CHAPTER XXII. THE SECRET MAN
"You are wasting your time."
Fleda said the words with a quiet determination, and yet in the tone wasa slight over-emphasis which was like a call upon reserve forces withinherself.
"Time is nothing to me," was the complete reply, clothed in a toneof soft irony. "I'm young enough to waste it. I've plenty of it in myknapsack."
"Have you forgotten the Sentence of the Patrin?" Fleda asked thequestion in a voice which showed a sudden access of determination.
"He will have to wipe it out after to-morrow," replied the other with agleam of sulky meaning and furtive purpose in his eyes.
"If you mean that I will change my mind to-morrow, and be your wife, andreturn to the Gipsy life, it is the thought of a fool. I asked youto come here to speak with me because I was sure I could make you seethings as they truly are. I wanted to explain why I did not tell theRomanys outside there that the Sentence had been passed on you. I didnot tell them because I can't forget that your people and my people havebeen sib for hundreds of years; that you and I were children together;that we were sealed to one another when neither of us could have any sayabout it. If I had remained a Gipsy, who can tell--my mind might havebecome like yours! I think there must be something rash and bad in mesomewhere, because I tell you frankly now that a chord in my heart rangwhen you made your wild speeches to me there in the hut in the Woodmonths ago, even when I hated you, knowing you for what you are."
"That was because there was another man," interjected Jethro.
She inclined her head. "Yes, it was partly because of another man,"she replied. "It is a man who suffers because of you. When he was aloneamong his foes, a hundred to one, you betrayed him. That itself wouldhave made me despise you to the end of my life, even if the man had beennothing at all to me.
"It was a low, cowardly thing to do. You did it; and if you were mybrother, I would hate you for it; if you were my father, I should leaveyour house; if you were my husband, I should kill you. I asked youto speak with me now because I thought that if you would go away--faraway--promising never to cross my father's path, or my path, again, Icould get him to withdraw the Sentence. You have kidnapped me. Wheredo you think you are? In Mesopotamia? You can't break the law of thiscountry and escape as you would there. They don't take count of Romanycustom here. Not only you, but every one of the Fawes here will bepunished if the law reaches for your throat. I want you to escape, andI tell you to go now. Go back to Europe. I advise you this for your ownsake--because you are a Fawe and of the clan."
The blood mounted to Jethro's forehead, and he made an angry gesture."And leave you here for him! 'Mi Duvel!' I can only die once, and Iwould rather die near you than far away," he exclaimed.
His eyes had a sardonic look, there was a savage edge to his tongue, yethis face was flushed with devouring emotion and he was quivering withhope. That which he called love was flooding the field of his feelings,and the mad thing--the toxic impulse which is deep in the brain ofEastern races bled into his brain now. He was reckless, rebelliousagainst fate, insanely wilful, and what she had said concerning Ingolbyhad roused in him the soul of Cain.
She realized it, and she was apprehensive of some desperate act; yetshe had no physical fear of him. Something seemed to tell her that, nomatter what happened, Ingolby would not wait for her in vain, and thathe would yet see her enter to him again with the love-light in her eyes.
"But listen to me," Jethro said, with an unnatural shining in his eyes,his voice broken in its passion. "You think you can come it over mewith your Gorgio talk and the clever things you've learned in the Gorgioworld. You try to look down on me. I'm as well born or as ill born asyou. The only difference between us is the way you dress, the way youlive and use your tongue. All that belongs to the life of the cities.Anyone can learn it. Anyone well born like you and me, with a littlepractice, can talk like Gorgio dukes and earls. I've been among themand I know. I've had my friends among them, too. I've got the hang ofit all. It's no good to me, and I don't want it. It's all part of a setpiece. There's no independence in that life; you live by rule. Diable!I know. I've been in palaces; I've played my fiddle to the women in highplaces who can't blush. It's no good; it brings nothing in the end. It'sall hollow. Look at our people there." He swept a hand to the tent door.
"They're tanned and rough, as all out-door things are rough, but they'vegot their share of happiness, and every day has its pleasures. Listen tothem!" he cried with a gesture of exultation. "Listen to that!"
The colour slowly left Fleda's face. Outside in the light of the dyingfires, under the glittering stars, in the shade of the trees, groups ofRomanys were singing the Romany wedding melody, called "The Song of theSealing." It was not like the ringing of wedding bells alone, it sealedblessing upon the man and the woman. It was a poem in praise of marriagepassion; it was a paean proclaiming the accomplishment of life. Crude,primitive, it thrilled with Eastern feeling; a weird charm was showeredfrom its notes.
"Listen!" exclaimed Jethro again, a fire burning in his face. "That'sfor you and me. To them you are my wife, and I am your man. 'MiDuvel'--it shall be so! I know women. For an hour you will hate me; fora day you will resent me, and then you will begin to love me. You willfight me, but I will conquer. I know you--I know you--all you women. Butno, it will not be I that will conquer. It's my love that will do it.It's a den of tigers. When it breaks loose it will have its way. Hereit is. Can't you see it in my face? Can't you hear it in my voice? Don'tyou hear my heart beating? Every throb says, 'Fleda--Fleda--Fleda, cometo me.' I have loved you since you were three. I want you now. We can behappy. Every night we will make a new home. The world will be ours;the best that is in it will come to us. We will tap the trees ofhappiness--they're hid from the Gorgio world. You and I will know whereto find them. Every land shall be ours; every gift of paradise withinour reach--riches, power, children. Come back to your own people; bea true daughter of the Ry of Rys; live with your Romany chal. You willnever be at home anywhere else. It's in your bones; it's in your blood;it's deeper than all. Here, now, come to me--my wife."
He flung the flap of the tent door across the opening, shutting out thecamp-fires and the people. "Here--now--come. Be mine while they sing."
For one swift moment the great passion and eloquence of the man liftedher off her feet; for one instant the Romany in her triumphed, and athrill of passion passed through her, storming her senses, like a mistshutting out all the rest of the world. This Romany was right; there wasin her the wild thing--the everlasting strain of race and years breakingdown all the defences which civilized life had built up within her. Justfor one instant so--and then there flashed before her a face with twoblind eyes.
Like a stream of ether playing upon warm flesh, making it icy cold, sosomething of the ineradicable good in her swept like a frozen sprayupon the elements of emotion, and with both hands she made a gesture ofrepulsion.
His eyes with their reddish glow burned nearer and nearer to her. Hebulked over her, driving her back against the couch by the tent wall.For an instant like that--and then, with clenched hand, she struck himin the face.
Swift as had been the change in her, so a change like a cyclone sweptover him. The hysterical passion which had possessed him suddenlypassed, and a dark, sullen determination swept into his eyes and overhis face. His lips parted in a savage smile.
"Hell, so that's what you've learned in the Gorgio world, is it?" heasked malevolently. "Then I'll teach you what they do in the Romanyworld; and to-morrow you can put the two together and see what they looklike."
With a Romany expletive, he flung back the curtain of the tent andpassed out into the night.
For a long time Fleda sat stunned and overcome by the side of thecouch, her brain tortured by a thousand thoughts. She knew there was noimmediate escape from the encampment. She could only rely upon the hueand cry which would be raised and the certain hunt which would be madefor her. But what might not happen before any rescue came? The ancient
grudge of the Fawes against the Druses had gained power and activity bythe self-imposed exile of Gabriel Druse; and Jethro had worked upon it.The veiled threats which Jethro had made she did not despise. He was abarbarian. He would kill what he loved; he would have his way withwhat he loved, whether or not it was the way of law or custom or right.Outside, the wedding song still made musical the night. Women's voices,shrill, and with falsetto notes, made the trees ring with it; low, bassvoices gave it a kind of solemnity. The view which the encampment tookof her captivity was clear. Where was the woman that brought her to thetent--whose tent it was? She seemed kind. Though her face had a hardlook, surely she meant to be friendly. Or did she only mean to betrayher; to give her a fancied security, and leave her to Jethro--and thenight? She looked round for some weapon. There was nothing availablesave two brass candlesticks. Though the door of the tent was closed, sheknew that there were watchers outside; that any break for liberty wouldonly mean defeat, and yet she was determined to save herself.
As she tried to take the measure of the situation and plan what shewould do, the noise of the music suddenly ceased, and she heard a voice,though low in tone, give some sort of command. Then there was a cry,and what seemed the chaotic noise of a struggle followed; then a voicea little louder speaking, a voice of someone she remembered, though shecould not place it. Something vital was happening outside, somethingpunctuated by sharp, angry exclamations; afterwards a voice speakingsoothingly, firmly, prevailed; and then there was silence. As shelistened there was a footstep at the door of the tent, a voice calledto her softly, and a hand drew aside the tent curtain. The woman who hadbrought her to this place entered.
"You are all safe now," she said, reaching out both hands to Fleda. "Bylong and by last, but it was a close shave! He meant to make you hiswife to-night, whether you would or no. I'm a Fawe, but I'd have none ofthat. I was on my way to your father's house when I met someone--someonethat you know. He carries your father's voice in his mouth."
She stepped to the tent door and beckoned; and out of the darkness, onlyfaintly lightened by the dying fires, there entered one whom Fleda hadseen not more than fifty times in her life, and never but twice sinceshe had ceased to be a Romany. It was her father's secret agent, Rhodo,the Roumelian, now grizzled and gaunt, but with the same vitality whichhad been his in the days when she was a little child.
Here and there in the world went Rhodo, the voice of the Ry of Rys to dohis bidding, to say his say. No minister of a Czar was ever more dreadedor loved. His words were ever few, but his deeds had been many. Now, ashe looked at Fleda, his old eyes gleamed, and he showed a double row ofteeth, not one of which was imperfect, though he was seventy years ofage.
"Would you like to come?" he asked. "Would you like to come home to theRy?"
With a cry she flung herself upon him. "Rhodo! Rhodo!" she exclaimed,and now the tears broke forth, and her body shook with sobs.
A few moments later he said to her: "It's fifteen years since you kissedme last. I thought you were ashamed of old Rhodo."
She did not answer, but looked at him with eyes streaming, drawing backfrom him. Her embrace was astonishing even to herself, for as a childRhodo had been a figure of awe to her, and the feeling had deepened asthe years had gone on, knowing as she did his work throughout the worldfor the Ry of Rys. In his face was secrecy, knowledge, and some tragicunderthing which gave him, apart from his office, a singular lonelinessof figure and manner. He was so closely knit in form; there was suchconcentration in face, bearing and gesture, that the isolation of hisposition was greatly deepened.
"No, you never kissed me after you were old enough to like or dislike,"he said with mournful and ironical reflection.
There crept into his face a kind of yearning such as one might feel whobeheld afar off a promised land, and yet was denied its joys. Rhodowas wifeless, childless, and had been so for forty years. He had hadno intimates among the Romany people. His life he lived alone. That thedaughter of the Ry of Rys should kiss him was a thing of which he woulddream when deeds were done and over and the shadows threatened.
"I will kiss you again in another fifteen years," she said half-smilingthrough her tears. "But tell me--tell me what has happened."
"Jethro Fawe has gone," he answered with a sweeping outward gesture.
"Where has he gone?" she asked, apprehension seizing her.
"A journey into the night," responded the old man with scorn and wrathin his tone, and his lips were set.
"Is he going far?" she asked.
"The road you might think long would be short to him," he answered.
Her hands became cold; her heart seemed to stop beating.
"What road is that?" she asked. She knew, but she must ask.
"Everybody knows it; everybody goes it some time or another," heanswered darkly.
"What was it you said to all of them outside?"--she made a gesturetowards the doorway. "There were angry cries, and I heard Jethro Fawe'svoice."
"Yes, he was blaspheming," remarked the old man grimly.
"Tell me what it was you said, and tell me what has happened," shepersisted.
The old man hesitated a moment, then said grimly: "I told them they mustgo one way and Jethro Fawe another. I told them the Ry of Rys had saidno patrins should mark the road Jethro Fawe's feet walked. I had heardof this gathering here, and I was on my way to bid them begone, forin following the Ry they have broken his command. As I came, I met thewoman of this tent who has been your friend. She is a good woman; shehas suffered. Her people are gone, but she has a heart for others. I mether. She told me of what that rogue and devil had done and would do.He is the head of the Fawes, but the Ry of Rys is the head of all theRomanys of the world. He has spoken the Word against Jethro, and theWord shall prevail. The Word of the Ry when it is given cannot bewithdrawn. It is like the rock on which the hill rests."
"They did not go with him?" she asked.
"It is not the custom," he answered sardonically. "That is a path aRomany walks alone."
Her face was white. "But he has not come to the end of the path--hashe?" she asked tremulously. "Who can tell? This day, or twenty yearsfrom now, or to-morrow, or next moon, he will come to the end of thepath. No one knows, he least of all. He will not see the end, becausethe road is dark. I don't think it will be soon," he added, because hesaw how haggard her face had grown. "No, I don't think it will be soon.He is a Fawe, at the head of all the Fawes; so perhaps there will betime for him to think, and no doubt it will not be soon."
"Perhaps it will not be at all. My father spoke, but he can withdraw hisword," she urged.
Suddenly the old Gipsy's face hardened. A look of dark resolve and ironforce came into it.
"The Ry will not withdraw. He has spoken, and it must be. If he spokelightly he is not fit to rule. Unless the word of the Ry of Rys is goodagainst breaking, then the Romanys are no more than scattered leavesat the will of the wind. It is the word of the Ry that holds our folktogether. It shall not bless, and it shall not curse in vain."
Pitying the girl's face, however, and realizing that the Gorgio life hadgiven her a new view of things; angry with her because it was so, butloving her for herself, he added:
"But the night road may be long, though it is lonely, and if it shouldbe that the Ry should pass before the end of the road comes to Jethro,then is Jethro freed, since the Word is gone which binds his feet forthe pitfall."
"He must not die," she insisted.
"Then the Ry of Rys must not live," he rejoined sternly. With a kindlygesture, however, he stretched out his hand. "Come, we shall reach thehouse of the Ry before the morning," he added. "He is not returned fromhis journey, and so will not be troubled by having missed you. Therewill be an hour for beauty-sleep before the sun rises," he continuedwith the same wide smile with which he greeted her first. Then he liftedup the curtain and passed out into the night.
Following him, Fleda saw that the Romanys had broken camp, and only asmall handful remained, among them the woman who
had befriended her.Fleda went up to her:
"I will never forget you," she said. "Will you wear this for me?" sheadded, and she took from her throat a brooch which she had worn eversince her first days in England, after her great illness there. Thewoman accepted the brooch. "Lady love," she said, "you've lost yoursleep to-night, but that's a loss you can make good. If there's anight's sleep owing you, you can collect the debt some time. No, anight's sleep lost in a tent is nothing, if you're the only one in thetent. But if you're not alone, and you lose a night's sleep, someoneelse may pick it up, and you might never get it again!"
A flush slowly stole over Fleda's face, and a look of horror came intoher eyes. She read the parable aright.
"Will you let me kiss you?" she said to the woman, and now it was thewoman's turn to flush.
"You are the daughter of the Ry of Rys," she said almost shyly, yetproudly.
"I'm a girl with a debt to pay and can never pay it," Fleda answered,putting her arms impulsively around the woman's neck and kissing her.Then she took the brooch from the woman's hand, and pinned it at herthroat.
"Think of Fleda of the Druses sometimes," she said, and she laid a handupon the woman's breast. "Lady love--lady love," said the blunt womanwith the pockmarked face, "you've had the worst fright to-night thatyou'll ever have." She caught Fleda's hand and peered into it. "Yes,it's happiness for you now, and on and on," she added exultingly, andwith the fortune-teller's air. "You've passed the danger place, andthere'll be wealth and a man who's been in danger, too; and there'schildren, beautiful children--I see them."
In confusion, Fleda snatched her hand away. "Good-bye, you fool-woman,"she said impatiently, yet gently, too. "You talk such sense and suchnonsense. Good-bye," she added brusquely, but yet she smiled at thewoman as she turned away.
A moment later she was on her way back to Manitou, but she did not getto her father's house before the break of day; and in the doorway shemet Madame Bulteel, whose pale, drawn face proclaimed a sleepless night.
"Tell me what has happened? Tell me what has happened?" she asked indistress.
Fleda took both her hands. "Before I answer, tell me what has happenedhere," she said breathlessly. "What news?"
Madame Bulteel's face lighted. "Good news," she exclaimed eagerly.
"He will see--he will see again?" Fleda asked in great agitation.
"The Montreal doctor said that the chances were even," answered MadameBulteel. "This man from the States says it is a sure thing."
With a murmur Fleda sank into a chair, and a faintness came over her.
"That's not like a Romany," remarked old Rhodo. "No, it's certainly notlike a Romany," remarked Madame Bulteel meaningly.