,despising his vanity as she did, she felt how much he was above all thoseby whom he was surrounded. She realized his talent, and it almost madeher forget his cunning and his loathsomeness. As he came near to her hemade a slight gesture to someone in the crowd, and a chorus ofsalutations rose.
Composed and still she waited for him to come quite close to her, andthe look in her face was like that of one who was scarcely conscious ofwhat was passing around her, whose eyes saw distant things of infinitemoment.
A few feet away from her he spoke.
“Daughter of the Ry of Rys, you are among your own people onceagain,” he said. “From everywhere in the world they have cometo show their love for you. You would not have come to them of your ownfree will, because a madness 'got hold of you, and so they came to you.You cut yourself off from them and told yourself you had become a Gorgio.But that was only your madness; and madness can be cured. We are theFawes, the ancient Fawes, who ruled the Romany people before the Drusescame to power. We are of the ancient blood, yet we are faithful to theDruse that rules over us. His word prevails, although his daughter ismad. Daughter of the Ry of Rys, you have seen us once again. We have sungto you; we have spoken to you; we have told you what is in our hearts; wehave shown you how good is the end of those who are faithful, and howterrible is the end of the traitor. Do not forget it. Speak tous.”
Fleda had a fierce desire to spring to her feet and declare to themall that the sentence of the patrin had been passed upon Jethro Fawe, butshe laid a hand upon herself. She knew they were unaware that theSentence had been passed, else they would not have been with Jethro. Inthat case none would give him food or shelter or the hand of friendship;none dare show him any kindness; and it was the law that any one againstwhom he committed an offence, however small, might take his life. TheSentence had been like a cloud upon her mind ever since her father hadpassed it; she could not endure the thought of it. She could not bringherself to speak of it—to denounce him. Sooner or later theSentence would reach every Romany everywhere, and Jethro would pass intothe darkness of oblivion, not in his own time nor in the time of Fate.The man was abhorrent to her, yet his claim was there. Mad and bad as itwas, he made his claim of her upon ancient rights, and she was stillenough a Romany to see his point of view.
Getting to her feet slowly, she ignored Jethro, looked into the faceof the crowd, and said:
“I am the daughter of the Ry of Rys still, though I am a Romanyno longer. I made a pledge to be no more a Romany and I will keep it; yetyou and all Romany people are dear to me because through long generationsthe Druses have been of you. You have brought me here against my will. Doyou think the Ry of Rys will forgive that? In your words you have beenkind to me, but yet you have threatened me. Do you think that a Druse hasany fear? Did a Druse ever turn his cheek to be smitten? You know whatthe Druses are. I am a Druse still. I will not talk longer, I havenothing to say to you all except that you must take me back to my father,and I will see that he forgives you. Some of you have done this out oflove; some of you have done it out of hate; yet set me free again uponthe path to my home, and I shall forget it, and the Ry of Rys will forgetit.”
At that instant there suddenly came forward from the doorway of a tenton the outskirts of the crowd a stalwart woman, with a strong face and aself-reliant manner. She was still young, but her slightly pockmarkedcountenance showed the wear and tear of sorrow of some kind. She had,indeed, lost her husband and her father in the Montenegrin wars.Hastening forward to Fleda she reached out a hand.
“Come with me,” she said; “come and sleep in my tentto-night. To-morrow you shall go back to the Ry of Rys, perhaps. Comewith me.”
There was a sudden murmuring in the crowd, which was stilled by amotion of Jethro Fawe's hand, and a moment afterwards Fleda gave her handto the woman.
“I will go with you,” Fleda said. Then she turned toJethro: “I wish to speak to you alone, Jethro Fawe,” sheadded.
He laughed triumphantly. “The wife of Jethro Fawe wishes tospeak with him,” he bombastically cried aloud to the assembledpeople, and he prepared to follow Fleda.
As Fleda entered the woman's tent a black-eyed girl, with tousled hairand a bold, sensual face, ran up to Jethro, and in an undertone of evilsuggestion said to him:
“To-night is yours, Jethro. You can make tomorrowsure.”
“You are wasting your time.”
Fleda said the words with a quiet determination, and yet in the tonewas a slight over-emphasis which was like a call upon reserve forceswithin herself.
“Time is nothing to me,” was the complete reply, clothedin a tone of soft irony. “I'm young enough to waste it. I've plentyof it in my knapsack.”
“Have you forgotten the Sentence of the Patrin?” Fledaasked the question in a voice which showed a sudden access ofdetermination.
“He will have to wipe it out after to-morrow,” replied theother with a gleam of sulky meaning and furtive purpose in his eyes.
“If you mean that I will change my mind to-morrow, and be yourwife, and return to the Gipsy life, it is the thought of a fool. I askedyou to come here to speak with me because I was sure I could make you seethings as they truly are. I wanted to explain why I did not tell theRomanys outside there that the Sentence had been passed on you. I did nottell them because I can't forget that your people and my people have beensib for hundreds of years; that you and I were children together; that wewere sealed to one another when neither of us could have any say aboutit. If I had remained a Gipsy, who can tell—my mind might havebecome like yours! I think there must be something rash and bad in mesomewhere, because I tell you frankly now that a chord in my heart rangwhen you made your wild speeches to me there in the hut in the Woodmonths ago, even when I hated you, knowing you for what youare.”
“That was because there was another man,” interjectedJethro.
She inclined her head. “Yes, it was partly because of anotherman,” she replied. “It is a man who suffers because of you.When he was alone among his foes, a hundred to one, you betrayed him.That itself would have made me despise you to the end of my life, even ifthe man had been nothing at all to me.
“It was a low, cowardly thing to do. You did it; and if you weremy brother, I would hate you for it; if you were my father, I shouldleave your house; if you were my husband, I should kill you. I asked youto speak with me now because I thought that if you would goaway—far away— promising never to cross my father's path, ormy path, again, I could get him to withdraw the Sentence. You havekidnapped me. Where do you think you are? In Mesopotamia? You can't breakthe law of this country and escape as you would there. They don't takecount of Romany custom here. Not only you, but every one of the Faweshere will be punished if the law reaches for your throat. I want you toescape, and I tell you to go now. Go back to Europe. I advise you thisfor your own sake—because you are a Fawe and of theclan.”
The blood mounted to Jethro's forehead, and he made an angry gesture.“And leave you here for him! 'Mi Duvel!' I can only die once, and Iwould rather die near you than far away,” he exclaimed.
His eyes had a sardonic look, there was a savage edge to his tongue,yet his face was flushed with devouring emotion and he was quivering withhope. That which he called love was flooding the field of his feelings,and the mad thing—the toxic impulse which is deep in the brain ofEastern races bled into his brain now. He was reckless, rebelliousagainst fate, insanely wilful, and what she had said concerning Ingolbyhad roused in him the soul of Cain.
She realized it, and she was apprehensive of some desperate act; yetshe had no physical fear of him. Something seemed to tell her that, nomatter what happened, Ingolby would not wait for her in vain, and that hewould yet see her enter to him again with the love-light in her eyes.
“But listen to me,” Jethro said, with an unnatural shiningin his eyes, his voice broken in its passion. “You think you cancome it over me with your Gorgio talk and the clever things you'velearned in the Gorgio world. You try to look down on me. I'm as well bornor as ill born as you. The only difference between us is the way youdress, the way you live and use your tongue. All that belongs to the lifeof the cities. Anyone can learn it. Anyone well born like you and me,with a little practice, can talk like Gorgio dukes and earls. I've beenamong them and I know. I've had my friends among them, too. I've got thehang of it all. It's no good to me, and I don't want it. It's all part ofa set piece. There's no independence in that life; you live by rule.Diable! I know. I've been in palaces; I've played my fiddle to the womenin high places who can't blush. It's no good; it brings nothing in theend. It's all hollow. Look at our people there.” He swept a hand tothe tent door.
“They're tanned and rough, as all out-door things are rough, butthey've got their share of happiness, and every day has its pleasures.Listen to them!” he cried with a gesture of exultation.“Listen to that!”
The colour slowly left Fleda's face. Outside in the light of the dyingfires, under the glittering stars, in the shade of the trees, groups ofRomanys were singing the Romany wedding melody, called “The Song ofthe Sealing.” It was not like the ringing of wedding bells alone,it sealed blessing upon the man and the woman. It was a poem in praise ofmarriage passion; it was a paean proclaiming the accomplishment of life.Crude, primitive, it thrilled with Eastern feeling; a weird charm wasshowered from its notes.
“Listen!” exclaimed Jethro again, a fire burning in hisface. “That's for you and me. To them you are my wife, and I amyour man. 'Mi Duvel' —it shall be so! I know women. For an hour youwill hate me; for a day you will resent me, and then you will begin tolove me. You will fight me, but I will conquer. I know you—I knowyou—all you women. But no, it will not be I that will conquer. It'smy love that will do it. It's a den of tigers. When it breaks loose itwill have its way. Here it is. Can't you see it in my face? Can't youhear it in my voice? Don't you hear my heart beating? Every throb says,'Fleda—Fleda—Fleda, come to me.' I have loved you since youwere three. I want you now. We can be happy. Every night we will make anew home. The world will be ours; the best that is in it will come to us.We will tap the trees of happiness —they're hid from the Gorgioworld. You and I will know where to find them. Every land shall be ours;every gift of paradise within our reach —riches, power, children.Come back to your own people; be a true daughter of the Ry of Rys; livewith your Romany chal. You will never be at home anywhere else. It's inyour bones; it's in your blood; it's deeper than all. Here, now, come tome—my wife.”
He flung the flap of the tent door across the opening, shutting outthe camp-fires and the people. “Here—now—come. Be minewhile they sing.”
For one swift moment the great passion and eloquence of the man liftedher off her feet; for one instant the Romany in her triumphed, and athrill of passion passed through her, storming her senses, like a mistshutting out all the rest of the world. This Romany was right; there wasin her the wild thing—the everlasting strain of race and yearsbreaking down all the defences which civilized life had built up withinher. Just for one instant so—and then there flashed before her aface with two blind eyes.
Like a stream of ether playing upon warm flesh, making it icy cold, sosomething of the ineradicable good in her swept like a frozen spray uponthe elements of emotion, and with both hands she made a gesture ofrepulsion.
His eyes with their reddish glow burned nearer and nearer to her. Hebulked over her, driving her back against the couch by the tent wall. Foran instant like that—and then, with clenched hand, she struck himin the face.
Swift as had been the change in her, so a change like a cyclone sweptover him. The hysterical passion which had possessed him suddenly passed,and a dark, sullen determination swept into his eyes and over his face.His lips parted in a savage smile.
“Hell, so that's what you've learned in the Gorgio world, isit?” he asked malevolently. “Then I'll teach you what they doin the Romany world; and to-morrow you can put the two together and seewhat they look like.”
With a Romany expletive, he flung back the curtain of the tent andpassed out into the night.
For a long time Fleda sat stunned and overcome by the side of thecouch, her brain tortured by a thousand thoughts. She knew there was noimmediate escape from the encampment. She could only rely upon the hueand cry which would be raised and the certain hunt which would be madefor her. But what might not happen before any rescue came? The ancientgrudge of the Fawes against the Druses had gained power and activity bythe self-imposed exile of Gabriel Druse; and Jethro had worked upon it.The veiled threats which Jethro had made she did not despise. He was abarbarian. He would kill what he loved; he would have his way with whathe loved, whether or not it was the way of law or custom or right.Outside, the wedding song still made musical the night. Women's voices,shrill, and with falsetto notes, made the trees ring with it; low, bassvoices gave it a kind of solemnity. The view which the encampment took ofher captivity was clear. Where was the woman that brought her to thetent—whose tent it was? She seemed kind. Though her face had a hardlook, surely she meant to be friendly. Or did she only mean to betrayher; to give her a fancied security, and leave her to Jethro—andthe night? She looked round for some weapon. There was nothing availablesave two brass candlesticks. Though the door of the tent was closed, sheknew that there were watchers outside; that any break for liberty wouldonly mean defeat, and yet she was determined to save herself.
As she tried to take the measure of the situation and plan what shewould do, the noise of the music suddenly ceased, and she heard a voice,though low in tone, give some sort of command. Then there was a cry, andwhat seemed the chaotic noise of a struggle followed; then a voice alittle louder speaking, a voice of someone she remembered, though shecould not place it. Something vital was happening outside, somethingpunctuated by sharp, angry exclamations; afterwards a voice speakingsoothingly, firmly, prevailed; and then there was silence. As shelistened there was a footstep at the door of the tent, a voice called toher softly, and a hand drew aside the tent curtain. The woman who hadbrought her to this place entered.
“You are all safe now,” she said, reaching out both handsto Fleda. “By long and by last, but it was a close shave! He meantto make you his wife to-night, whether you would or no. I'm a Fawe, butI'd have none of that. I was on my way to your father's house when I metsomeone—someone that you know. He carries your father's voice inhis mouth.”
She stepped to the tent door and beckoned; and out of the darkness,only faintly lightened by the dying fires, there entered one whom Fledahad seen not more than fifty times in her life, and never but twice sinceshe had ceased to be a Romany. It was her father's secret agent, Rhodo,the Roumelian, now grizzled and gaunt, but with the same vitality whichhad been his in the days when she was a little child.
Here and there in the world went Rhodo, the voice of the Ry of Rys todo his bidding, to say his say. No minister of a Czar was ever moredreaded or loved. His words were ever few, but his deeds had been many.Now, as he looked at Fleda, his old eyes gleamed, and he showed a doublerow of teeth, not one of which was imperfect, though he was seventy yearsof age.
“Would you like to come?” he asked. “Would you liketo come home to the Ry?”
With a cry she flung herself upon him. “Rhodo! Rhodo!” sheexclaimed, and now the tears broke forth, and her body shook withsobs.
A few moments later he said to her: “It's fifteen years sinceyou kissed me last. I thought you were ashamed of old Rhodo.”
She did not answer, but looked at him with eyes streaming, drawingback from him. Her embrace was astonishing even to herself, for as achild Rhodo had been a figure of awe to her, and the feeling had deepenedas the years had gone on, knowing as she did his work throughout theworld for the Ry of Rys. In his face was secrecy, knowledge, and sometragic underthing which gave him, apart from his office, a singularloneliness of figure and manner. He was so closely knit in form; therewas such concentration in face, bearing and gesture, that the isolationof his position was greatly deepened.
“No, you never kissed me after you were old enough to like ordislike,” he said with mournful and ironical reflection.
There crept into his face a kind of yearning such as one might feelwho beheld afar off a promised land, and yet was denied its joys. Rhodowas wifeless, childless, and had been so for forty years. He had had nointimates among the Romany people. His life he lived alone. That thedaughter of the Ry of Rys should kiss him was a thing of which he woulddream when deeds were done and over and the shadows threatened.
“I will kiss you again in another fifteen years,” she saidhalf-smiling through her tears. “But tell me—tell me what hashappened.”
“Jethro Fawe has gone,” he answered with a sweepingoutward gesture.
“Where has he gone?” she asked, apprehension seizingher.
“A journey into the night,” responded the old man withscorn and wrath in his tone, and his lips were set.
“Is he going far?” she asked.
“The road you might think long would be short to him,” heanswered.
Her hands became cold; her heart seemed to stop beating.
“What road is that?” she asked. She knew, but she mustask.
“Everybody knows it; everybody goes it some time oranother,” he answered darkly.
“What was it you said to all of them outside?”—shemade a gesture towards the doorway. “There were angry cries, and Iheard Jethro Fawe's voice.”
“Yes, he was blaspheming,” remarked the old mangrimly.
“Tell me what it was you said, and tell me what hashappened,” she persisted.
The old man hesitated a moment, then said grimly: “I told themthey must go one way and Jethro Fawe another. I told them the Ry of Ryshad said no patrins should mark the road Jethro Fawe's feet walked. I hadheard of this gathering here, and I was on my way to bid them begone, forin following the Ry they have broken his command. As I came, I met thewoman of this tent who has been your friend. She is a good woman; she hassuffered. Her people are gone, but she has a heart for others. I met her.She told me of what that rogue and devil had done and would do. He is thehead of the Fawes, but the Ry of Rys is the head of all the Romanys ofthe world. He has spoken the Word against Jethro, and the Word shallprevail. The Word of the Ry when it is given cannot be withdrawn. It islike the rock on which the hill rests.”
“They did not go with him?” she asked.
“It is not the custom,” he answered sardonically.“That is a path a Romany walks alone.”
Her face was white. “But he has not come to the end of thepath—has he?” she asked tremulously. “Who can tell?This day, or twenty years from now, or to-morrow, or next moon, he willcome to the end of the path. No one knows, he least of all. He will notsee the end, because the road is dark. I don't think it will besoon,” he added, because he saw how haggard her face had grown.“No, I don't think it will be soon. He is a Fawe, at the head ofall the Fawes; so perhaps there will be time for him to think, and nodoubt it will not be soon.”
“Perhaps it will not be at all. My father spoke, but he canwithdraw his word,” she urged.
Suddenly the old Gipsy's face hardened. A look of dark resolve andiron force came into it.
“The Ry will not withdraw. He has spoken, and it must be. If hespoke lightly he is not fit to rule. Unless the word of the Ry of Rys isgood against breaking, then the Romanys are no more than scattered leavesat the will of the wind. It is the word of the Ry that holds our folktogether. It shall not bless, and it shall not curse in vain.”
Pitying the girl's face, however, and realizing that the Gorgio lifehad given her a new view of things; angry with her because it was so, butloving her for herself, he added:
“But the night road may be long, though it is lonely, and if itshould be that the Ry should pass before the end of the road comes toJethro, then is Jethro freed, since the Word is gone which binds his feetfor the pitfall.”
“He must not die,” she insisted.
“Then the Ry of Rys must not live,” he rejoined sternly.With a kindly gesture, however, he stretched out his hand. “Come,we shall reach the house of the Ry before the morning,” he added.“He is not returned from his journey, and so will not be troubledby having missed you. There will be an hour for beauty-sleep before thesun rises,” he continued with the same wide smile with which hegreeted her first. Then he lifted up the curtain and passed out into thenight.
Following him, Fleda saw that the Romanys had broken camp, and only asmall handful remained, among them the woman who had befriended her.Fleda went up to her:
“I will never forget you,” she said. “Will you wearthis for me?” she added, and she took from her throat a broochwhich she had worn ever since her first days in England, after her greatillness there. The woman accepted the brooch. “Lady love,”she said, “you've lost your sleep to-night, but that's a loss youcan make good. If there's a night's sleep owing you, you can collect thedebt some time. No, a night's sleep lost in a tent is nothing, if you'rethe only one in the tent. But if you're not alone, and you lose a night'ssleep, someone else may pick it up, and you might never get itagain!”
A flush slowly stole over Fleda's face, and a look of horror came intoher eyes. She read the parable aright.
“Will you let me kiss you?” she said to the woman, and nowit was the woman's turn to flush.
“You are the daughter of the Ry of Rys,” she said almostshyly, yet proudly.
“I'm a girl with a debt to pay and can never pay it,”Fleda answered, putting her arms impulsively around the woman's neck andkissing her. Then she took the brooch from the woman's hand, and pinnedit at her throat.
“Think of Fleda of the Druses sometimes,” she said, andshe laid a hand upon the woman's breast. “Lady love—ladylove,” said the blunt woman with the pockmarked face, “you'vehad the worst fright to-night that you'll ever have.” She caughtFleda's hand and peered into it. “Yes, it's happiness for you now,and on and on,” she added exultingly, and with the fortune-teller'sair. “You've passed the danger place, and there'll be wealth and aman who's been in danger, too; and there's children, beautifulchildren—I see them.”
In confusion, Fleda snatched her hand away. “Good-bye, youfool-woman,” she said impatiently, yet gently, too. “You talksuch sense and such nonsense. Good-bye,” she added brusquely, butyet she smiled at the woman as she turned away.
A moment later she was on her way back to Manitou, but she did not getto her father's house before the break of day; and in the doorway she metMadame Bulteel, whose pale, drawn face proclaimed a sleepless night.
“Tell me what has happened? Tell me what has happened?”she asked in distress.
Fleda took both her hands. “Before I answer, tell me what hashappened here,” she said breathlessly. “What news?”
Madame Bulteel's face lighted. “Good news,” she exclaimedeagerly.
“He will see—he will see again?” Fleda asked ingreat agitation.
“The Montreal doctor said that the chances were even,”answered Madame Bulteel. “This man from the States says it is asure thing.”
With a murmur Fleda sank into a chair, and a faintness came overher.
“That's not like a Romany,” remarked old Rhodo. “No,it's certainly not like a Romany,” remarked Madame Bulteelmeaningly.
Grey days in the prairie country do not come very often, but they arevery depressing when they arrive. The landscape is not of the lusciouskind; it has no close correspondence with a picture by Corot orConstable; sunlight is needed to give it the touch of the habitable andthe homelike. It was, therefore, unfortunate for the spirits of theLebanon people that the meeting summoned by local agitators to discusswith asperity affairs on both sides of the Sagalac should, while startingwith fitful sunlight in the early morning, have developed to a bleakgreyness by three o'clock in the afternoon, the time set for themeeting.
Another strike was imminent in the factories at Manitou and in therailway-shops at Lebanon, due to the stupidity of the policy of Ingolby'ssuccessor as to the railways and other financial and manufacturinginterests. If he had planned a campaign of maladroitness he could nothave more happily fulfilled his object. It was not a good time forreducing wages, or for quarrelling with the Town Councils of Manitou andLebanon concerning assessments and other matters. November and May alwaysfound Manitou, as though to say, “upset.” In the formermonth, men were pouring through the place on their way to the shantiesfor their Winter's work, and generally celebrating their cominginternment by “irrigation”; in the latter month, they werereturning from their Winter's imprisonment, thirsty for excitement, andwith memories of Winter quarrels inciting them to “have it out ofsomeone.”
And it was in October, when the shantyman was passing through on hisway to the woods—a natural revolutionary, loving trouble as acoyote loves his hole—that labour discontent was practicallywhipped into action, and the Councils of the two towns were stung intobitterness against the new provocative railway policy. Things looked darkenough. The trouble between the two towns and the change of control andpolicy of the railways, due to Ingolby's downfall, had greatly shakenland and building values in Lebanon, and a black eye, as it were, hadbeen given to the whole district for the moment.
So serious had the situation been regarded that the Mayor of Lebanon,with Halliday the lawyer and another notable citizen, all friends ofIngolby, had “gone East”—as a journey to Montreal,Toronto, or Quebec was generally called—to confer with and makeappeal to the directorate of the great railways. They went with someelation and hope, for they had arguments of an unexpected kind in theirpossession, carefully hidden from the rest of the population. They hadreturned only the day before the meeting which was to be held in thesquare in front of the Town Hall, to find that a platform had been builtat the very steps of the Town Hall with the assent of the ChiefConstable, now recovered from illness and returned to duty. To the DeputyMayor and the Council, the Chief Constable, on the advice of GabrielDruse, had said that it was far better to have the meeting in front ofthe Town Hall where he could, on the instant, summon special constablesfrom within if necessary, while the influence of a well-built platformand the orderly arrangement of a regular meeting were better than a moboration from the tops of ash- barrels.
The signs were ominous. In a day of sunshine the rebellious anddiscontented spirit does not thrive; on a wet day it is apt to takeshelter; on a bleak, grey day men are prone to huddle together in theiranger with consequent stimulation of their passions.
It was a grey enough day at Lebanon, and dark-faced visitors fromManitou felt the need of Winter clothing as they shiveringly crossed theSagalac by Ingolby's bridge. The air was raw and searching; Nature wassulky. In the sharp wind the trees shook themselves angrily free ofleaves. The taverns were greatly frequented, which was not good forManitou and Lebanon. Up to the time of the meeting, however, the expectedstrike had not occurred. This was mainly due to the fact that FelixMarchand, the evil genius of Manitou, had not been seen in the town or inthe district for over a week. It was not generally known that he wasabsent because a man by the name of Dennis, whose wife he had wronged,was dogging him with no good intent. Marchand had treated the woman'swarning with contempt, but at sight of her injured husband he had himselfwithdrawn from the scene of his dark enterprises. His malign influencewas therefore not at work at the moment.
The tactics of the Lebanon Town Council had been careful and wise. Sothat the meeting should not be composed only of the roughest elements,they privately urged all responsible citizens to attend, and if possiblecapture the meeting for law and order and legitimate agitation. That waswhy Osterhaut, the town-crier, went about with a large dinner-bellannouncing the hour of the meeting and admonishing all “goodfolks” to attend. No one had ever seen Osterhaut quite socheerful—and he had a bonny cheerfulness on occasion—as onthis grisly October day when Nature was very sour and the spirit of thewinds was in a “scratchy” mood. But Osterhaut was not morecheerful than Jowett who, in a very undignified way, described the stateof his feelings, on receiving a certain confidence from Halliday, thelawyer, and Gabriel Druse, by turning a cart-wheel in the Mayor's office;which certainly was an unusual thing in a man of fifty years of age.
It was a people's meeting. No local official was on the platform.Under the influence of alien elements who, though their co-operation wasdirected against the common enemy, were intensely irritating, the meetingbecame disorderly. One or two wise men, however, were able to secureorder long enough to have the resolution passed for forming a LocalInterests Committee whose duty it would be to see that the people werenot sacrificed to a “soulless plutocracy.” While the names ofthose who were to form the Committee were being selected, in a storm ofdisorder arising from the Manitou section of the crowd, the sky overheadgrew suddenly brighter and the sun came out, bringing an instant change.It was as though a hand, which had hypnotized them into anger, restoredthem to good-humour once again.
At this moment, to the astonishment of all, there appeared at the backof the platform between Jowett and Halliday the lawyer, the man with atragic history who had been as one buried for weeks past, who hadvanished from their calculations. It was their old champion, Ingolby.Slowly a hush came over the vast assembly as, apparently guided by hisfriends on the platform, he was given a seat on the right of theChairman's table.
A strange sensation, partly pleasure, partly resentment, passedthrough the crowd. Why did Ingolby come to remind them of better daysgone—of his own rashness, of what they had lost through thatrashness? Why had he come? They could not say and do all that they wantedwith him present. It was like having a row in the presence of a corpse.He had been a hero to all in Lebanon, but he was not in the picture now.His day was done. It was no place for him. Yet it was a pleasant omenthat the sun broke clear and shining over the platform as Ingolby tookhis seat. Presently in the silence he half-turned his head, murmuredsomething to the Chairman, and then got to his feet, stretching out ahand towards the crowd.
For one moment there was silence, a little awestricken, a littlepainful, and then as from one man a great cheer went up. For a momentthey had thought him inconsiderate to come among them in this crisis, forhe was no longer of their scheme of things, and must be counted out, abeaten, battered, blind bankrupt. Yet the sight of him on his feet wastoo much for them. Blind he might be, but there was the personality whichhad conquered them in the past brave, adroit, reckless, renowned. None ofthem, or very few of them, had seen him since that night at Barbazon'sTavern, yet in spite of his tragedy there seemed little change in him.There was the same quirk at the corner of the mouth, the same humour inthe strong face, not so ruddy now; and strangely enough the eyes wereneither guarded by spectacles, nor were they shrunken, glazed, ordiseased, so far as could be seen.
Stretching out a hand, Ingolby gave a crisp laugh and said: “Sothere's been trouble since I've been gone, has there?” The cornerof his mouth quirked, his eyelids drooped in the old quizzical way, andthe crowd laughed in spite of themselves. What a spirit he had to take itall that way!
“Got a little deeper in the mire, have you, boys?” headded. “They tell me the town's a frost just now, but it seems niceand warm here in the sun. Yes, boys, it's nice and warm here among youall—the same good old crowd that's made the two towns what theyare. The same good old crowd,” he repeated, “—and up tothe same old games!”
At this point he could scarcely proceed for laughter. “Like truepioneers,” he went on, “not satisfied with what you've got,but wanting such a lot more—if I might say so in the language ofthe dictionary, a deuce of a lot more.”
Almost every sentence had been punctuated by cheers. His personalitydominated them as aforetime with some new accent to it; his voice waslike that of one given up from the dead, yet come back from the warsalive and loving. They never knew what a figure he was until now whenthey saw and heard him again, and realized that he was one of the fewwhom the world calls leaders, because they have in them that immeasurablesympathy which is understanding of men and matters. Yet in the old daysthere never had been the something that was in his voice now, and in hisface there was a great friendliness, a sense of companionship, a Jonathanand David something. He was like a comrade talking to a thousand othercomrades. There was a new thing in him and they felt it stir them. Theythought he had been made softer by his blindness; and they were notwrong. Even the Manitou section were stilled into sympathy with him. Manyof them had heard his speech in Barbazon's Tavern just before thehorseshoe struck him down, and they heard him now, much simpler in mannerand with that something in his voice and face. Yet it made them shrink alittle, too, to see his blind eyes looking out straight before him. Itwas uncanny. Their idea was that the eyes were as before, but seeingnothing-blank to the world.
Presently his hand shot out again. “The same old crowd!”he said. “Just the same—after the same old thing, wantingwhat we all want: these two places, Manitou and Lebanon, to be boostedtill they rule the West and dominate the North. It's good to see you allhere again”—he spoke very slowly—“to see you allhere together looking for trouble—looking for trouble. There youare, Jim Barager; there you are, Bill Riley; there you are, Mr. WilliamJohn Thomas McLeary.” The last named was the butt of every tavernand every street corner. “There you are, Berry—old brownBerry, my barber.”
At first the crowd did not quite understand, did not realize that hewas actually pointing to the people whom he named, but presently, asBerry the barber threw up his hands with a falsetto cry of understanding,there was a simultaneous, wild rush forward to the platform.
“He sees, boys—he sees!” they shouted.
Ingolby's hand shot up above them with a gesture of command.
“Yes, boys, I see—I see you all. I'm cured. My sight'scome back, and what's more”—he snatched from his pocket afolded sheet of paper and held it aloft “what's more, I've got mycommission to do the old job again; to boss the railways, to help the twotowns. The Mayor brought it back from Montreal yesterday; and together,boys, together, we'll make Manitou and Lebanon the fulcrum of the West,the swivel by which to swing prosperity round our centre.”
The platform swayed with the wild enthusiasm of the crowd storming itto shake hands with him, when suddenly a bell rang out across the river,wildly, clamorously. A bell only rang like that for a fire. Those on theplatform could see a horseman galloping across the bridge.
A moment later someone shouted, “It's the Catholic church atManitou on fire!”
Originally the Catholic church at Manitou had stood quite by itself,well back from the river, but as the town grew its dignified isolationwas invaded and houses kept creeping nearer and nearer to it. So thatwhen it caught fire there was general danger, because the town possessedonly a hand fire-engine. Since the first settlement of the place therehad been but few fires, and these had had pretty much their own way. Whenone broke out the plan was to form a long line of men, who passed bucketsof water between the nearest pump, well, or river, and the burningbuilding. It had been useful in incipient fires, but it was child's playin a serious outburst. The mournful fact that Manitou had never equippeditself with a first-class fire-engine or a fire-brigade was now to play agreat part in the future career of the two towns. Osterhaut put the thingin a nutshell as he slithered up the main street of Lebanon on his way tothe manning of the two fire-engines at the Lebanon fire-brigadestation.
“This thing is going to link up Lebanon and Manitou like atrace-chain,” he declared with a chuckle. “Everything's comeat the right minute. Here's Ingolby back on the locomotive, running thegood old train of Progress, and here's Ingolby's fire-brigade, which costLebanon twenty thousand dollars and himself five thousand, going to putout the fires of hate consuming two loving hamulets. Out with Ingolby'sfire-brigade! This is the day the doctor ordered! Hooray!”
Osterhaut had a gift of being able to do two things at one time.Nothing prevented him from talking, and though it had probably never beentested, it is quite certain he could have talked under water. His wordshad been addressed to Jowett, who drew to him on all great occasions likethe drafts of a regiment to the main body. Jowett was often very criticalof Osterhaut's acts, words and views, but on this occasion they were ofone mind.
“I guess it's Ingolby's day all right,” answered Jowett.“When you say 'Hooray!' Osterhaut, I agree, but you've got betterbreath'n I have. I can't talk like I used to, but I'm going to ride thatfire-engine to save the old Monseenoor's church—or bust.”
Both Jowett and Osterhaut belonged to the Lebanon fire-brigade, whichwas composed of only a few permanent professionals, helped by capableamateurs. The two cronies had their way, and a few moments later, wearingbrass helmets, they were away with the engine and the hose, leaving theless rapid members of the brigade to follow with the ladders.
“What did the Chief do?” asked Osterhaut. “Did yousee what happened to him?”
Jowett snorted. “What do you think Mr. Max Ingolby, Esquire,would do? He commandeered my sulky and that rawbone I bought from theReverend Tripple, and away he went like greased lightning over thebridge. I don't know why I drove that trotter to-day, nor why I went onthat sulky, for I couldn't hear good where I was, on the outskirts of themeeting; but I done it like as if the Lord had told me. The Chief spottedme soon as the fire-bell rung. In a second he bundled me off, straddledthe sulky, and was away 'fore you could say snakes.”
“I don't believe he's strong enough for all this. He ain't gotback to where he was before the war,” remarked Osterhautsagely.
“War—that business at Barbazon's! You call that war! Itwasn't war,” declared Jowett spasmodically, grasping the rail ofthe fire-engine as the wheel struck a stone and nearly shot them fromtheir seats. “It wasn't war. It was terrible low-down treachery.That Gipsy gent, Fawe, pulled the lever, but Marchand built thescaffold.”
“Heard anything more about Marchand—where he is?”asked Osterhaut, as the hoofs of the horses clattered on the bridge.
“Yes, I've heard—there's news,” responded Jowett.“He's been lying drunk at Gautry's caboose ever since yesterdaymorning at five o'clock, when he got off the West-bound train. Nice sortof guy he is. What's the good of being rich, if you can't be decent Somemen are born low. They always find their level, no matter what's done forthem, and Marchand's level is the ditch.”
“Gautry's tavern—that joint!” exclaimed Osterhautwith repulsion.
“Well, that ranchman, Dennis What's-his-name, is looking forhim, and Felix can't go home or to the usual places. I dunno why he comesback at all till this Dennis feller gits out.”
“Doesn't make any bones about it, does he? Dennis Doane's thename, ain't it? Marchand spoiled his wife-run away with her up along theWind River, eh?” asked Osterhaut.
Jowett nodded: “Yes, that's it, and Mr. Dennis Doane ain'tcareful; that's the trouble. He's looking for Marchand, and blabbing whathe means to do when he finds him. That ain't good for Dennis. If he killsMarchand, it's murder, and even if the lawyers plead unwritten law, andhe ain't hung, and his wife ain't a widow, you can't have much marriedlife in gaol. It don't do you any good to be punished for punishingsomeone else. Jonas George Almighty—look! Look,Osterhaut!”
Jowett's hand was pointing towards the Catholic church, from a windowof which smoke was rolling. “There's going to be something to dothere. It ain't a false alarm, Snorty.”
“Well, this engine'll do anything you ask it,” rejoinedOsterhaut. “When did you have a fire last, Billy?” he shoutedto the driver of the engine, as the horses' feet caught the dusty road ofManitou.
“Six months,” was the reply, “but she's workingsmooth as music. She's as good as anything 'twixt here and theAtlantic.”
“It ain't time for Winter fires. I wonder what set itgoing,” said Jowett, shaking his head ominously. “Somethingwrong with the furnace, I s'pose,” returned Osterhaut.“Probably trying the first heatup of the Fall.”
Osterhaut was right. No one had set the church on fire. The sexton hadlighted the furnace for the first time to test it for the Winter'sworking, but had not stayed to see the result. There was a defect in thefurnace, the place had caught fire, and some of the wooden flooring hadbeen burnt before the aged Monseigneur Lourde discovered it. It was hewho had given the alarm and had rescued the silver altar-vessels from thesacristy.
Manitou offered brute force, physical energy, native athletics, muscleand brawn; but it was of no avail. Five hundred men, with five hundredbuckets of water would have had no effect upon the fire at St. Michael'sChurch at Manitou; willing hands and loving Christian hearts would havebeen helpless to save the building without the scientific aid of theLebanon fire-brigade. Ingolby, on founding the brigade, had equipped itto the point where it could deal with any ordinary fire. The work it hadto do at St. Michael's was critical. If the church could not be saved,then the wooden houses by which it was surrounded would be swept away,and the whole town would be ablaze; for though it was Autumn, everythingwas dry, and the wind was sufficient to fan and spread the flames.
Lebanon took command of the whole situation, and for the first time inthe history of the two towns men worked together under one control likebrothers. The red-shirted river-driver from Manitou and the lawyer'sclerk from Lebanon; the Presbyterian minister and a Christian brother ofthe Catholic school; a Salvation Army captain and a black-headed Catholicshantyman; the President of the Order of Good Templars and a switchmanmember of the Confraternity of the Blessed Sacrament slaved together onthe hand-engine, to supplement the work of the two splendid engines ofthe Lebanon fire-brigade; or else they climbed the roofs of houses, sideby side, to throw on the burning shingles the buckets of water handed upto them.
For some time it seemed as though the church could not be saved. Thefire had made good headway with the flooring, and had also made progressin the chancel and the altar. Skill and organization, combined with goodluck, conquered, however. Though a portion of the roof was destroyed andthe chancel gutted, the church was not beyond repair, and a few thousanddollars would put it right. There was danger, however, among the smallerhouses surrounding the church, and there men from both towns worked withgreat gallantry. By one of those accidents which make fatality, a smallwooden house some distance away, with a roof as dry as wool, caught firefrom a flying cinder. As everybody had fled from their own homes andshops to the church, this fire was not noticed until it had made headway.Then it was that the cries of Madame Thibadeau, who was confined to herbed in the house opposite, were heard, and the crowd poured down towardsthe burning building. It was Gautry's “caboose.” Gautryhimself had been among the crowd at the church.
As Gautry came reeling and plunging down the street, someone shouted,“Is there anyone in the house, Gautry?”
Gautry was speechless with drink. He threw his hands up in the airwith a gesture of maudlin despair, and shouted something which no oneunderstood. The crowd gathered like magic in the wide street before thehouse—the one wide street in Manitou—from the roof and upperwindows of which flames were bursting. Far up the street was heard thenoisy approach of the fire-engine, which now would be able to do littlemore than save adjoining buildings. Gautry, reeling, mumbling andwhining, gestured and wept.
A man shook him roughly by the shoulder. “Brace up, get steady,you damned old geezer! Is there any body in the house? Do you hear? Isthere anybody in the house?” he roared.
Madame Thibadeau, who had dragged herself from her bed, was now at thewindow of the house opposite. Seeing Fleda Druse passing beneath, shecalled to her.
“Ma'mselle, Felix Marchand is in Gautry'shouse—drunk!” she cried. “He'll burn to death—butyes, burn to death.”
In agitation Fleda hastened to where the stranger stood shaking oldGautry.
“There's a man asleep inside the house,” she said to thestranger, and then all at once she realized who he was. It was DennisDoane, whose wife was staying in Gabriel Druse's home: it was the husbandof Marchand's victim.
“A man in there, is there?” exclaimed Dennis. “Well,he's got to be saved.” He made a rush for the door. Men called tohim to come back, that the roof would fall in. In the smoking doorway helooked back. “What floor?” he shouted.
From the window opposite, her fat old face lighted by the blazingroof, Madame Thibadeau called out, “Second floor! It's the secondfloor!”
In an instant Dennis was lost in the smoke and flame.
One, two, three minutes passed. A fire-engine arrived; in a moment thehose was paid out to the river near by, and as a fireman seized thenozzle to train the water upon the building the roof fell in with acrash. At that instant Dennis stumbled out of the house, blind withsmoke, his clothes aflame, carrying a man in his arms. A score of handscaught them, coats smothered Dennis's burning clothes, and the man he hadrescued was carried across the street and laid upon the pavement.
“Great glory, it's Marchand! It's Felix Marchand!” someoneshouted.
“Is he dead?” asked another.
“Dead drunk,” was the comment of Osterhaut, who had helpedto carry him across the street.
At that moment Ingolby appeared on the scene. “What's allthis?” he asked. Then he recognized Marchand. “He's beenplaying with fire again,” he added sarcastically, and there was alook of contempt on his face.
As he said it, Dennis broke through the crowd and made for Marchand.Stooping over, he looked into Marchand's face.
“Hell and damnation—you!” he growled. “Irisked my life to save you!”
With a sudden access of rage his hand suddenly went to his hip-pocket,but another hand was quicker. It was that of Fleda Druse.
“No—no,” she said, her fingers on his wrist.“You have had your revenge. For the rest of his life he will haveto bear his punishment —that you have saved him. Leave him alone.It was to be. It is fate.”
Dennis Doane was not a man of great thinking capacity. If he got amatter into his head it stayed there till it was dislodged, anddislodging was a real business with him.
“If you want her to live with you again, you had better let thisbe as it is,” whispered Fleda, for the crowd were surging round andcheering the new hero. “Just escaped the roof falling in,”said one.
“Got the strength of two, for a drunk man weighs twice as heavyas a sober one!” exclaimed another admiringly.
“Marchand's game is up on the Sagalac,” declared a thirddecisively.
The excitement was so great, however, that only a very few of themknew what they were saying, and fewer still knew that Dennis Doane hadrisked his life to save the man he had been stalking for weeks past.Marchand had been lying on his face in the smoke-filled room when Dennisbroke into it, and he had been carried down the stairs without his facebeing seen at all.
To Dennis it was as though he had been made a fool of by Fate orProvidence, or whatever controlled the destinies of men; as though thedangerous episode had been arranged to trap him into this situation.
Ingolby drew near and laid a hand upon Dennis's arm. Fleda's hand wason the other arm.
“You can't kill a man and save him too,” said Ingolbyquietly, and holding the abashed blue eyes of Dennis. “There weretwo ways to punish him; taking away his life at great cost, or giving ithim at great cost. If you'd taken away his life, the cost would probablyhave been your own life; in giving him his life you only risked your own;you had a chance to save it. You're a bit scorched-hair, eyebrows,moustache, clothes too, but he'll have brimstone inside him. Come along.Your wife would rather have it this way; and so will you, to-morrow. Comealong.”
Dennis suddenly swung round with a gesture of fury. “He spoiledher-treated her like dirt!” he cried huskily.
With savage purpose he made a movement towards where Marchand hadlain; but Marchand was gone. With foresight Ingolby had quickly andquietly accomplished that while Dennis's back was turned.
“You'd be treating her like a brute if you went to prison forkilling Marchand,” urged Ingolby. “Give her a chance. She'sfretting her heart out.”
“She wants to go back to Elk Mountain with you,” pleadedFleda gently. “She couldn't do that if the law took hold ofyou.”
“Ain't there to be any punishment for men like him?”demanded Dennis, stubbornly yet helplessly. “Why didn't I let himburn! I'd have been willing to burn myself to have seen him sizzling.Ain't men like that to be punished at all?”
“When he knows who has saved him, he'll sizzle inside for therest of his life,” remarked Ingolby. “Don't think he hasn'tgot a heart. He's done wrong and gone wrong; he has belonged to thesewer, but he isn't all bad, and maybe this is the turning-point.Drink'll make a man do anything.”
“His kind are never sorry for what they do,” commentedDennis bitterly. “They're sorry for what comes from what they do,but not for the doing of it. I can't think the thing out. It makes mesick. I was hunting for him to kill him; I was watching this town like alynx, and I've been and gone and saved his body from Hell onearth.”
“Well, perhaps you've saved his soul from Hell below,”said Fleda. “Ah, come! Your face and hands are burned, your hair isscorched—your clothes need mending. Arabella is waiting for you.Come home with me to Arabella.”
With sudden resolve Dennis squared his shoulders. “Allright,” he said. “This thing's too much for me. I can't getthe hang of it. I've lost my head.”
“No, I won't come, I can't come now,” said Ingolby, inresponse to an inquiring look from Fleda.
“Not now, but before sundown, please.”
As Fleda and Dennis disappeared, Ingolby looked back towards the fire.“How good it is to see again even a sight like that,” hesaid. “Nothing that the eyes see is so horrible as the picturesthat come to the mind when the eyes don't see. As Dennis said, I can'tget the hang of it, but I'll try—I'll try.”
The burning of Gautry's tavern had been conquered, though not beforeit was a shell; and the houses on either side had been saved. Lebanon hadshown itself masterful in organization, but it had also shown that thatwhich makes enemies is not so deep or great a thing as that which makesfriends. Jealous, envious, narrow and bitter Manitou had been, but shenow saw Lebanon in a new light. It was a strange truth that if Lebanonhad saved the whole town of Manitou, it would not have been the same tothe people as the saving of the church. Beneath everything inManitou— beneath its dirt and its drunkenness, its irresponsibilityand the signs of primeval savagery which were part of its life, there wasthe tradition of religion, the almost fanatical worship of that which wastheir master, first and last, in spite of all—the Church. Not oneof its citizens but would have turned with horror from the man who cursedhis baptism; not one but would want the last sacrament when his timecame. Lebanon had saved the Catholic church, the temple of their faith,and in an hour was accomplished what years had not wrought.
The fire at the church was out. A few houses had been destroyed, andhundreds of others had been saved. The fire-brigade of Lebanon, with itstwo engines, had performed prodigies of valour. The work done, the menmarched back, but with Osterhaut sitting on one fire-engine and Jowett onthe other, through crowds of cheering, roaring workmen, rivermen,shantymen, and black-eyed habitants. When Ingolby walked past Barbazon'sTavern arm in arm with Monseigneur Lourde, to the tiny house where thegood priest lived, the old man's face beaming with gratitude, and with apiety which was his very life, the jubilant crowd followed them to thevery door. There the sainted pioneer expressed the feeling of the momentwhen he raised his hands in benediction over them and said:
“Peace be unto you and the blessings of peace; and the Lord makehis face to shine upon you and give you peace now and for evermore.”
Before sunset, as Ingolby had promised, he made his way towardsGabriel Druse's house. A month had gone since he had left its hospitalitybehind. What had happened between that time and this day of fate forLebanon and Manitou?
It is not a long story, and needs but a brief backward look. This hadhappened:
The New York expert performed the operation upon Ingolby's eyes,announced it successful, declared that his sight would be restored, andthen vanished with a thousand dollars in his pocket. For days thereafterthe suspense was almost more than Fleda could bear. She grew suddenlythin and a little worn, and her big eyes had that look of yearning whichonly comes to those whose sorrow is for another. Old Gabriel Druse wasemphatic in his encouragement, but his face reflected the trouble in thatof his daughter. He knew well that if Ingolby remained blind he wouldnever marry Fleda, though he also knew well that, with her nature, almostfanatical in its convictions, she would sacrifice herself, if sacrificewas the name for it. The New York expert had prophesied and promised, butwho could tell! There was the chance of failure, and the vanishedeye-surgeon had the thousand dollars in his pocket.
Two people, however, were cheerful; they were Ingolby and Jim. Jimwent about the place humming a nigger melody to himself, and twice hebrought Berry the barber to play to his Chief on the cottonfield fiddle.Nigger Jim, though it was two generations gone which linked him with thewilds of the Gold Coast, was the slave of fanatical imagination, and inIngolby's own mind there was the persistent superstition that all wouldbe well, because of a dream he had had. He dreamed he heard his deadmother's voice in the room, where he lay. She had called him by name, andhad said: “Look at me, Max,” and he had replied, “Icannot see,” and she had said again,
“Look at me, my son!” Then he thought that he had lookedat her, had seen her face clearly, and it was as the last time theyparted, shining and sweet and good. She had said to him in days longgone, that if she could ever speak to him across the Void, she would; andhe had the fullest belief now that she had done so.
So it was that this dreadnought of industry and organization, in dockfor repairs, cheerfully awaited the hour when he would be launched againupon the tide of work-healthy, healed and whole. At last there came theday when, for an instant, the bandages could be removed. There werepresent, Rockwell, Fleda, and Jim—Jim, pale but grinning, at thefoot of the bed; Fleda, with her back against the door and her handsclenched behind her as though to shut out the invading world. Never hadher heart beat as it beat now, but her eyes were steady and bright. Therewas in them, however, a kind of pleading look. She could not seeIngolby's face; did not want to see it when the bandages were taken off;but at the critical moment she shut her eyes and her back held the door,as though a thousand were trying to force an entrance.
The first words after the bandages were removed came from Ingolby.
“Well, Jim, you look all right!” he said.
Swaying as she went, Fleda half-blindly moved towards a chair near byand sank into it. She scarcely heard Jim's reply.
“Looking all right yourself, Chief. You won't see much change inthis here old town.”
Ingolby's hand was in Rockwell's. “It's all right, isn'tit?” he asked.
“You can see it is,” answered Rockwell with a chuckle inhis voice, and then suddenly he put the bandages round Ingolby's eyesagain. “That's enough for today,” he said.
A moment later the bandages were secured and Rockwell stood back fromthe bed.
“In another week you'll see as well as ever you did,”Rockwell said. “I'm proud of you.”
“Well, I hope I'll see a little better than ever I did,”remarked Ingolby meaningly. “I was pretty short-sightedbefore.”
At that instant he heard Fleda's footstep approaching the bed. Hissenses had grown very acute since the advent of his blindness. He heldout his hand into space.
“What a nice room this is!” he said as her fingers slidinto his. “It's the nicest room I was ever in. It's too nice forme. In a few days I'll hand the lease over again to its owner, and goback to the pigsty Jim keeps in Stormont Street.”
“Well, there ain't any pigs in that sty now, Chief; but it's allready,” said Jim, indignant and sarcastic.
It was a lucky speech. It broke the spell of emotion which was greatlystraining everybody's endurance.
“That's one in the eye for somebody,” remarked Rockwelldrily.
“What would you like for lunch?” asked Fleda, letting goIngolby's hand, but laying her fingers on his arm for a moment.
What would he like for lunch! Here was a man back from the Shadows,from broken hopes and shattered career, from the helplessness and eternalpatience of the blind; here he was on the hard, bright highroad again,with a procession of restored things coming towards him, with life andlove within his grasp; and the woman to whom it mattered most of all, whowas worth it all, and more than all where he was concerned, said to himin this moment of revelation, “What would you like forlunch?”
With an air as casually friendly as her own, he put another hand onthe fingers lying on his arm, patted them, and said gaily,“Anything I can see. As a drover once said to me, 'I can clean asfur as I can reach.'“
In just such a temper also they had parted when he went back to his“pigsty” with Jim. To Gabriel Druse he had said all that oneman might say to another without excess of feeling; to Madame Bulteel hehad given a gold pencil which he had always worn; to Fleda he gavenothing, said little, but the few words he did say told the story, if notthe whole story.
“It's a nice room,” he said, and she had flushed at hiswords, “and I've had the best time of my life in it. I'd like tobuy it, but I know it's not for sale. Love and money couldn't buyit—isn't that so?”
Then had—come days in his own home, still with bandaged eyes,but with the bandages removed for increasing hours every day; yet no oneat all in the town knowing the truth except the Mayor, Halliday thelawyer, and one or two others who kept the faith until Ingolby gave themthe word to speak. Then had come the Mayor's visit to Montreal, the greatmeeting, the fire at Manitou, and now Ingolby on the way to his trystwith Fleda. They had met twice only since he had left Gabriel Druse'shouse, and on the last occasion they had looked each other full in theeyes, and Ingolby had said to her in the moment they had had alone:
“I'm going to get back, but I can't do it withoutyou.”
To this her reply had been, “I hope it's not so bad asthat,” and she had looked provokingly in his eyes. Now she knewbeyond peradventure that he cared for her, and she was almost provoked atherself that when he was in such danger of losing his sight for ever shehad caught his head to her breast in the passion of the moment. Many atime when he had been asleep, with gentle fingers she had caressed hishands, his head, his face; but that did not count, because he did notknow. He did, however, know of that moment when her passionate heartbroke over him in tenderness; and she tried to make him think, by thingssaid since, that it was only pity for his sufferings which made her doit.
Ingolby thought of all these things, but in a spirit of understanding,as he went to his tryst with her at sunset on the day when Lebanon andManitou were reconciled.
.........................
He met her walking among the trees, very near the place where they hadhad their first long talk, months before, when Jethro Fawe was a prisonerin the Hut in the Woods. Then it was warm, singing Summer; now, beneaththe feet the red and brown leaves rustled, the trees were stretching upgaunt arms to the Winter, the woods were no longer vocal, and the singingbirds had fled, though here and there a black squirrel, not yet gone toWinter quarters, was busy and increasing his stores. A hedgehog scuttledacross his path. He smiled as he remembered telling Fleda that once, whenhe was a little boy, he had eaten hedgehog, and she had asked him if heremembered the Gipsy name for hedgehog—hotchewitchi was the word.Now, as the shapeless creature made for its hole, it was significant ofthe history of his life during the past Summer. How long it seemed sincethat day when love first peeped forth from their hearts like a young faceat the lattice of a sunlit window. Fleda had warned him of trouble, andthat trouble had come!
In his mind she was a woman like none he had ever known; she couldthink greatly, act largely, give tremendously. As he stood waiting, thewonderful, ample life of her seemed to come like a wave towards him. Inhis philosophy, intellect alone had never been the governing influence.Intellect must find its play through the senses, be vitalized by theelements of physical life, or it could not prevail. There was not onesensual strain in him, but with a sensuous mind he loved the vital thing.He was sure that presently Gabriel Druse would disappear, leaving herbehind with him. That was what he meant to ask her to-day—to be andstay with him always. He knew that the Romanys were gathering in theprairie. They had been heard of here and there, and some of them had beenseen along the Sagalac, though he knew nothing of that dramatic incidentin the woods when Fleda was kidnapped and Jethro Fawe vanished from thescene.
As Fleda came towards him, under the same trees which had shielded herfrom the sun months ago—now nearly naked and bare—somethingin her look and bearing sharply caught his interest. He asked himselfwhat it was. So often a face familiar over half a lifetime perhaps,suddenly at some new angle, or because, by chance, one has looked at itsearchingly, shows a new expression, a new contour never before observed,giving fresh significance to the character. There was that in Ingolby'smind, a depth of desire, a resolve to stake two lives against the chancesof Fate, which made him look at Fleda now with a revealing intensity.What was the new thing in her carriage which captured his eye? Presentlyit flashed upon him—memories of Mexico and the Southern UnitedStates; native women with jars of water upon their heads; the erect,well- balanced form; the sure, sinuous movement; the step measured, yetfree; the dignity come of carrying the head as though it were a pillar ofan Athenian temple, one of the beautiful Caryatides yonder by the AEgeanSea.
It smote him as a sudden breath of warm air strikes a face in thenight coolness of the veldt. His pulses quickened, he flushed with thesoft shock of it. There she was, refined, civilized, gowned like otherwomen, with all the manners and details of civilization and social lifeabout her; yet, in spite of it all, she did not belong; there was abouther still something remote and alien. It had not to do with appearancealone, though her eyes were so vivid, and her expression so swift andvarying; it was to be found in the whole presence—somethingmountain-like and daring, something Eastern and reserved and secret,something remote—brooding like a Sphinx, and prophetic like aSibyl. But suppose that in days to come the thing that did not belong,which was of the East, of the tan, of the River Starzke; suppose that itshould—
With a great effort he drove apprehension and the instant's confusedwonder far away, and when, come close to him, she smiled, showing theperfect white teeth, and her eyes softened to a dreamy regard of him, allhe had ever felt for her in the past months seemed concentrated into thisone moment. Yet he did not look like a languishing lover; rather like oneinflamed with a great idea or stirred to a great resolve.
For quite a minute they stood gazing as though they would read thewhole truth in each other's eyes. She was all eager, yet timorous; he wasresolved; yet now, when the great moment had come, as it were, like astammerer fearing the sound of his own voice. There was so much to saythat he could not speak.
She broke the spell. “I am here. Can't you see me?” sheasked in a quizzical, playful tone, her lips trembling a little, but witha smile in her eyes which she vainly tried to veil.
She had said the one thing which above all others could have liftedthe situation to its real significance. A few weeks ago the eyes nowlooking into hers and telling a great story were sealed with night, andthe mind behind was fretted by the thought of a perpetual darkness. Allthe tragedy of the past rushed into his mind now, and gave all that wasbetween them, or was to be between them, its real meaning. A beautifulwoman is dear to man simply as woman, and not as the woman; virtue hasslain its thousands, but physical charm has slain its tens of thousands!Whatever Ingolby's defects, however, infinitely more than the girl'sbeauty, more than the palpitating life in her, than red lips and brighteye, than warm breast and clasping hand, was something beneath all whichwould last, or should last, when the hand was palsied and the eye wasdim.
“I am here. Can't you see me?”
All that he had regained in life in her little upper room rushed uponhim, and with outstretched arms and in a voice choked with feeling, hesaid:
“See you! Dear God—To see you and all the world once more!It is being born again to me. I haven't learned to talk in my new worldyet; but I know three words of the language. I love you. Come—I'llbe good to you.”
She drew back from him, and her look said that she would read him tothe uttermost word in his life's book, would see the heart of thiswonderful thing; and then with a hungry cry, she flung her arms aroundhis neck and pressed her wet eyes against his flushed cheek.
A half-hour later, as they wandered back to the house he suddenlystopped, put his hands on her shoulders, looked earnestly in her eyes,and said:
“God's good to me. I hope I'll remember that.”
“You won't be so blind as to forget,” she answered, andshe wound her fingers in his with a feeling which was more than thesimple love of woman for man. “I've got much more to remember thanyou have,” she added. Suddenly she put both hands upon his breast.“You don't understand; you can't understand, but I tell you that Ishall have to fight hard if I am to be all you want me to be. I have gota past to forget; you have a past you want to remember—that's thedifference. I must tell you the truth: it's in my veins, that old life,in spite of all. Listen. I ought to have told you, and I meant to tellyou before this happened, but when I saw you there, and you held out yourarms to me, I forgot everything. Yet still I must tell you now, thoughperhaps you will hate me when you know. The old life—I hate it, butit calls me, and I have an impulse to go back to it even though I hateit. Listen. I'll tell you what happened the other day. It's terrible, butit's true. I was walking in the woods—”
Thereupon she told him of her being seized and carried to the Gipsycamp, and of all that happened there to the last detail. She even had thecourage to tell of all she felt there; but when she had finished, with ahalf-frightened look in her eyes, her face pale, and her hands claspedbefore her, he did not speak for a minute. Suddenly, however, he seemedto tower over her, his two big hands were raised as though they wouldstrike, and then the palms spread out and enclosed her cheeks lovingly,and his eyes fastened upon hers.
“I know,” he said gently. “I alwaysunderstood—everything; but you'll never have the same fight again,because I'll be with you. You understand, Fleda—I'll be withyou.”
With an exclamation of gratitude she nestled into his arms.
Before the thrill of his embrace had passed from their pulses, theyheard the breaking of twigs under a quick footstep, and Rhodo stoodbefore them. “Come,” he said to Fleda. His voice was assolemn and strange as his manner. “Come!” he repeatedperemptorily.
Fleda sprang to his side. “Is it my father? What hashappened?” she cried.
The old man waved her aside, and pointed toward the house.
The Ry of Rys sat in his huge armchair, his broad-brimmed hat on hisknee in front of him. One hand rested on the chair-arm, the other claspedthe hat as though he would put it on, but his head was fallen forward onhis breast.
It was a picture of profound repose, but it was the repose of death.It was evident that the Ry had prepared to leave the house, had felt asudden weakness, and had taken to his chair to recover himself. As wasevident from the normal way in which his fingers held his hat, and hishand rested on the chair-arm, death had come as gently as a beam oflight. With his stick lying on the table beside him, and his hat on hisknee, he was like one who rested a moment before renewing a journey.There could not have been a pang in his passing. He had gone as most menwish to go—in the midst of the business of life, doing the usualthings, and so passing into the sphere of Eternity as one would go fromthis room to that. Only a few days before had he yielded up his temporaryposition as chief constable, and had spent almost every hour since inconference with Rhodo. What he had planned would never be known to hisdaughter now. It was Rhodo himself who had found his master with headbowed before the Master of all men.
Before Fleda entered the room she knew what awaited her; a mercifulintuition had blunted the shock to her senses. Yet when she saw the Ry onhis throne of death a moan broke from her lips like that of one who seesfor the last time someone indelibly dear, and turns to face strange pathswith uncertain feet. She did not go to the giant figure seated in thechair. In what she did there was no panic or hysteria of lacerated heartand shocked sense; she only sank to her knees in the room a few feet awayfrom him, and looked at him.
“Father! Oh, Ry! Oh, my Ry!” she whispered in agony andadmiration, too, and kept on whispering.
Fleda had whispered to him in such awe, not only because he was herfather, but because he was so much a man among men, a giant, with agreat, lumbering mind, slow to conceive, but moving in a large,impressive way when once conception came. To her he had been more thanfather; he had been a patriarch, a leader, a viking, capable of the furyof a Scythian lord, but with the tenderness of a peasant father to hisfirst child.
“My Ry! My father! Oh, my Ry of Rys!” she kept murmuringto herself.
On either side of her, but a few feet behind, stood Rhodo andIngolby.
Presently in a low, firm voice Rhodo spoke.
“The Ry of Rys is dead, but his daughter must stand upon herfeet, and in his place speak for him. Is it not well with him? He sleeps.Sleep is better than pain. Let his daughter speak.”
Slowly Fleda arose. Not so much what Rhodo had said as the meaning inhis voice, aroused her to a situation which she must face. Rhodo had saidthat she must speak for her father. What did it mean?
“What is it you wish to say to me, Rhodo?” she asked.
“What I have to say is for your ears only,” was the lowreply.
“I will go,” said Ingolby. “But is it a time fortalk?” He made a motion towards the dead man. “There arethings to be said which can only be said now, and things to be done whichcan only be done according to what is said now,” grimly remarkedRhodo.
“I wish you to remain,” said Fleda to Ingolby withresolution in her bearing as she placed herself beside the chair wherethe dead man sat. “What is it you want to say to me?” sheasked Rhodo again.
“Must a Romany bare his soul before a stranger?” repliedRhodo. “Must a man who has been the voice of the Ry of Rys for thelong years have no words face to face with the Ry's daughter now that heis gone? Must the secret of the dead be spoken before the robber of thedead—”
It was plain that some great passion was working in the man, that itwas wise and right to humour him, and Ingolby intervened.
“I will not remain,” he said to Fleda. To Rhodo he added:“I am not a robber of the dead. That's high-faluting talk. What Ihave of his was given to me by him. She was for me if I could win her. Hesaid so. This is a free country. I will wait outside,” he added toFleda.
She made a gesture as though she would detain him, but she realizedthat the hour of her fate was at hand, and that the old life and the newwere face to face, Rhodo standing for one and she for the other. Whenthey were alone, Rhodo's eyes softened, and he came near to her.“You asked me what I wished to tell you,” he said. “Seethen, I want to tell you that it is for you to take the place of the deadRy. Everywhere in the world where the Romanys wander they will rejoice tohear that a Druse rules us still. The word of the Ry of Rys was law; whathe wished to be done was done; what he wished to be undone was undone.Because of you he hid himself from his people; because of you I was forever wandering, keeping the peace by lies for love of the Ry and for loveof you.”
His voice shook. “Since your mother died—and she was kinof mine—you were to me the soul of the Romany people everywhere. Asa barren woman loves a child, so I loved you. I loved you for the sake ofyour mother. I gave her to the Ry, who was the better man, that she mightbe great and well placed. So it is I would have you be ruler over us, andI would serve you as I served your father until I, also, fallasleep.”
“It is too late,” Fleda answered, and there was greatemotion in her voice now. “I am no longer a Romany. I am myfather's daughter, but I have not been a Romany since I was ill inEngland. I will not go back; I shall go with the man I love, to be hiswife, here, in the Gorgio world. You believed my father when he spoke;well, believe me—I speak the truth. It was my father's will that Ishould be what I am, and do what I am now doing. Nothing can alterme.”
“If it be that Jethro Fawe is still alive he is free from theSentence of the Patrin, and he will become the Ry of Rys,” said theold man with sudden passion.
“It may be so. I hope it is so. He is of the blood, and I praythat Jethro has escaped the sentence which my father passed,”answered Fleda. “By the River Starzke it was ordained that heshould succeed my father, marrying me. Let him succeed.”
The old man raised both hands, and made a gesture as though he woulddrive her from his sight.
“My life has been wasted,” he said. “I wish I werealso in death beside him.” He gazed at the dead man with theaffection of a clansman for his chief.
Fleda came up close to him. “Rhodo! Rhodo!” she saidgently and sadly. “Think of him and all he was, and not of me.Suppose I had died in England—think of it in that way. Let me bedead to you and to all Romanys, and then you will think noevil.”
The old man drew himself up. “Let no more be said,” hereplied. “Let it end here. The Ry of Rys is dead. His body and allthings that are his belong now to his people. Say farewell to him,”he added, with authority.
“You will take him away?” Fleda asked.
Rhodo inclined his head. “When the doctors have testified, wewill take him with us. Say your farewells,” he added, with gestureof command.
A cry of protest rose from Fleda's soul, and yet she knew it was whatthe Ry would have wished, that he should be buried by his own peoplewhere they would.
Slowly she drew near to the dead man, and leaned over and kissed hisshaggy head. She did not seek to look into the sightless eyes; theillusion of sleep was so great that she wished to keep this picture ofhim while she lived; but she touched the cold hand which held the hatupon the knee and the other that lay upon the chair-arm. Then, with amist before her eyes, she passed from the room.
As though by magic, like the pictures of a dream, out of the horizon,in caravans, by train, on horseback, the Romany people gathered to theobsequies of their chief and king. For months, hundreds of them had notbeen very far away. Unobtrusive, silent, they had waited, watched, tillthe Ry of Rys should come back home again. Home to them was the open roadwhere Romanys trailed or camped the world over.
A clot of blood in the heart had been the verdict of the doctors; andLebanon and Manitou had watched the Ry of Rys carried by his own peopleto the open prairie near to Tekewani's reservation. There, in the hoursbetween the midnight and the dawn, all Gabriel Druse's personalbelongings—the clothes, the chair in which he sat, the table atwhich he ate, the bed in which he slept, were brought forth and made intoa pyre, as was the Romany way. Nothing personal of his chattels remainedbehind. The walking-stick which lay beside him in the moment of his deathwas the last thing placed upon the pyre. Then came the match, and theflames made ashes of all those things which once he called his own.Standing apart, Tekewani and his braves watched the ceremonial of firewith a sympathy born of primitive custom. It was all in tune with thetraditions of their race.
As dawn broke, and its rosy light valanced the horizon, a greatprocession moved away from the River Sagalac towards the East, to whichall wandering and Oriental peoples turn their eyes. With it, all that wasmortal of Gabriel Druse went to its hidden burial. Only to the Romanypeople would his last resting-place be known; it would be as obscure asthe grave of him who was laid:
“By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan'swave.”
Many people from Manitou and Lebanon watched the long procession pass,and two remained until the last wagon had disappeared over the crest ofthe prairie. Behind them were the tents of the Indian reservation; beforethem was the alert morn and the rising sun; and ever moving on to therest his body had earned was the great chief lovingly attended by his ownRomany folk; while his daughter, forbidden to share in the ceremonial ofrace, remained with the stranger.
With a face as pale and cold as the western sky, the desolation ofthis last parting and a tragic renunciation giving her a deathly beauty,Fleda stood beside the man who must hereafter be, to her, father, people,and all else. Shuddering with the pain of this hour, yet resolved tobegin the new life here and now, as the old life faded before her eyes,she turned to him, and, with the passing of the last Romany over thecrest of the hill, she said bravely:
“I want to help you do the big things. They will be yours. Theworld is all for you yet.”
Ingolby shook his head. He had had his Moscow.
His was the true measure of things now; his lesson had been learned;values were got by new standards; he knew in a real sense the things thatmattered.
“I have you—the world for sale!” he said, with theair of one discarding a useless thing.
GLOSSARY OF ROMANY WORDS
Bosh——fiddle, noise, music.
Bor——an exclamation (literally, a hedge).
Chal——lad, fellow.
Chi——child, daughter, girl.
Dadia——an exclamation.
Dordi——an exclamation.
Hotchewitchi——hedgehog.
Kek——no, none.
Koppa——blanket.
Mi Duvel——My God.
Patrin——small heaps of grass, or leaves, or twigs, orstring, laid at
cross-roads to indicate the route that must be followed.
Pral——brother or friend.
Rinkne rakli——pretty girl.
Ry——King or ruler.
Tan——tent, camp.
Vellgouris——fair.
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