UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE.
If Dan was disposed to envy the open-air life of the Romany, he
certainly felt that there were drawbacks to such an existence. This
other view of the question impressed itself forcibly on his mind as he
sat in Mother Jericho's tent and heard the rain drumming on the roof.
It was a rainy night, and the gipsies were all under shelter, though
their wretched tents afforded but a poor protection against the rain.
Through the chinks of the canvas the water persistently dripped, and
formed little puddles on the floor. Mother Jericho, desirous of
warmth, had lighted a fire at the door of her abode, and this filled
the tent with acrid smoke. The flap at the entrance was fastened back
to do away with this nuisance, but the entering wind drove the smoke
inward, and made the inmates cough and rub their smarting eyes.
Dan was the only guest, as Tim was absent from the camp. He had been
away with his cart and donkey for two days, much to the regret of Dan,
who wished particularly to see him. Indeed, it was principally on this
account that he had left his comfortable waterproof caravan on this
wild night and had come down to the gipsy camp. Anxious to question
the tinker concerning his connection with Dr. Merle, the vagrant
sought an interview, but, to his disappointment, found no one in the
tent but Mother Jericho. The old lady welcomed him in a wheezy voice,
and offered him the hospitality of her smoky abode. Dan accepted, as,
in default of Tim, he thought he might pick up a few scraps of
information from the old gipsy. In this he was mistaken. Mother
Jericho was as close as an oyster when it so pleased her.
The other gipsies--a dozen in all--were huddled in two caravans, and
were more comfortable than the head of the tribe. She, a conservative
Romany, preferred the privacy of her own tent to the innovation of
sheltering under a tin roof, and coughed and choked over her own
particular fire. It was a pitiful spectacle to see this old woman
crouching over a few embers in the vain hope of getting warm. Dan
pitied her greatly, and said as much when under shelter. To his
surprise, his sympathy was received with anything but gratitude.
"I'm well enough, dearie," croaked Mother Jericho, piling on more
sticks. "Bless ye, young man, I'm used to this. I can't abear to be
cooped up in a Gorgio house. Hawks and eagles don't roost in
farmyards, as I knows of."
Dan put a corner of his coat over the shivering Peter who was curled
up beside him, and wondered how the old creature could exist amid such
wretched surroundings. For the moment he forgot that ardent love of
liberty which is the strongest characteristic of the gipsies, and
which to them is ample compensation for the miseries which they endure
in their wandering existence. In Mother Jericho he saw no romantic
queen of a wild race, but merely a frail old woman who should be
bestowed in an almshouse, where she could be looked after and
protected from want and cold. Such comfort would have been more
unpalatable to her than leaky tent and smoky fire.
"Wouldn't you like to have a good house and a little money?" he said
persuasively, revolving philanthropic schemes for the bettering of her
misery.
"Young man, I have money," replied Mother Jericho, with great dignity.
"I could buy a caravan if I chose, but the tent's good enough for me.
I was born in one, dearie, I've lived all my life in one, and I'll die
in a tent."
"But you would be more comfortable in a house."
"No, dearie, no! It 'ud kill me."
"But this," said Dan, rubbing his eyes, which smarted with the pungent
smoke--"this is worse. You can't live here. It will kill you."
"I've lived like this for eighty years, child, and it's not at my time
of life that folks change. You are a Gorgio gentleman, and like to
live in a fine house; I am a Romany, and the tent is my home."
"Are you happy?"
"Quite happy, dearie--quite happy, though I don't deny as my pipe
wants filling."
Willing to alleviate her discomfort in some small degree, Dan gave her
a fill of tobacco, and she was soon adding more smoke to the already
foggy atmosphere. When she spoke her voice sounded as from a cloud,
for Dan could not even catch a glimpse of her face, so thickly rolled
the blinding smoke between them.
"That's better, dearie--much better," piped the voice from the cloud.
"Wha-a! there ain't nothing like terbaccer for comfort--unless," added
she artfully, "it's summat to warm the inside."
Interpreting this hint in its right sense, Dan passed along his flask,
and heard her smacking her withered lips over the whisky. He wished to
soften her heart before asking questions; and having, as he thought,
done so by these gifts, proceeded to business. Dan was not without
diplomacy, but it proved worthless in this instance.
"I thought Tim would be back to-night," said he, replacing the flask in
his pocket.
"Did ye, now?" whined Mother Jericho, crossly. "Well, he ain't. He's
with the Hernes for a day, dearie. When he comes back I'll tell him ye
asked for him."
"When will he come back?"
"To-morrow, or the next day, young man. Why d'ye want to see him?"
"Just for companionship. It's lonely up at the dell."
A grunt proceeding from the smoke showed that Mother Jericho did not
put much faith in this assertion. After poking the fire, she spoke
again.
"Company ye want, child! Haven't ye better company nor the poor
gipsies?"
"No; I have no one to speak to."
"Tim said ye met her at the Gates of Dawn."
"Oh, the lady of your prophecy," said Dan, lightly. "Yes, I certainly
did meet her; but I can hardly ask a young lady like Miss Merle to
visit me."
"Ho!" croaked Mother Jericho, maliciously, "ye'll have enough of her
some day."
"Pish! I don't believe in your prophecy. I choose my wife for myself,
not at your bidding."
"Fate is stronger than either of us, rye! I read your fortune in your
hand, in the stars, and by the cards----"
"Well?" said Dan, seeing she had not completed the sentence.
"Well," echoed the old woman, "they all agree. Two women shall love
ye, and ye shall love one--the first you met."
"That means Meg! She is beautiful enough to make any man love her, but
as yet my heart is untouched."
"Ho, ho, young man! I'm not blind."
Not caring to argue the question, Dan shifted his ground.
"Who is the other woman?"
"You'll meet her at the hour. She ain't far off. Fire and flame and
brave deeds," continued she, dreamily. "A fine skein Fate reels off
for ye, my son."
"You seem to have arranged everything ahead," said Dan, pointedly.
"No, dearie, no! It is written."
"Indeed! Then what has Dr. Merle to do with it?"
The question evidently took the old creature somewhat aback, for she
did not answer immediately. When she again took part in the
conversation, it was to feign a stupidity for the purpose of evading a
direct reply.
"Dearie me! How my head do swim! Was it Dr. Merle ye talked of just
now, young man?"
"Yes. Do you know him?"
"Bless ye, child, what would I do running arter a Gentile doctor? When
I aches or pains, I brew my own drinks from herb and root."
"You must have seen him, at all events," persisted Dan, taking no
notice of her evasion.
"Oh yes, I've seen him. He is only a child. D'ye call him a man?"
"No, I don't. He is a slave to his vice."
"Fond of drinking, ain't he, dearie?" croaked Mother Jericho; "and it
ain't whisky, nor gin, nor rum. No, no! I've heard of those brews
which lift the soul from the body, and set it floatin' on golden seas.
Bless ye, dearie, I have juice of a plant which can make you dream
yourself into a kingdom. Ay, ay! 'Beasts of the field are ye,' say the
Gentiles; but Mother Jericho and her Romany children know secrets of
great power."
There was evidently nothing to be learned from this cunning old woman,
who maundered on about magic ceremonies and subtle arts without again
touching on the subject of Merle. Vexed by his ill success, Dan
clapped his hands smartly together to rouse her from such dreams, and
spoke sharply and to the point.
"Listen to me, mother. You and Tim and Dr. Merle have some scheme in
your heads which concerns me."
"May I die, young man, if I ever set eyes on you afore you came to
Farbis."
"That is not the question. For purposes of your own, you wish me to
marry this Meg Merle."
"Not I, dearie, nor Tim, nor the Gorgio. It's Fate, my rover."
"I don't believe in Fate."
"So ye said before, my blade. But the day will come when ye'll think
of the poor gipsy-woman and her wise words."
"Pshaw! You are trying to evade an answer. Who is Meg Merle?"
"Hey? Speak up, young man; I'm deaf."
"You obstinate old creature!" muttered Dan, savagely. "Who is Meg
Merle?"
"Not so loud, dearie--not so loud! I hates such hollering. The young
gentlewoman is a child of the Gentile doctor."
"I know that, but----"
"Then why d'ye ask? You have forgot your manners."
She was evidently determined to say nothing, yet Dan felt convinced
from her manner that she knew more than he did about Merle and Meg.
All else failing, he tried bribery, and slipped half a crown into her
hand.
"Tell me what secrets there are between Tinker Tim and the doctor."
"Secrets, dearie! How should I know? Ask them as has secrets to tell
'em, not poor old Mother Jericho as hasn't. Bless ye for a good young
man! This silver will bring ye luck."
"I wish it would bring me information," said Dan, annoyed by the
failure. "Good night, mother."
"Are ye going, dearie? Good night. I send fine dreams along wi' ye."
Dan was too angry to thank her for the gift, and, swinging his
lantern, marched out of the tent, followed by Peter. The provoking old
creature chuckled as he disappeared, and piled fresh wood on the fire.
"If ye want riddles read, young man, you must pay in gold. Silver!"
she said, with great contempt. "A curse go with him for a greedy
Gentile!"