FRIEND OF SLINGSBY--ALL QUIET--DANGER--THE TWO CAKES--CHILDREN IN THE
WOOD--DON'T BE ANGRY--IN DEEP THOUGHT--TEMPLES THROBBING--DEADLY
SICK--ANOTHER BLOW--NO ANSWER--HOW OLD ARE YOU?--PLAY AND
SACRAMENT--HEAVY HEART--SONG OF POISON--THE DROW OF GYPSIES--THE DOG--OF
ELY'S CHURCH--GET UP, BEBEE--THE VEHICLE--CAN YOU SPEAK?--THE OIL
The next day, at an early hour, I harnessed my little pony, and, putting
my things in my cart, I went on my projected stroll. Crossing the moor,
I arrived in about an hour at a small village, from which, after a short
stay, I proceeded to another, and from thence to a third. I found that
the name of Slingsby was well known in these parts.
'If you are a friend of Slingsby you must be an honest lad,' said an
ancient crone; 'you shall never want for work whilst I can give it you.
Here, take my kettle, the bottom came out this morning, and lend me that
of yours till you bring it back. I'm not afraid to trust you--not I.
Don't hurry yourself, young man, if you don't come back for a fortnight I
shan't have the worse opinion of you.'
I returned to my quarters at evening, tired, but rejoiced at heart; I had
work before me for several days, having collected various kekaubies which
required mending, in place of those which I left behind--those which I
had been employed upon during the last few days. I found all quiet in
the lane or glade, and, unharnessing my little horse, I once more pitched
my tent in the old spot beneath the ash, lighted my fire, ate my frugal
meal, and then, after looking for some time at the heavenly bodies, and
more particularly at the star Jupiter, I entered my tent, lay down upon
my pallet, and went to sleep.
Nothing occurred on the following day which requires any particular
notice, nor indeed on the one succeeding that. It was about noon on the
third day that I sat beneath the shade of the ash tree; I was not at
work, for the weather was particularly hot, and I felt but little
inclination to make any exertion. Leaning my back against the tree, I
was not long in falling into a slumber; I particularly remember that
slumber of mine beneath the ash tree, for it was about the sweetest
slumber that I ever enjoyed; how long I continued in it I do not know; I
could almost have wished that it had lasted to the present time. All of
a sudden it appeared to me that a voice cried in my ear, 'Danger! danger!
danger!' Nothing seemingly could be more distinct than the words which I
heard; then an uneasy sensation came over me, which I strove to get rid
of, and at last succeeded, for I awoke. The gypsy girl was standing just
opposite to me, with her eyes fixed upon my countenance; a singular kind
of little dog stood beside her.
'Ha!' said I, 'was it you that cried danger? What danger is there?'
'Danger, brother, there is no danger; what danger should there be? I
called to my little dog, but that was in the wood; my little dog's name
is not danger, but Stranger; what danger should there be, brother?'
'What, indeed, except in sleeping beneath a tree; what is that you have
got in your hand?'
'Something for you,' said the girl, sitting down and proceeding to untie
a white napkin; 'a pretty manricli, so sweet, so nice; when I went home
to my people I told my grandbebee how kind you had been to the poor
person's child, and when my grandbebee saw the kekaubi, she said, "Hir mi
devlis, it won't do for the poor people to be ungrateful; by my God, I
will bake a cake for the young harko mescro.'"
'But there are two cakes.'
'Yes, brother, two cakes, both for you; my grandbebee meant them both for
you--but list, brother, I will have one of them for bringing them. I
know you will give me one, pretty brother, grey-haired brother--which
shall I have, brother?'
In the napkin were two round cakes, seemingly made of rich and costly
compounds, and precisely similar in form, each weighing about half a
pound.
'Which shall I have, brother?' said the gypsy girl.
'Whichever you please.'
'No, brother, no, the cakes are yours, not mine. It is for you to say.'
'Well, then, give me the one nearest you, and take the other.'
'Yes, brother, yes,' said the girl; and taking the cakes, she flung them
into the air two or three times, catching them as they fell, and singing
the while. 'Pretty brother, grey-haired brother--here, brother,' said
she, 'here is your cake, this other is mine.'
'Are you sure,' said I, taking the cake, 'that this is the one I chose?'
'Quite sure, brother; but if you like you can have mine; there's no
difference, however--shall I eat?'
'Yes, sister, eat.'
'See, brother, I do; now, brother, eat, pretty brother, grey-haired
brother.'
'I am not hungry.'
'Not hungry! well, what then--what has being hungry to do with the
matter? It is my grandbebee's cake which was sent because you were kind
to the poor person's child; eat, brother, eat, and we shall be like the
children in the wood that the gorgios speak of.'
'The children in the wood had nothing to eat.'
'Yes, they had hips and haws; we have better. Eat, brother.'
'See, sister, I do,' and I ate a piece of the cake.
'Well, brother, how do you like it?' said the girl, looking fixedly at
me.
'It is very rich and sweet, and yet there is something strange about it;
I don't think I shall eat any more.'
'Fie, brother, fie, to find fault with the poor person's cake; see, I
have nearly eaten mine.'
'That's a pretty little dog.'
'Is it not, brother? that's my juggal, my little sister, as I call her.'
'Come here, juggal,' said I to the animal.
'What do you want with my juggal?' said the girl.
'Only to give her a piece of cake,' said I, offering the dog a piece
which I had just broken off.
'What do you mean?' said the girl, snatching the dog away; 'my
grandbebee's cake is not for dogs.'
'Why, I just now saw you give the animal a piece of yours.'
'You lie, brother, you saw no such thing; but I see how it is, you wish
to affront the poor person's child. I shall go to my house.'
'Keep still, and don't be angry; see, I have eaten the piece which I
offered the dog. I meant no offence. It is a sweet cake after all.'
'Isn't it, brother? I am glad you like it. Offence, brother, no offence
at all! I am so glad you like my grandbebee's cake, but she will be
wanting me at home. Eat one piece more of grandbebee's cake, and I will
go.'
'I am not hungry, I will put the rest by.'
'One piece more before I go, handsome brother, grey-haired brother.'
'I will not eat any more, I have already eaten more than I wished to
oblige you; if you must go, good-day to you.'
The girl rose upon her feet, looked hard at me, then at the remainder of
the cake which I held in my hand, and then at me again, and then stood
for a moment or two, as if in deep thought; presently an air of
satisfaction came over her countenance, she smiled and said, 'Well,
brother, well, do as you please, I merely wished you to eat because you
have been so kind to the poor person's child. She loves you so, that she
could have wished to have seen you eat it all; good-bye, brother, I
daresay when I am gone you will eat some more of it, and if you don't, I
daresay you have eaten enough to--to--show your love for us. After all
it was a poor person's cake, a Rommany manricli, and all you gorgios are
somewhat gorgious. Farewell, brother, pretty brother, grey-haired
brother. Come, juggal.'
I remained under the ash tree seated on the grass for a minute or two,
and endeavoured to resume the occupation in which I had been engaged
before I fell asleep, but I felt no inclination for labour. I then
thought I would sleep again, and once more reclined against the tree, and
slumbered for some little time, but my sleep was more agitated than
before. Something appeared to bear heavy on my breast, I struggled in my
sleep, fell on the grass, and awoke; my temples were throbbing, there was
a burning in my eyes, and my mouth felt parched; the oppression about the
chest which I had felt in my sleep still continued. 'I must shake off
these feelings,' said I, 'and get upon my legs.' I walked rapidly up and
down upon the green sward; at length, feeling my thirst increase, I
directed my steps down the narrow path to the spring which ran amidst the
bushes; arriving there, I knelt down and drank of the water, but on
lifting up my head I felt thirstier than before; again I drank, but with
the like result; I was about to drink for the third time, when I felt a
dreadful qualm which instantly robbed me of nearly all my strength. What
can be the matter with me? thought I; but I suppose I have made myself
ill by drinking cold water. I got up and made the best of my way back to
my tent; before I reached it the qualm had seized me again, and I was
deadly sick. I flung myself on my pallet, qualm succeeded qualm, but in
the intervals my mouth was dry and burning, and I felt a frantic desire
to drink, but no water was at hand, and to reach the spring once more was
impossible; the qualms continued, deadly pains shot through my whole
frame; I could bear my agonies no longer, and I fell into a trance or
swoon. How long I continued therein I know not; on recovering, however,
I felt somewhat better, and attempted to lift my head off my couch; the
next moment, however, the qualms and pains returned, if possible, with
greater violence than before. I am dying, thought I, like a dog, without
any help; and then methought I heard a sound at a distance like people
singing, and then once more I relapsed into my swoon.
I revived just as a heavy blow sounded upon the canvas of the tent. I
started, but my condition did not permit me to rise; again the same kind
of blow sounded upon the canvas; I thought for a moment of crying out and
requesting assistance, but an inexplicable something chained my tongue,
and now I heard a whisper on the outside of the tent. 'He does not move,
bebee,' said a voice which I knew. 'I should not wonder if it has done
for him already; however, strike again with your ran'; and then there was
another blow, after which another voice cried aloud in a strange tone,
'Is the gentleman of the house asleep, or is he taking his dinner?' I
remained quite silent and motionless, and in another moment the voice
continued, 'What, no answer? what can the gentleman of the house be about
that he makes no answer? perhaps the gentleman of the house may be
darning his stockings?' Thereupon a face peered into the door of the
tent, at the farther extremity of which I was stretched. It was that of
a woman, but owing to the posture in which she stood, with her back to
the light, and partly owing to a large straw bonnet, I could distinguish
but very little of the features of her countenance. I had, however,
recognised her voice; it was that of my old acquaintance, Mrs. Herne.
'Ho, ho, sir!' said she, 'here you are. Come here, Leonora,' said she to
the gypsy girl, who pressed in at the other side of the door; 'here is
the gentleman, not asleep, but only stretched out after dinner. Sit down
on your ham, child, at the door, I shall do the same. There--you have
seen me before, sir, have you not?'
'The gentleman makes no answer, bebee; perhaps he does not know you.'
'I have known him of old, Leonora,' said Mrs. Herne; 'and, to tell you
the truth, though I spoke to him just now, I expected no answer.'
'It's a way he has, bebee, I suppose?'
'Yes, child, it's a way he has.'
'Take off your bonnet, bebee, perhaps he cannot see your face.'
'I do not think that will be of much use, child; however, I will take off
my bonnet--there--and shake out my hair--there--you have seen this hair
before, sir, and this face--'
'No answer, bebee.'
'Though the one was not quite so grey, nor the other so wrinkled.'
'How came they so, bebee?'
'All along of this gorgio, child.'
'The gentleman in the house, you mean, bebee?'
'Yes, child, the gentleman in the house. God grant that I may preserve
my temper. Do you know, sir, my name? My name is Herne, which signifies
a hairy individual, though neither grey-haired nor wrinkled. It is not
the nature of the Hernes to be grey or wrinkled, even when they are old,
and I am not old.'
'How old are you, bebee?'
'Sixty-five years, child--an inconsiderable number. My mother was a
hundred and one--a considerable age--when she died, yet she had not one
grey hair, and not more than six wrinkles--an inconsiderable number.'
'She had no griefs, bebee?'
'Plenty, child, but not like mine.'
'Not quite so hard to bear, bebee?'
'No, child; my head wanders when I think of them. After the death of my
husband, who came to his end untimeously, I went to live with a daughter
of mine, married out among certain Romans who walk about the eastern
counties, and with whom for some time I found a home and pleasant
society, for they lived right Romanly, which gave my heart considerable
satisfaction, who am a Roman born, and hope to die so. When I say right
Romanly, I mean that they kept to themselves, and were not much given to
blabbing about their private matters in promiscuous company. Well,
things went on in this way for some time, when one day my son-in-law
brings home a young gorgio of singular and outrageous ugliness, and,
without much preamble, says to me and mine, "This is my pal, ain't he a
beauty? fall down and worship him." "Hold," said I, "I for one will
never consent to such foolishness."'
'That was right, bebee, I think I should have done the same.'
'I think you would, child; but what was the profit of it? The whole
party makes an almighty of this gorgio, lets him into their ways, says
prayers of his making, till things come to such a pass that my own
daughter says to me, "I shall buy myself a veil and fan, and treat myself
to a play and sacrament." "Don't," says I; says she, "I should like for
once in my life to be courtesied to as a Christian gentlewoman.'"
'Very foolish of her, bebee.'
'Wasn't it, child? Where was I? At the fan and sacrament; with a heavy
heart I put seven score miles between us, came back to the hairy ones,
and found them over-given to gorgious companions; said I, "Foolish
manners is catching; all this comes of that there gorgio." Answers the
child Leonora, "Take comfort, bebee; I hate the gorgios as much as you
do."'
'And I say so again, bebee, as much or more.'
'Time flows on, I engage in many matters, in most miscarry. Am sent to
prison; says I to myself, I am become foolish. Am turned out of prison,
and go back to the hairy ones, who receive me not over courteously; says
I, for their unkindness, and my own foolishness, all the thanks to that
gorgio. Answers to me the child, "I wish I could set eyes upon him,
bebee."'
'I did so, bebee; go on.'
'"How shall I know him, bebee?" says the child. "Young and grey, tall,
and speaks Romanly." Runs to me the child, and says, "I've found him,
bebee." "Where, child?" says I. "Come with me, bebee," says the child.
"That's he," says I, as I looked at my gentleman through the hedge.'
'Ha, ha! bebee, and here he lies, poisoned like a hog.'
'You have taken drows, sir,' said Mrs. Herne; 'do you hear, sir? drows;
tip him a stave, child, of the song of poison.'