“I really think,” said the Doctor, “that, at any rate, one of us should
go and try whether or not the thing is an imposture.”
“Good!” said Considine. “After dinner we will take our cigars and
stroll over to the camp.”
Accordingly, when the dinner was over, and the _La Tour_ finished,
Joshua Considine and his friend, Dr Burleigh, went over to the east
side of the moor, where the gipsy encampment lay. As they were leaving,
Mary Considine, who had walked as far as the end of the garden where it
opened into the laneway, called after her husband:
“Mind, Joshua, you are to give them a fair chance, but don’t give them
any clue to a fortune—and don’t you get flirting with any of the gipsy
maidens—and take care to keep Gerald out of harm.”
For answer Considine held up his hand, as if taking a stage oath, and
whistled the air of the old song, “The Gipsy Countess.” Gerald joined
in the strain, and then, breaking into merry laughter, the two men
passed along the laneway to the common, turning now and then to wave
their hands to Mary, who leaned over the gate, in the twilight, looking
after them.
It was a lovely evening in the summer; the very air was full of rest
and quiet happiness, as though an outward type of the peacefulness and
joy which made a heaven of the home of the young married folk.
Considine’s life had not been an eventful one. The only disturbing
element which he had ever known was in his wooing of Mary Winston, and
the long-continued objection of her ambitious parents, who expected a
brilliant match for their only daughter. When Mr. and Mrs. Winston had
discovered the attachment of the young barrister, they had tried to
keep the young people apart by sending their daughter away for a long
round of visits, having made her promise not to correspond with her
lover during her absence. Love, however, had stood the test. Neither
absence nor neglect seemed to cool the passion of the young man, and
jealousy seemed a thing unknown to his sanguine nature; so, after a
long period of waiting, the parents had given in, and the young folk
were married.
They had been living in the cottage a few months, and were just
beginning to feel at home. Gerald Burleigh, Joshua’s old college chum,
and himself a sometime victim of Mary’s beauty, had arrived a week
before, to stay with them for as long a time as he could tear himself
away from his work in London.
When her husband had quite disappeared Mary went into the house, and,
sitting down at the piano, gave an hour to Mendelssohn.
It was but a short walk across the common, and before the cigars
required renewing the two men had reached the gipsy camp. The place was
as picturesque as gipsy camps—when in villages and when business is
good—usually are. There were some few persons round the fire, investing
their money in prophecy, and a large number of others, poorer or more
parsimonious, who stayed just outside the bounds but near enough to see
all that went on.
As the two gentlemen approached, the villagers, who knew Joshua, made
way a little, and a pretty, keen-eyed gipsy girl tripped up and asked
to tell their fortunes. Joshua held out his hand, but the girl, without
seeming to see it, stared at his face in a very odd manner. Gerald
nudged him:
“You must cross her hand with silver,” he said. “It is one of the most
important parts of the mystery.” Joshua took from his pocket a
half-crown and held it out to her, but, without looking at it, she
answered:
“You have to cross the gipsy’s hand with gold.”
Gerald laughed. “You are at a premium as a subject,” he said. Joshua
was of the kind of man—the universal kind—who can tolerate being stared
at by a pretty girl; so, with some little deliberation, he answered:
“All right; here you are, my pretty girl; but you must give me a real
good fortune for it,” and he handed her a half sovereign, which she
took, saying:
“It is not for me to give good fortune or bad, but only to read what
the Stars have said.” She took his right hand and turned it palm
upward; but the instant her eyes met it she dropped it as though it had
been red hot, and, with a startled look, glided swiftly away. Lifting
the curtain of the large tent, which occupied the centre of the camp,
she disappeared within.
“Sold again!” said the cynical Gerald. Joshua stood a little amazed,
and not altogether satisfied. They both watched the large tent. In a
few moments there emerged from the opening not the young girl, but a
stately looking woman of middle age and commanding presence.
The instant she appeared the whole camp seemed to stand still. The
clamour of tongues, the laughter and noise of the work were, for a
second or two, arrested, and every man or woman who sat, or crouched,
or lay, stood up and faced the imperial looking gipsy.
“The Queen, of course,” murmured Gerald. “We are in luck tonight.” The
gipsy Queen threw a searching glance around the camp, and then, without
hesitating an instant, came straight over and stood before Joshua.
“Hold out your hand,” she said in a commanding tone.
Again Gerald spoke, _sotto voce_: “I have not been spoken to in that
way since I was at school.”
“Your hand must be crossed with gold.”
“A hundred per cent. at this game,” whispered Gerald, as Joshua laid
another half sovereign on his upturned palm.
The gipsy looked at the hand with knitted brows; then suddenly looking
up into his face, said:
“Have you a strong will—have you a true heart that can be brave for one
you love?”
“I hope so; but I am afraid I have not vanity enough to say ‘yes’.”
“Then I will answer for you; for I read resolution in your
face—resolution desperate and determined if need be. You have a wife
you love?”
“Yes,” emphatically.
“Then leave her at once—never see her face again. Go from her now,
while love is fresh and your heart is free from wicked intent. Go
quick—go far, and never see her face again!”
Joshua drew away his hand quickly, and said, “Thank you!” stiffly but
sarcastically, as he began to move away.
“I say!” said Gerald, “you’re not going like that, old man; no use in
being indignant with the Stars or their prophet—and, moreover, your
sovereign—what of it? At least, hear the matter out.”
“Silence, ribald!” commanded the Queen, “you know not what you do. Let
him go—and go ignorant, if he will not be warned.”
Joshua immediately turned back. “At all events, we will see this thing
out,” he said. “Now, madam, you have given me advice, but I paid for a
fortune.”
“Be warned!” said the gipsy. “The Stars have been silent for long; let
the mystery still wrap them round.”
“My dear madam, I do not get within touch of a mystery every day, and I
prefer for my money knowledge rather than ignorance. I can get the
latter commodity for nothing when I want any of it.”
Gerald echoed the sentiment. “As for me I have a large and unsaleable
stock on hand.”
The gipsy Queen eyed the two men sternly, and then said: “As you wish.
You have chosen for yourself, and have met warning with scorn, and
appeal with levity. On your own heads be the doom!”
“Amen!” said Gerald.
With an imperious gesture the Queen took Joshua’s hand again, and began
to tell his fortune.
“I see here the flowing of blood; it will flow before long; it is
running in my sight. It flows through the broken circle of a severed
ring.”
“Go on!” said Joshua, smiling. Gerald was silent.
“Must I speak plainer?”
“Certainly; we commonplace mortals want something definite. The Stars
are a long way off, and their words get somewhat dulled in the
message.”
The gipsy shuddered, and then spoke impressively. “This is the hand of
a murderer—the murderer of his wife!” She dropped the hand and turned
away.
Joshua laughed. “Do you know,” said he, “I think if I were you I should
prophesy some jurisprudence into my system. For instance, you say ‘this
hand is the hand of a murderer.’ Well, whatever it may be in the
future—or potentially—it is at present not one. You ought to give your
prophecy in such terms as ‘the hand which will be a murderer’s’, or,
rather, ‘the hand of one who will be the murderer of his wife’. The
Stars are really not good on technical questions.”
The gipsy made no reply of any kind, but, with drooping head and
despondent mien, walked slowly to her tent, and, lifting the curtain,
disappeared.
Without speaking the two men turned homewards, and walked across the
moor. Presently, after some little hesitation, Gerald spoke.
“Of course, old man, this is all a joke; a ghastly one, but still a
joke. But would it not be well to keep it to ourselves?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, not tell your wife. It might alarm her.”
“Alarm her! My dear Gerald, what are you thinking of? Why, she would
not be alarmed or afraid of me if all the gipsies that ever didn’t come
from Bohemia agreed that I was to murder her, or even to have a hard
thought of her, whilst so long as she was saying ‘Jack Robinson.’”
Gerald remonstrated. “Old fellow, women are superstitious—far more than
we men are; and, also they are blessed—or cursed—with a nervous system
to which we are strangers. I see too much of it in my work not to
realise it. Take my advice and do not let her know, or you will
frighten her.”
Joshua’s lips unconsciously hardened as he answered: “My dear fellow, I
would not have a secret from my wife. Why, it would be the beginning of
a new order of things between us. We have no secrets from each other.
If we ever have, then you may begin to look out for something odd
between us.”
“Still,” said Gerald, “at the risk of unwelcome interference, I say
again be warned in time.”
“The gipsy’s very words,” said Joshua. “You and she seem quite of one
accord. Tell me, old man, is this a put-up thing? You told me of the
gipsy camp—did you arrange it all with Her Majesty?” This was said with
an air of bantering earnestness. Gerald assured him that he only heard
of the camp that morning; but he made fun of every answer of his
friend, and, in the process of this raillery, the time passed, and they
entered the cottage.
Mary was sitting at the piano but not playing. The dim twilight had
waked some very tender feelings in her breast, and her eyes were full
of gentle tears. When the men came in she stole over to her husband’s
side and kissed him. Joshua struck a tragic attitude.
“Mary,” he said in a deep voice, “before you approach me, listen to the
words of Fate. The Stars have spoken and the doom is sealed.”
“What is it, dear? Tell me the fortune, but do not frighten me.”
“Not at all, my dear; but there is a truth which it is well that you
should know. Nay, it is necessary so that all your arrangements can be
made beforehand, and everything be decently done and in order.”
“Go on, dear; I am listening.”
“Mary Considine, your effigy may yet be seen at Madame Tussaud’s. The
juris-imprudent Stars have announced their fell tidings that this hand
is red with blood—your blood. Mary! Mary! my God!” He sprang forward,
but too late to catch her as she fell fainting on the floor.
“I told you,” said Gerald. “You don’t know them as well as I do.”
After a little while Mary recovered from her swoon, but only to fall
into strong hysterics, in which she laughed and wept and raved and
cried, “Keep him from me—from me, Joshua, my husband,” and many other
words of entreaty and of fear.
Joshua Considine was in a state of mind bordering on agony, and when at
last Mary became calm he knelt by her and kissed her feet and hands and
hair and called her all the sweet names and said all the tender things
his lips could frame. All that night he sat by her bedside and held her
hand. Far through the night and up to the early morning she kept waking
from sleep and crying out as if in fear, till she was comforted by the
consciousness that her husband was watching beside her.
Breakfast was late the next morning, but during it Joshua received a
telegram which required him to drive over to Withering, nearly twenty
miles. He was loth to go; but Mary would not hear of his remaining, and
so before noon he drove off in his dog-cart alone.
When he was gone Mary retired to her room. She did not appear at lunch,
but when afternoon tea was served on the lawn under the great weeping
willow, she came to join her guest. She was looking quite recovered
from her illness of the evening before. After some casual remarks, she
said to Gerald: “Of course it was very silly about last night, but I
could not help feeling frightened. Indeed I would feel so still if I
let myself think of it. But, after all these people may only imagine
things, and I have got a test that can hardly fail to show that the
prediction is false—if indeed it be false,” she added sadly.
“What is your plan?” asked Gerald.
“I shall go myself to the gipsy camp, and have my fortune told by the
Queen.”
“Capital. May I go with you?”
“Oh, no! That would spoil it. She might know you and guess at me, and
suit her utterance accordingly. I shall go alone this afternoon.”
When the afternoon was gone Mary Considine took her way to the gipsy
encampment. Gerald went with her as far as the near edge of the common,
and returned alone.
Half-an-hour had hardly elapsed when Mary entered the drawing-room,
where he lay on a sofa reading. She was ghastly pale and was in a state
of extreme excitement. Hardly had she passed over the threshold when
she collapsed and sank moaning on the carpet. Gerald rushed to aid her,
but by a great effort she controlled herself and motioned him to be
silent. He waited, and his ready attention to her wish seemed to be her
best help, for, in a few minutes, she had somewhat recovered, and was
able to tell him what had passed.
“When I got to the camp,” she said, “there did not seem to be a soul
about, I went into the centre and stood there. Suddenly a tall woman
stood beside me. ‘Something told me I was wanted!’ she said. I held out
my hand and laid a piece of silver on it. She took from her neck a
small golden trinket and laid it there also; and then, seizing the two,
threw them into the stream that ran by. Then she took my hand in hers
and spoke: ‘Naught but blood in this guilty place,’ and turned away. I
caught hold of her and asked her to tell me more. After some
hesitation, she said: ‘Alas! alas! I see you lying at your husband’s
feet, and his hands are red with blood.’”
Gerald did not feel at all at ease, and tried to laugh it off.
“Surely,” he said, “this woman has a craze about murder.”
“Do not laugh,” said Mary, “I cannot bear it,” and then, as if with a
sudden impulse, she left the room.
Not long after Joshua returned, bright and cheery, and as hungry as a
hunter after his long drive. His presence cheered his wife, who seemed
much brighter, but she did not mention the episode of the visit to the
gipsy camp, so Gerald did not mention it either. As if by tacit consent
the subject was not alluded to during the evening. But there was a
strange, settled look on Mary’s face, which Gerald could not but
observe.
In the morning Joshua came down to breakfast later than usual. Mary had
been up and about the house from an early hour; but as the time drew on
she seemed to get a little nervous and now and again threw around an
anxious look.
Gerald could not help noticing that none of those at breakfast could
get on satisfactorily with their food. It was not altogether that the
chops were tough, but that the knives were all so blunt. Being a guest,
he, of course, made no sign; but presently saw Joshua draw his thumb
across the edge of his knife in an unconscious sort of way. At the
action Mary turned pale and almost fainted.
After breakfast they all went out on the lawn. Mary was making up a
bouquet, and said to her husband, “Get me a few of the tea-roses,
dear.”
Joshua pulled down a cluster from the front of the house. The stem
bent, but was too tough to break. He put his hand in his pocket to get
his knife; but in vain. “Lend me your knife, Gerald,” he said. But
Gerald had not got one, so he went into the breakfast room and took one
from the table. He came out feeling its edge and grumbling. “What on
earth has happened to all the knives—the edges seem all ground off?”
Mary turned away hurriedly and entered the house.
Joshua tried to sever the stalk with the blunt knife as country cooks
sever the necks of fowl—as schoolboys cut twine. With a little effort
he finished the task. The cluster of roses grew thick, so he determined
to gather a great bunch.
He could not find a single sharp knife in the sideboard where the
cutlery was kept, so he called Mary, and when she came, told her the
state of things. She looked so agitated and so miserable that he could
not help knowing the truth, and, as if astounded and hurt, asked her:
“Do you mean to say that _you_ have done it?”
She broke in, “Oh, Joshua, I was so afraid.”
He paused, and a set, white look came over his face. “Mary!” said he,
“is this all the trust you have in me? I would not have believed it.”
“Oh, Joshua! Joshua!” she cried entreatingly, “forgive me,” and wept
bitterly.
Joshua thought a moment and then said: “I see how it is. We shall
better end this or we shall all go mad.”
He ran into the drawing-room.
“Where are you going?” almost screamed Mary.
Gerald saw what he meant—that he would not be tied to blunt instruments
by the force of a superstition, and was not surprised when he saw him
come out through the French window, bearing in his hand a large Ghourka
knife, which usually lay on the centre table, and which his brother had
sent him from Northern India. It was one of those great hunting-knives
which worked such havoc, at close quarters with the enemies of the
loyal Ghourkas during the mutiny, of great weight but so evenly
balanced in the hand as to seem light, and with an edge like a razor.
With one of these knives a Ghourka can cut a sheep in two.
When Mary saw him come out of the room with the weapon in his hand she
screamed in an agony of fright, and the hysterics of last night were
promptly renewed.
Joshua ran toward her, and, seeing her falling, threw down the knife
and tried to catch her.
However, he was just a second too late, and the two men cried out in
horror simultaneously as they saw her fall upon the naked blade.
When Gerald rushed over he found that in falling her left hand had
struck the blade, which lay partly upwards on the grass. Some of the
small veins were cut through, and the blood gushed freely from the
wound. As he was tying it up he pointed out to Joshua that the wedding
ring was severed by the steel.
They carried her fainting to the house. When, after a while, she came
out, with her arm in a sling, she was peaceful in her mind and happy.
She said to her husband:
“The gipsy was wonderfully near the truth; too near for the real thing
ever to occur now, dear.”
Joshua bent over and kissed the wounded hand.