THE GIPSY CAMP.
After not a little opposition upon the part of Mr. Long, who would have
willingly borne his share in Marmaduke's expenses, it was settled that
Mr. Gerard should be the young man's host, if he could only contrive to
retain him in defiance of the power of Sir Massingberd; his home,
however, was not to be the Dovecot, which was judged to be too much
exposed, by its proximity to Fairburn, to the machinations of the enemy.
The Gerards were to remove to their town residence in Harley Street, as
soon as their guest was fit to accompany them. At first, his progress
was tedious, but he grew rapidly convalescent as soon as he was able to
exchange his bed for a sofa. Never was sick man more hospitably treated,
or so graciously tended. Mr. Gerard possessed that almost feminine
gentleness of manner which is generally found in persons of his peculiar
organization. His sympathy, at least as easily aroused as his
antagonism, was now deeply enlisted in favour of Marmaduke for his own
sake; he recognized his talents, and the beauty and tenderness of his
mind, and won him, by pleasant studious talk, from the melancholy that
overhung it; and the young man's heart, thrilling response to every
touch of kindness, turned towards him, and expanded like a flower in the
sun. As for Lucy, what rudest health would I not have exchanged for
Marmaduke's languor, as he lay and listened to her clear sweet voice,
now singing some cheerful ballad to enliven him, now reading aloud some
tale so musically that itself seemed song! He could read to himself but
little as yet, and if he did take up a book, his eyes refused to regard
it, but followed the lovely girl, wherever she moved, with worship.
"This happiness is too great to last, Peter," he would often say; "it
will all fade one day, I know, and leave me desolate. What man living is
worthy to possess yon glorious creature? I feel as though I had no right
even to love her. Yet, great heaven! how I <i>do</i> love her. How
unconscious she is of her perfect sweetness! How she graces the meanest
thing which she may set herself to do! Her presence seems to breathe
very life into me; I then forget everything but her--even Sir
Massingberd. To return to him would be death indeed--death death!" Then
he would sink back, as if prostrated with the thought, and so remain
despairingly despondent until he heard Lucy's voice, or laugh, or
footstep. All this was bitter for me to bear. I was glad when Mr. Long
suggested to me that he thought it was no longer necessary for me to
remain with Marmaduke, and that I should return to Fairburn Rectory and
my studies. Still, my heart was heavy upon that morning which was to be
the last I was to spend under the same roof with Lucy Gerard. Within the
last few weeks--nay, it happened in a few hours--I had Loved and I had
Lost. If there be any to read this in whose eyes these words have
meaning, they will pity me. I do not match such grief, indeed, for a
single instant against the sorrow a man must feel for the loss of the
loved companion of his life, against the lone wretchedness of recent
widowhood; but it is a grievous blow. I wished Marmaduke and Mr. Gerard
"good-bye" without quite knowing that I did so.
"Good-bye, Mr. Meredith," said Lucy, and though her voice was even lower
and sweeter than usual, it wounded me like a knife.
"Why don't you call him Peter, Lucy?" exclaimed her father, laughing. "I
think it would be more civil, now that we are going to lose him."
"Thank you, sir," said I, gratefully; and she did say "God bless you,
Peter," very, very kindly.
Ever since that morning she called me so; but I was Peter to all of
them, you see, as well as to her. Then I called her Lucy, and though for
the first and last time, I shall never forget it.
"I couldna say mair, but just 'Fare ye weel, Lucy
Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee."
Then I mounted my horse, my luggage having already preceded me, and
slowly took my way towards Fairburn. My life-blood seemed to ebb with
every step. The clang of the gate that shut me out from the last foot of
ground belonging to the Dovecot, sent a shudder through me like a knell.
I was on the very spot where Marmaduke had met with the accident that
had been so nearly fatal. Supposing it had killed him! Supposing...--I
thanked God that I was able to thank Him from an honest heart that it
had not done so.
Then I felt a little better. Having ascended the hill, I put my horse
into a sharp canter upon the common, and the cool air through which I
swiftly passed refreshed me. The hollow in which the encampment had been
was now deserted, and only the round bare spot amid the green, which is
the gipsy autograph, announced that it had ever been there. Some miles
further on, however, a little brown-legged boy, evidently of that
wandering fraternity, suddenly emerged from a fir plantation, and stood
before me in the road as if to beg. I was already feeling in my pocket
for a penny, when, showing his white teeth in gratitude, he shook his
head, and coming close to my stirrup, exclaimed, "You are the gentleman
from Mr. Gerard's, sir, are you not? Would you please to come and see
Granny Rachel?"
In an instant, I remembered the pocket-flask, which I had entirely
forgotten since the day in which it came into my possession; for all I
knew, it was then lying yet in the drawing-room at the Dovecot.
"Yes, my boy, that will I," returned I; "but I fear I have not brought
her what she wants."
He looked up in the bright interrogative manner peculiar to his tribe,
so different to the stolid wonder of the agriculturist.
"She wants <i>you</i>, sir, as I understood. This is the sixth day that she
has set me to watch for you by this roadside. Will you please to follow
me?"
The boy started off at a pace which compelled me to move too fast for
further questioning; and skirting the plantation for a hundred yards,
stopped at the entrance of a roadway leading through the wood. The
coming winter had not yet turned the broad green track to sand, and it
ran so straight and far, that the pine trees seemed to stand on either
side--a solid wall--with nothing but the blue heaven for their limit.
This landscape of right lines would have delighted a painter of the
Pre-Raphaelite school, it looked so stiff and unnatural; but pursuing
the track for a little distance, and then plunging over a ditch and
bank into the plantation itself, we suddenly came upon a scene which
would have suited Morland. A low tent, with half-naked but merry
children crawling in and out; a she-ass and her foal; a handsome male
Epicurean, lying on his back, smoking a short, well-coloured pipe, the
hue of which precisely resembled that of his own skin; a young girl in
scarlet mantle, and with earrings of great splendour, gathering
fir-cones to feed the flames which licked around an iron pot suspended
on four sticks, piled musket-fashion; and an old crone, sitting by the
same, and picking the feathers from a bird, which, had the time of year
been beyond the end of September, I should have certainly taken for a
hen-pheasant. But to suppose this, would have been to suppose an
infraction of the game laws! The walnut-stained children stopped their
play as I approached, and stood in various attitudes of wonder, like
beauteous bronzes; the man turned over on his side, and opened his
slumbrous eyes a hairbreadth; the girl flashed one quick, comprehensive
glance upon me, and then resumed her occupation. The old woman nodded
familiarly without rising, and observed quietly, "So you are come at
last, Peter Meredith. I trust you have brought good news of Marmaduke
Heath."
"He is better," said I, "much better; and he knows who brought him help,
and is very grateful. You have been expected daily at the Dovecot, where
something more substantial than mere thanks is waiting for you."
"Rachel Liversedge desires neither silver nor gold," returned the old
woman; "she has had her reward already, if what you say be true. It was
not for love of the boy that I acted as I did; he has too much evil
blood in him to earn my liking. But I am glad as though he were my own
son that he will live."
"Carew," cried she, triumphantly, "no wonder <i>bura</i> Sir Massingberd
looked <i>kalo</i> as ourselves."
"Oh, the great man looks black, does he?" said I.
The old woman dropped the bird, the girl her fir-cones, and both stared
wildly at me, as though my voice had come from the clouds; the man
sprung to his feet, and uttered a cry of wonder.
"What! do you speak our tongue?" cried he.
"Nay; you speak mine," returned I, calmly. "<i>Bura</i> is great; and <i>kala</i>,
which you call <i>kalo</i>, is black, of course; everybody knows that who
knows Hindustanee."
Then the three burst out together in a language, one word out of four of
which seemed to be more or less familiar to me; as for understanding
what they said, of course it was simply impossible; but no matter, I had
established my reputation. From that moment, I felt myself to be the
honoured guest of the family. Would I smoke? Would I eat? Would I drink?
I was thirsty, and I said that I would gladly take some water--which, at
a venture, I called <i>paince</i>.
"<i>Paunce</i>!" cried they, extravagantly delighted. "He talks like a true
Cingari; and only look! is he not dark-skinned!"
The few words that my old ayah had taught me in India had thus procured
me a hearty welcome in a Midshire fir-plantation.
"Sit down by me, Peter Meredith, my son," exclaimed the old woman; "and
do you fetch him water, Mina."
I dismounted, and did as I was bid; while the young girl took a
pitcher, and presently brought it filled from a running Stream near by,
and offered it to me, like another Rebecca. But her grandmother--for
such she was--cried, "Stop! let me put something in it;" and produced
from her pocket the self-same flask which she herself had given me a few
weeks ago, and which I had thought was left behind at the Dovecot.
"Why, I was blaming myself for not having brought you that thing back
to-day," said I; "I never heard of your coming to claim it."
"Nor did I, young gentleman," returned the old woman, proudly. "Harvey
Gerard is too kind a man to visit when one is not in need. That was why
I left his house that day, directly I had told what had befallen
Marmaduke Heath: I did not wish him to think I waited for my reward.
He returned me this with his own hands. He is not one of your proud
ones. When we had the fever here--Mina, darling, you remember who came
to see you, and saved your life?"
"Ah, yes!" cried the girl, clasping her dark hands, which gleamed with
tawdry rings; "and his daughter, too, how I love her!"
There was a little pause; I felt my ears tingle, my cheeks burn. I did
not dare look up from the ground.
"Lucy Gerard is very fair," whispered the old woman; "she will make a
good and loving wife;" then she added roguishly, and in that gipsy tone
which smacks so of the race-course: "Shall I tell your fortune, my
pretty gentleman?"
"No, I thank you," said I, hastily; "I have no great confidence in your
information as to the future. With respect to the past, on the other
hand, you can doubtless satisfy me, if you will. I have a great
curiosity to know how you became possessed of yonder flask with the
Heath griffin."
"Peter Meredith," returned the old woman, very gravely, "you have asked
me to tell you a sad story, and one to relate which will cost me much.
It is not our custom, however, to refuse the first request of a new
friend. But before I begin, let me ask you a question in my turn. Has it
never struck you why Sir Massingberd Heath has not long ago taken to
himself a young wife, and begotten an heir for the bonny lands of
Fairburn, in despite of his nephew?"
Until that moment, the idea had never crossed my brain; but no sooner
was it thus mooted than I wondered greatly at the shortsightedness of
those among whom Marmaduke's affairs had been so lately discussed, and
in particular at that of Mr. Clint, who, as a lawyer, should surely have
at once foreseen such a contingency. "Well," said I, "I confess that,
for my part, I have never thought of it; but there cannot be much danger
of Sir Massingberd's becoming a wooer now; why, what young woman would
be won by such as he?"
"What young woman would <i>not</i> be won?" replied Rachel Liversedge,
grimly. "Think you that his white head and stony heart would weigh too
heavy in the balance against his title and the reversion of his lands?
Remember, all that is around us, and all that we could see from yonder
hill to the right hand and to the left--pasture and corn-field, farm and
park--would fall to the offspring of her who would venture, for a few
years, to be Lady Heath. Peter, there is one maiden in Midshire, known
to you and me, who would not consent to do this thing, though the offer
were thrice as splendid; but I doubt if there be more than one."
"If that be so," said I, "why does not Sir Massingberd marry?"
"The answer to that is the story I am about to tell you," returned
Rachel.