The last rays of the setting sun touched the gorgeous Autumn woods with
a loving, bright glow, and the day stole pensively away into a purple
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 to the
melancholy beauty of it all. Not a human being seemed to be within the
restricted circle of her vision. There were only to be seen the
deep woods, in myriad tints of bronze and red and saffron, and the
swift-flowing river. Overhead was the Northern sky, so clear, so
thrilling, and the stars were beginning to sparkle in the incredibly
swift twilight which links daytime and nighttime in that Upper Land.
Lonely and delicately sad it all looked, but there was no feeling of
loneliness among those who lived the life of the Sagalac. Many a man has
stood on a wide 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 eye could see, and yet has felt no solitude. It is as though the
air itself is inhabited by a throng of happy comrades whispering in the
communion of the invisible world.
As a child Fleda had often gazed upon just such scenes, lonely and
luminous, but she was only conscious then of a vague and pleasant awe, a
kindly confusion, which, like the din of innumerable bees, lulled wonder
to sleep. Even as a child, however, something of what it meant had
pierced her awe and wonder. Once as she crossed a broken, bare mountain
of Roumania she had seen a wild ass perched upon a high summit gazing,
as it were, over the wide valley, where beneath, among the rocks,
other wild asses wandered. There was something so statue-like in this
immovable wild creature that Fleda had watched it till it was hid
from her view by a jutting rock. But the thing which made a lasting
impression, drawing her nearer to nature-life than all that had chanced
since she was born, was the fact that on returning, hours after, the
wild ass was still standing upon the summit of the hill, still gazing
across the valley. Or was it gazing across the valley? Was there some
other vision commanding its sight?
So a young wife not yet a mother loses herself for hours together in a
vista of unexplored experience. Fleda had passed on, out of sight of the
wild ass on the hills, but for ever after the memory of it remained
with her and the picture of it sprang to her eye innumerable times.
The hypnotized wild thing--hypnotized by its own vague instincts, or by
something outside itself-became to her as the Sphinx to the Egyptian,
the everlasting question of existence.
Now, as she watched the day fleeing, and night with swift stealthiness
coming on, that unforgettable picture of the Roumanian hills came to her
again. The instinct of those far-off days which had been little removed
from the finest animal intelligence had now developed into thought.
Brain and soul strove to grasp what it all meant, and what the
revelation was between Nature and herself. Nature was so vast; she
was so insignificant; changes in its motionless inorganic life were
imperceptible save through the telescopes of years; but she, like the
wind, the water, and the clouds, was variable, inconstant. Was there
any real relation between the vast, imperturbable earth, its seas, its
forests, its mountains and its plains, its life of tree and plant and
flower and the men and women dotted on its surface? Did they belong
to each other, or were mankind only, as it were, vermin infesting the
desirable world? Did they belong to each other? It meant so much if they
did belong, and she loved to think they did. Many a time she kissed the
smooth bole of a maple or whispered to it; or laid her cheek against a
mossy rock and murmured a greeting in the spirit of a companionship as
old as the making of the world.
On the evening of this day of her destiny--carrying the story of her own
fate within its twenty-four hours--she was in a mood of detachment from
life’s routine. As at a great opera, a sensitive spirit loses 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 with sight
restored and by her side, and even in that joy her mind felt a hovering
sense of invasion, no definite, visible thing, but a presence which made
shadow. Suddenly oppressed by it, she turned back into the woods from
the river-bank to make for home. She had explored nearly every portion
of this river-country for miles up and down, but on this evening, lost
in her dreams, she had wandered into less familiar regions. There was
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 way
about at all times. Turned homeward, she walked for about a quarter of a
mile, retreading the path by which she had come. It was growing darker,
and, being in unfamiliar surroundings, she hurried on, though she knew
well what course to take. Following the bank of the river she would have
increased her walk greatly, as the stream made a curve at a point above
Manitou, and then came back again to its original course; so she cut
across the promontory, taking the most direct line homeward.
Presently, however, she became conscious of other people in the wood
besides herself. She saw no one, but she heard breaking twigs, the stir
of leaves, the flutter of a partridge which told of human presence. The
underbrush was considerable, darkness was coming on, and she had a sense
of being surrounded. It agitated her, but she pulled herself together,
stood still and admonished herself. She called herself a fool; she asked
herself if she was going to be a coward. She laughed out loud at her
own apprehension; but a chill stole into her blood when she heard near
by--there was no doubt about it now--mockery of her own laughter. Then
suddenly, before she could organize her senses, a score of men seemed
to rise up from the ground around her, to burst out from the bushes, to
drop from the trees, and to storm upon her. She had only time to realize
that they were Romanys, before scarfs were thrown around her head, bound
around her body, and, unconscious, she was carried away into the deep
woods.
When she regained consciousness Fleda found herself in a tent, set in a
kind of prairie amphitheatre valanced by shrubs and trees. Bright fires
burned here and there, and dark-featured men squatted upon the ground,
cared for their horses, or busied themselves near two large caravans, at
the doors or on the steps of which now and again appeared a woman.
She had waked without moving, had observed the scene without drawing the
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 the camp-bed
against the tent wall, upon which she lay, and the cushions supporting
her head. She had waked carefully, as it were: as though some inward
monitor had warned her of impending danger. She realized that she had
been kidnapped by Romanys, and that the hand behind the business was
that of Jethro Fawe. The adventurous and reckless Fawe family had
its many adherents in the Romany world, and Jethro was its head, the
hereditary claimant for its leadership.
Notwithstanding the Ry of Rys’ prohibition, there had drawn nearer and
ever nearer to him, from the Romany world he had abandoned, many of
his people, never, however, actually coming within his vision till the
appearance of Jethro Fawe. Here and there on the prairie, to a point
just beyond Gabriel Druse’s horizon, they had come from all parts of the
world; and Jethro, reckless and defiant under the Sentence, and knowing
that the chances against his life were a million to one, had determined
on 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 over
all the Romany world. For weeks he had planned, watched and waited,
filling the woods with his adherents, secretly following Fleda day by
day, until, at last, the place, the opportunity, seemed perfect; and
here she lay in a Romany tan once more, with the flickering fires
outside in the night, and the sentry at her doorway. This watchman was
not Jethro Fawe, but she knew well that Jethro was not far off.
Through the open door of the tent, for some minutes, her eyes studied
the segment of the circle within her vision, and she realized that here
was an organized attempt to force her back into the Romany world. If she
repudiated the Gorgio life and acknowledged herself a Romany once again,
she knew her safety would be secured; but in truth she had no fear for
her life, for no one would dare to defy the Ry of Rys so far as to
kill his daughter. But she was in danger of another kind--in deep
and terrible danger; and she knew it well. As the thought of it took
possession of her, her heart seemed almost to burst. Not fear, but anger
and emotion possessed her. All the Romany in her stormed back again from
the past. It sent her to her feet with a scarcely smothered cry. She was
not quicker, however, than was the figure at the tent door, which, with
a half-dozen others, sprang up as she appeared. A hand was raised, and,
as if by magic, groups of Gipsies, some sitting, some standing, some
with the 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
flamed up many coloured lights.
In a moment the camp was transformed. From the woods around came
swarthy-faced men, with great gold rings in their ears and bright scarfs
around their necks or waists, some of them handsome, dirty and insolent;
others ugly, watchful, and quiet in manner and face; others still most
friendly and kind in face and manner. All showed instant respect for
Fleda. They raised their hands in a gesture of salutation as a Zulu
chief thrusts up a long arm and shouts “Inkoos!” to one whom he honours.
Some, however, made the sweeping Oriental gesture of the right hand,
palm upward, and almost touching the ground--a sign of obedience and
infinite respect. It had all been well arranged. Skilfully managed as it
was, however, there was something in it deeper than theatrical display
or dramatic purpose.
It was clear that many of them were deeply moved at being in the
presence of the daughter of the Ry of Rys, who had for so long exiled
himself. Racial, family, clan feeling spoke in voice and gesture, in
look and attitude; but yet there were small groups of younger men whose
salutations were perfunctory, not to say mocking. These were they who
resented deeply Fleda’s defection, and truthfully felt that she had
passed out of their circle for ever; that she despised them, and looked
down on them from another sphere. They were all about the age of Jethro
Fawe, but were of a less civilized type, and had semi-barbarism written
all 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, from the everlasting itinerary. They had not had Jethro’s
experiences in fashionable hotels of Europe, at midnight parties, at
gay suppers, at garish dances, where Gorgio ladies answered the amorous
looks of the ambitious Romany with the fiddle at his chin. Because
these young Romanys knew they dare not aspire, they were resentful; but
Jethro, the head of the rival family and the son of the dead claimant
to the headship, had not such compulsory modesty. He had ranged far and
wide, and his expectations were extensive. He was nowhere to be seen
in the groups which sang and gestured in the light of the many coloured
fires, though once or twice Fleda’s quickened ear detected his voice,
exulting, in the chorus of song.
Presently, as she stood watching, listening, and strangely moved in
spite of herself by the sudden dramatic turn which things had taken, a
seat was brought to her. It was a handsome stool, looted perhaps from
some chateau in the Old World, and over it was thrown a dark-red cloth
which gave a semblance of dignity to the seat of authority, which it was
meant to be.
Fleda did not refuse the honour. She had choked back the indignant words
which had rushed to her lips as she left the tent where she had been
lying. Prudence had bade her await developments. She could not yet make
up her mind what to do. It was clear that a bold and deep purpose lay
behind it all, and she could not tell how far-reaching it was, nor what
it represented of rebellion against her father’s authority. That it did
represent rebellion she had no doubt. She was well enough aware of the
claims of Jethro’s dead father to the leadership, abandoned for three
thousand pounds and marriage with herself; and she was also aware that
while her father’s mysterious isolation might possibly have developed a
reverence for him, yet active pressure and calumny might well have
done its work. Also, if the marriage was repudiated, Jethro would be
justified in 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 Eastern
fantasy. In spite of herself she was moved, as Romanys, men and women,
ran forward in excitement with arms raised towards her as though they
meant to strike her, then suddenly stopped short, made obeisance, called
a greeting, and ran backwards to their places.
Presently a group of men began a ceremony or ritual, before which the
spectators now and again covered their eyes, or bent their heads low, or
turned their backs, and raised their hands in a sort of ascription. As
the ceremony neared its end, with its strange genuflections, a woman
dressed in white was brought forward, her hands bound behind her,
her hair falling over her shoulders, and after a moment of apparent
denunciation on the part of the head of the ceremony, she was suddenly
thrown to the ground, and the pretence of drawing a knife across her
throat was made. As Fleda watched it she shuddered, but presently braced
herself, because she knew that this ritual was meant to show what the
end must be of those who, like herself, proved traitor to the traditions
of race.
It was at this point, when fifty knives flashed in the air, with
vengeful exclamations, that Jethro Fawe appeared in the midst of the
crowd. He was dressed in the well-known clothes which he had worn since
the day he first declared himself at Gabriel Druse’s home, and, compared
with his friends around him, he showed to advantage. There was
command in his bearing, and experience of life had given him primitive
distinction.
For a moment he stood looking at Fleda in undisguised admiration, for
she made a remarkable picture. Animal beauty was hers, too. There was
a delicate, athletic charm in her body and bearing; but it added to,
rather than took away from, the authority of her presence, so differing
from Jethro. She had never compared herself with others, and her
passionate intelligence would have rebelled against the supremacy of the
body. She had no physical vanity, but she had some mental vanity, and
it placed mind so far above matter that her beauty played no part in
her calculations. At sight of him, Fleda’s blood quickened, but in
indignation 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
those by whom he was surrounded. She realized his talent, and it almost
made her forget his cunning and his loathsomeness. As he came near to
her he made a slight gesture to someone in the crowd, and a chorus of
salutations rose.
Composed and still she waited for him to come quite close to her, and
the look in her face was like that of one who was scarcely conscious of
what was passing around her, whose eyes saw distant things of infinite
moment.
A few feet away from her he spoke.
“Daughter of the Ry of Rys, you are among your own people once again,”
he said. “From everywhere in the world they have come to show their love
for you. You would not have come to them of your own free 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 the Fawes, the
ancient Fawes, who ruled the Romany people before the Druses came to
power. We are of the ancient blood, yet we are faithful to the Druse
that rules over us. His word prevails, although his daughter is mad.
Daughter of the Ry of Rys, you have seen us once again. We have sung to
you; we have spoken to you; we have told you what is in our hearts; we
have shown you how good is the end of those who are faithful, and how
terrible is the end of the traitor. Do not forget it. Speak to us.”
Fleda had a fierce desire to spring to her feet and declare to them all
that the sentence of the patrin had been passed upon Jethro Fawe,
but she laid a hand upon herself. She knew they were unaware that the
Sentence had been passed, else they would not have been with Jethro. In
that 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 against
whom he committed an offence, however small, might take his life. The
Sentence had been like a cloud upon her mind ever since her father had
passed it; she could not endure the thought of it. She could not bring
herself to speak of it--to denounce him. Sooner or later the Sentence
would reach every Romany everywhere, and Jethro would pass into the
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 it
was, he made his claim of her upon ancient rights, and she was still
enough a Romany to see his point of view.
Getting to her feet slowly, she ignored Jethro, looked into the face of
the crowd, and said:
“I am the daughter of the Ry of Rys still, though I am a Romany no
longer. I made a pledge to be no more a Romany and I will keep it;
yet you and all Romany people are dear to me because through long
generations the Druses have been of you. You have brought me here
against my will. Do you think the Ry of Rys will forgive that? In your
words you have been kind to me, but yet you have threatened me. Do you
think that a Druse has any fear? Did a Druse ever turn his cheek to be
smitten? You know what the Druses are. I am a Druse still. I will not
talk longer, I have nothing 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 of love; some of you have done it out of hate; yet
set me free again upon the path to my home, and I shall forget it, and
the Ry of Rys will forget it.”
At that instant there suddenly came forward from the doorway of a tent
on the outskirts of the crowd a stalwart woman, with a strong face and
a self-reliant manner. She was still young, but her slightly pockmarked
countenance 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 tent to-night. To-morrow
you shall go back to the Ry of Rys, perhaps. Come with me.”
There was a sudden murmuring in the crowd, which was stilled by a motion
of Jethro Fawe’s hand, and a moment afterwards Fleda gave her hand to
the woman.
“I will go with you,” Fleda said. Then she turned to Jethro: “I wish to
speak to you alone, Jethro Fawe,” she added.
He laughed triumphantly. “The wife of Jethro Fawe wishes to speak with
him,” he bombastically cried aloud to the assembled people, and he
prepared to follow Fleda.
As Fleda entered the woman’s tent a black-eyed girl, with tousled hair
and a bold, sensual face, ran up to Jethro, and in an undertone of evil
suggestion said to him:
“To-night is yours, Jethro. You can make tomorrow sure.”