II

It was not till we reached a turn in the river that is more secluded

than any other--a spot called 'Gypsy Ring,' a lovely little spot

within the hollow of birch trees and gorse--that she spoke a few

words to me, in a constrained tone. Then I said, as we sat down upon

a green hillock within the Ring: 'Sinfi, the baskets my aunt saw in

Winnie's hand when she was standing in the rain were of the very kind

that Videy makes.'

'Oh, _that's_ what you wanted to say!' said she; 'you think Videy

knows something about Winnie. But that's all a fancy o' yourn, and

it's of no use looking for Winnie any more among the Romanies. Even

supposin' you did hear the Welsh gillie--and I think it was all a

fancy--you can't make nothin' out o' them baskets as your aunt seed.

Us Romanies don't make one in a hundud of the fancy baskets as is

sold for Gypsy baskets in the streets, and besides, the hawkers and

costers what buys 'em of us sells 'em agin to other hawkers and

costers, and there ain't no tracin' on 'em.'

I argued the point with her. At last I felt convinced that I was

again on the wrong track. By this time the sun had set, and the stars

were out. I had noticed that during our talk Sinfi's attention would

sometimes seem to be distracted from the matter in hand, and I had

observed her give a little start now and then, as though listening to

something in the distance.

'What are you listening to?' I inquired at last. 'Reia,' said Sinfi,

'I've been a-listenin' to a v'ice as nobody can't hear on'y me, an'

I've bin a-seein' a face peepin' atween the leaves o' the trees as

nobody can't see on'y me; my mammy's been to me. I thought she would

come here. They say my mammy's mammy wur buried here, an' she wur the

child of Fenella, an' that's why it's called Gypsy Ring. The moment I

sat down in this Ring a mullo [spirit] come and whispered in my ear,

but I can't make out whether it's my mammy or Fenella Stanley, and I

can't make out what she said. It's hard sometimes for them as has to

gnaw their way out o' the groun' to get their words out clear.

[Footnote] Howsomever, this I do know, reia, you an' me must part. I

felt as we must part when we was in Wales togither last time, and now

I knows it.'

[Footnote: Some Romanies think that spirits rise from the ground.]

'Part, Sinfi! Not if I can prevent it.'

'Reia,' replied Sinfi emphatically, 'when I've wonst made up my mind,

you know it's made up for good an' all. When us two leaves this 'ere

Ring to-night, you'll turn your ways and I shall turn mine.'

I thought it best to let the subject drop. Perhaps by the time we had

left the Ring this mood would have passed. After a minute or so she

said,

'You needn't see no fear about not marryin' Winifred Wynne. You

_must_ marry her; your dukkeripen on Snowdon didn't show itself there

for nothink. When you two was a-settin' by the pool, a-eatin' the

breakfiss, I was a-lookin' at you round the corner of the rock. I

seed a little kindlin' cloud break away and go floatin' over your

heads, and then it shaped itself into what us Romanies calls the

Golden Hand. You know what the Golden Hand means when it comes over

two sweethearts? You don't believe it? Ask Rhona Boswell! Here she

comes a-singin' to herself. She's trying to get away from that devil

of a Scollard as says she's bound to marry him. I've a good mind to

go and give him a left-hand body-blow in the ribs and settle him for

good and all. He means mischief to the Tarno Rye, and Rhona too.

Brother, I've noticed for a long while that the Romany blood is a

good deal stronger in you than the Gorgio blood. And now mark my

words, that cuss o' your feyther's'll work itself out. You'll go to

his grave and you'll jist put that trúshul back in that tomb, and

arter that, and not afore, you'll marry Winnie Wynne.'

Sinfi's creed did not surprise me: the mixture of guile and

simplicity in the Romany race is only understood by the few who know

it thoroughly: the race whose profession it is to cheat by

fortune-telling, to read the false 'dukkeripen' as being 'good enough

for the Gorgios,' believe profoundly in nature's symbols; but her

bearing did surprise me.

'Your dukkeripen will come true,' said she; 'but mine won't, for I

won't let it.'

'And what is yours?' I asked.

'That's nuther here nor there.'

Then she stood again as though listening to something, and again I

thought, as her lips moved, that I heard her whisper, 'I will, I

will.'