DUKE MICHAEL OF EGYPT.
A thorough gipsy bred and born, Waif so far resembled a wild animal of
the woods, that, when sore stricken, she instinctively sought her home.
Scarce knowing how, she sped back to the encampment of her people, swift
and straight as the red hind, that neither fails nor falters, though she
carries a bullet in her breast. It was not because she expected to find
comfort there, nor relief, nor even a moment's respite from pain, but
she felt constrained to keep moving, always moving, at the utmost speed
she could command, though as she flitted lightly from moor to moor, it
seemed to her benumbed and dizzy brain that she herself stood still,
while the acres of heather she traversed passed like running water
beneath her feet.
Yet the sun was already down when she turned the head of a deep and
lonely coombe, which her tribe had chosen for their resting-place, and
caught sight of the little points of fire that dotted its heathery
ridge, toned down to dusky purple under the crimson flushes of the
evening sky. Kettles were already simmering before the brown,
weather-worn tents, and that happy hour of food and rest had arrived
which seems to recompense the gipsy for all the hardships of his
wandering lot, to make amends for toil and risk, rough usage, and coarse
fare, the frown of justice, the ban of society, an outlaw's life, and,
too often, a felon's grave.
To-night, however, more than its usual tendency to revelry and rejoicing
seemed to pervade the camp. In the first place, this particular tribe
were honoured by the presence of their chief, a crafty old gentleman,
who chose to call himself "Duke Michael of Egypt," doubtless in memory
of that celebrated vagabond, who, early in the fifteenth century, led
his ragged troop through Saxony and Switzerland, leaving behind him, if
we may believe the old chroniclers, a better character than might have
been expected for good behaviour and honesty--nay, paying in hard money
for such articles as he required from the peasantry in the countries
through which he passed; an example, it is hardly necessary to observe,
scrupulously avoided by the Duke Michael with whom we have to do. This
worthy made it a rule, no doubt, to deny himself nothing he wanted that
might be had for the taking; and few matters, he often boasted, were too
hot or too heavy for his conveyance, but he could not have been induced
to give anything in exchange.
It was as natural for his Grace to steal as to shape a tent-peg, mend a
kettle, or tell a lie. Yet in bearing and costume he varied probably but
little from his predecessor of the Middle Ages, as that nobleman's
likeness has been handed down in the rude woodcuts of the period. There
was the battered hat with a coarse and dirty kerchief rolled round its
brim, the pair of patched, ill-mended shoes, slashed at the toes and
slippered at the heel, of leggings worn and stained with mud from every
soil, the gaudy blanket rent and frayed to hide the greasy coat and
fouler skin beneath, with many another token of dirt, vermin, and
dishonesty to pervade the man from head to foot, and proclaim him an
outcast from his kind. The lapse of more than three centuries had done
but little to civilize or improve a Duke Michael of Egypt.
Yet the battered hat perched on those abundant locks, now white as snow,
once black as the raven's wing, covered a brain that might have served
a statesman, for its keen perception, cool audacity, quiet
cunning--above all, for its administrative powers. That is no mean
intellect which can reign with dignity and rule with force, though the
palace be but a dingy tent, the subjects a gipsy tribe. Duke Michael
possessed the secret of government; and to-night, being more drunk than
usual, was better than ever assured of his authority and the loyalty of
his people. So loud were the bursts of hilarity in and about the great
man's tent, that Waif paused to listen on a ridge of moor overlooking
the camp, and forgot in her surprise, for perhaps the space of a second,
the pain gnawing at her heart. It was recalled ere she could be
conscious of relief.
Fin Cooper's tall form, growing on her, as it were, in the twilight, was
already at her side, his voice whispering in her ear--"I've watched for
you, Thyra," said he, "since long before noon. The camp seems lonely and
empty when you leave it for a day; and I often wonder now how we could
do without you so many years! But what has been our sister's good luck?
Has she returned with pockets full of gold? Has she deceived and fleeced
the Gorgio, and stolen the very heart out of his breast?"
Waif smiled a bitter smile. "The Gorgio turns the tables sometimes,
Fin," she answered. "When you deal out the cards to play, how can you
tell who is to rise up winner?"
He looked sharply in her face. "You're tired," said he; "you that never
used to be tired, no more than the wild deer in the forest, the wild
bird in the air. Thyra! Thyra!" he added, and his voice came low and
husky, as if an enemy's hand gripped his throat, "there's something dark
come between you and me! Something that dims the light in your eye, and
takes the colour out of your face. What is it? Speak, girl, and tell the
truth. There's times when I could put my knife into you, and make an
end of it once for all. I'll do it some day, I know; I feel like it
now!"
In her exceeding misery, but for the last sentence she might have told
him her secret then and there; but to threaten Waif was to throw stones
into the air that would fall back perpendicularly on a man's head. The
gipsy girl recovered her strength and courage in the drawing of a
breath. "That's a game for two players!" she answered fiercely. "I've
worn a knife, too, Fin, as long as I can remember, and I keep it sharper
than yours, I daresay. But what's the use of you and me wrangling? I'm
not bound to tell _you_ where I've been--when I go out--and when I come
in. You're not my master, brother; not _yet_!"
She was sufficiently a woman to put just such an emphasis on the last
word as changed his mood like magic. In a moment he was her slave again,
ready to do her bidding, obey her lightest wish, no less eagerly than
when he went bird's-nesting for her in his boyhood, long years ago.
"But you'll tell me some day," he pleaded, bending his tall form to look
in the girl's face. "You'll keep nothing from Fin, when we hang the
kettle at our own tent-door in the camp of the _Vardo-mescros_, and my
brothers troop in by scores to have a look at Fin Cooper's beautiful
wife; you'll tell me all your secrets then, Thyra, won't you?
"Perhaps!" answered Waif. "In the meantime, will you tell _me_ what
makes this stir and noise amongst our people? They are swarming down
yonder like bees about a hive."
"Duke Michael came in at noon," answered Fin, "and the kettles have been
singing in the smoke ever since. He brought the cart and the donkey and
both his wives from the cudgel-players' country" (Cornwall), "and never
halted but once to do a bit of tinkering on a moorland farm, till he
turned the head of the coombe here in our very midst. The women were so
tired, that Lura would have fallen flat to the ground if I hadn't caught
her in my arms, and lifted her out of the cart. Old Maggie was little
better, though she boasts that the Bosvilles of the Border want neither
food nor rest if they can get enough to drink; but the Duke tossed off a
_coro_ of brandy, pitched his tent, lit his fire, swung his kettle, and
went into business at once, as if he were thirty years old, instead of
getting on for ninety! There's been eating and drinking in plenty ever
since. Not a Romany will lie down sober to-night, Thyra, but _me_, and
I've you to thank for it!" He spoke in the plaintive tone of one who has
sustained injury from a beloved hand, but relents and forgives.
A fresh burst of laughter, with the chorus of a song, led by stentorian
lungs, reached them where they stood. On Waif's strung nerves and weary
frame it jarred acutely; but Fin turned his head to listen with obvious
approval. "That's the Gorgio!" he exclaimed; "the mellowest voice and
the best man of his weight, this side Barnstaple, be the other who he
may! If we'd known more about him, we'd never played him such a trick to
bring him here!"
"What Gorgio?" asked the girl, for whom there was but one in the world,
her foolish heart beating fast, with a wild hope that in some impossible
manner John Garnet might even now be a visitor to the gipsies' camp.
"Why, the Parson, as they call him," answered Fin; "the jolly Exmoor
parson, who can tail an otter, harbour a stag, ride a colt, sing a song,
wrestle a fall, aye, and empty a pitcher, with the cleverest Romany lad
of us all. I wouldn't undertake him myself, Thyra, single-handed, not if
he was sober. We laid a trap for him, howsoever, and into it he fell;
so, here he is! Thyra, what makes you tremble? Do you know anything of
this roystering parson? I've heard strange stories of his doings on the
country side. Girl! you'll make me kill you now before you've done!"
His jealousy needed but a breath to fan it into flame, yet was to be
appeased no less quickly than aroused.
"You're a fool, Fin!" she said with a laugh, which, though forced,
seemed reassuring to her lover. "It's neither you nor this parson of
yours that would make _me_ tremble. Keep your hands off and behave
yourself, or I'll go home this minute! I know the man you speak of, but
I never heard any good of him. How did our people bring him into the
camp, and why?"
Fin's brow cleared, while he answered her question with a laugh. "The
Parson," he explained, "rears the best breed of fighting-cocks in the
West of England. There was one in his pen this morning, good enough to
take the crow out of the gamest _chiriclo_ that ever wore spurs. He's
safe in my tent now, with his head in a stocking to keep him quiet. This
day week, at Devizes, he'll be worth ten, aye, twenty guineas in red
gold. But the money would never have come my way, if little Ryley and me
hadn't 'ticed the Parson here!"
"How so?" asked Waif listlessly, for her thoughts were travelling far
away.
"When he means winning," said Fin, "he trains the birds himself; and
it's a job, as I've been told, to get him away from them for an hour. It
would take a better Romany than me, Thyra, or little Ryley either, to
_chore_ so much as a clout off a clothes-line if the Parson was within a
mile of the place. So how do you think we worked it? Why, we got up a
wrestling-match on the cross, you know, between Humpy Hearne and black
James Lee, in honour of our old man's visit, and we 'ticed the Parson
into the camp to see fair. He knows the rules of the ring and keeps them
all in his head as plain as print. He's the sort that would sooner ride
fifty miles to a fight than five to a prayer-meeting. So he up and puts
the saddle on, and down the coombe he swings at a gallop, as if he'd a
spare neck in each pocket, and leaps off before old Michael, with his
shovel hat in his hand. 'It's not every day,' says he, 'in our West
country, that a parson comes to visit a duke. Let's have a drink,' says
he, 'deep enough to do credit to both!' and with that he empties a
half-pint horn of brandy, and throws it over his left shoulder for luck.
There was a cheer you might have heard at Taunton. Our old Duke wasn't
to be bragged at such a game as that. He answered fair and honest, gill
for gill; so down they sat on a blanket by the tent-door, and they've
been at it ever since. In the meantime, little Ryley he slips round over
the moor and brings the _chiriclo_ back with him, coop and all. It's a
beautiful bird, Thyra. I'll show it you to-morrow as soon as it's light;
but if I'd known the Parson could sing so good a song, he should never
have lost a feather out of its wing, for Ryley and me!"
Waif seemed thoughtful and preoccupied. Presently she looked up and said
quietly, "I must go and show myself to our old Duke, Fin, before he's
too far gone to see me. Will you come down to the tents? and, Fin, don't
you speak unkindly, that's a good lad, and don't you take much notice of
what I say and do. I've had a long walk in the hot harvest sun, and I'm
not quite myself to-day, that's the truth!"
So she put her hand in his, and threading some half-score of tents,
every one of which was deserted for the great attraction of the Duke's
presence, soon reached an open space, where some thirty or forty
gipsies, men, women, and children, crouched round a scanty fire,
laughing, drinking, smoking, and all talking at once.
It was a wild scene. Every now and then a gipsy would throw on another
faggot, and the pale flickering streaks of flame brought into shifting,
shadowy relief the grotesque figures of which the circle was composed.
In the background stood a common tinker's cart, though it seemed
wonderful that anything on wheels could have arrived in safety at this
remote and solitary nook, surrounded by leagues of moor; while the
donkey that drew it, calmly browsed and meditated in the enjoyment of
well-earned repose. Propping his back against the shaft, and raised some
inches from the ground by his own and his wives' blankets doubled
beneath him, Duke Michael of Egypt sat in state, with a short black pipe
in his hand and a pewter measure containing gin and cider at his knee.
Even Waif, accustomed as she was to many a strange sight amongst her
strange people, marvelled as she gazed.
His dress, though ragged and filthy in the extreme, was made of costly
materials and the brightest colours, his coat being of fine blue cloth
dotted by spade-guineas instead of buttons; his waistcoat, faded
scarlet, bound with tawdry gold-lace; the very link that fastened his
stained flannel shirt at the throat was a gold seven-shilling piece! It
was thus that he loved to display the riches, of which he was as proud
as if they were the fruits of an honest calling. At one extremity of
this magnificence, stockingless feet peeped through a pair of rent and
clouted shoes; while, at the other, a woollen nightcap under a battered
hat, crowned the snow-white poll that contrasted ludicrously with his
swarthy face, tanned nearly black, and seamed with so many wrinkles that
it looked more like morocco leather than a human skin.
Yet, even now, the dark eyes beneath their shaggy brows sparkled with
intelligence and fire; the deep voice, in which he passed his jest or
trolled his chorus, spoke of health and strength and vital energies
unimpaired by age. He had removed the pipe from his mouth, and was
pledging Parson Gale for the twentieth time, when Waif stepped into the
firelight, bowed her head in a graceful obeisance, and stood silent
before him with her arms crossed on her breast.
The old man stared at this beautiful apparition for some seconds without
a word, obviously congratulating himself, the tribe, and the Romany
people in general, on the possession of so favourable a specimen of
their race. Presently he chuckled, took a pull at his flagon, and spoke
out:
"Aye, aye," said he, "it's _you_, is it, my pretty lass? No need to tell
me who you are, my _rinkeny tawny_, my delicate brown beauty! There's
not such another face as that in the tribe, nor there hasn't been since
Lura there tripped over the Border out of Cumberland to be an old man's
wife, who had one too many already. And that's a score of years ago, and
more. Parson Gale! Parson Gale, I say, can your Reverence show us such a
pair of eyes in North Devon? I dare you to do it; or such a walk, such a
shape, such a foot and ankle as that. We have but one Thyra in the
tribe, Parson, and there she stands. Don't be shame-faced, man! look at
her well."
But for an impatient tap of the little foot, Waif might have been a
statue, so immovably did she retain a posture of humility that the
etiquette of Duke Michael's court prescribed on a first presentation.
Even among the gipsies there rose a murmur of admiration, called forth
by her unusual beauty and assured bearing, suggestive of modesty and
self-respect. The Parson, a veteran toper, was still sober enough,
notwithstanding his potations, to recognise the girl he had seen and
insulted at Katerfelto's door. He was also wise enough to reflect that
here, amongst her friends and kinsmen, any allusion to that meeting
would be injudicious and unsafe. The gipsies were ready with their
knives, their blood was heated with drinking, the coombe was lonely and
secluded; his horse stood tethered two hundred yards off, and he was a
long way from home. He glanced respectfully, almost imploringly, in
Waif's face, while he replied with a discretion for which he deserved
some credit:
"There's many a likely lass in North Devon, my lord duke, though I won't
say they come up to the beauty and wisdom of the Egyptians, but I'm no
great judge of such matters myself. They don't belong to my cloth and my
calling. I know a good dog when I see him, or a game-cock; I can tell
the points of a pacing nag, or the slot of a warrantable deer; but when
you talk of black eyes and blue, chestnut hair and brown, I'm at
fault--that's where _I_ am. No, no; I'm a far better judge of your
strong ale."
"Well said, Parson!" exclaimed the duke, "you're one of my sort, I see;
and a right good fellow, too. Ah! if your Reverence and I could make the
world again, wouldn't we put fewer women in it, and more drink? Go your
ways, my lass," he added, nodding to Waif; "you're black enough, and
comely enough, to turn an older head than mine, and I guess I'm not very
far from a hundred. My service to you, Parson, we'll trouble no more
about the petticoats. The night is young, and that cask not half empty
yet."
But Waif, while she retired, bestowed on Abner Gale a glance of such
deep meaning as to puzzle him exceedingly. While he passed the cup and
the jest with his entertainers, discussed the past wrestling-bout, of
which he was good enough to express approval, and even condescended to
sing a song in praise of that manly exercise, his thoughts persistently
reverted to the tawny delicate face with its mournful beauty, the large
dark eyes that looked into his own so sad and wistful, yet with fierce
impatient longing, like those of some wild animal from whom men have
taken away its young.