Was the mystery at an end? Was there one point in this story of
stories which this letter of D'Arcy's had not cleared up? Yes, indeed
there was one. What motive--or rather, what mixture of motives--had
impelled Sinfi to play her part in restoring Winifred to me? Her
affection for me was, I knew, as strong as my own affection for her.
But this I attributed largely to the mysterious movements of the
blood of Fenella Stanley which we both shared. In many matters there
was a kinship of taste between us, such as did not exist between me
and Winnie, who was far from being scornful of conventions, and to
whom the little Draconian laws of British 'Society' were not objects
of mere amusement, as they were to me and Sinfi.
All this I attributed to that 'prepotency of transmission in descent'
which I knew to be one of the Romany characteristics. All this I
attributed, I say, to the far-reaching influence of Fenella Stanley.
But would this, coupled with her affection for Winifred, have been
strong enough to conquer Sinfi's terror of a curse and its supposed
power? And then that colloquy recorded by D'Arcy with what she
believed to be her mother's spirit--those words about 'the two
dukkeripens'--what did they mean? At one moment I seemed to guess
their meaning in a dim way, and at the next they seemed more
inexplicable than ever. But be their import what it might, one thing
was quite certain--Sinfi had saved Winifred, and there swept through
my very being a passion of gratitude to the girl who had acted so
nobly which for the moment seemed to drown all other emotions.
I had not much time, however, for bringing my thoughts to bear upon
this new source of wonderment; for I suddenly saw Winifred and Sinfi
descending the steep path towards me.
But what a change there was in Sinfi! The traces of illness had fled
entirely from her face, and were replaced by the illumination of the
triumphant soul within--a light such as I could imagine shining on
the features of Boadicea fresh from a successful bout with the foe of
her race. Even the loveliness of Winnie seemed for the moment to pale
before the superb beauty of the Gypsy girl, whom the sun was
caressing as though it loved her, shedding a radiance over her
picturesque costume, and making the gold coins round her neck shine
like dewy whin-flowers struck by the sunrise.
I understood well that expression of triumph. I knew that, with her,
imagination was life itself. I knew that this imagination of hers had
just escaped from the sting of the dominant thought which was
threatening to turn a supposed curse into a curse indeed.