The World For Sale: Chapter 22

Chapter 22

THE SECRET MAN

"You are wasting your time."

Fleda said the words with a quiet determination, and yet in the tone was
a slight over-emphasis which was like a call upon reserve forces within
herself.

"Time is nothing to me," was the complete reply, clothed in a tone of
soft irony. "I'm young enough to waste it. I've plenty of it in my
knapsack."

"Have you forgotten the Sentence of the Patrin?" Fleda asked the question
in a voice which showed a sudden access of determination.

"He will have to wipe it out after to-morrow," replied the other with a
gleam of sulky meaning and furtive purpose in his eyes.

"If you mean that I will change my mind to-morrow, and be your wife, and
return to the Gipsy life, it is the thought of a fool. I asked you to
come here to speak with me because I was sure I could make you see things
as they truly are. I wanted to explain why I did not tell the Romanys
outside there that the Sentence had been passed on you. I did not tell
them because I can't forget that your people and my people have been 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 say about
it. If I had remained a Gipsy, who can tell--my mind might have become
like yours! I think there must be something rash and bad in me somewhere,
because I tell you frankly now that a chord in my heart rang when you
made your wild speeches to me there in the hut in the Wood months 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 alone among
his foes, a hundred to one, you betrayed him. That itself would have made
me despise you to the end of my life, even if the man had been nothing at
all to me.

"It was a low, cowardly thing to do. You did it; and if you were my
brother, I would hate you for it; if you were my father, I should leave
your house; if you were my husband, I should kill you. I asked you to
speak with me now because I thought that if you would go away--far
away--promising never to cross my father's path, or my path, again, I
could get him to withdraw the Sentence. You have kidnapped me. Where do
you think you are? In Mesopotamia? You can't break the law of this
country and escape as you would there. They don't take count of Romany
custom here. Not only you, but every one of the Fawes here will be
punished if the law reaches for your throat. I want you to escape, and I
tell you to go now. Go back to Europe. I advise you this for your own
sake--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 I would
rather die near you than far away," he exclaimed.

His eyes had a sardonic look, there was a savage edge to his tongue, yet
his face was flushed with devouring emotion and he was quivering with
hope. 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 of
Eastern races bled into his brain now. He was reckless, rebellious
against fate, insanely wilful, and what she had said concerning Ingolby
had roused in him the soul of Cain.

She realized it, and she was apprehensive of some desperate act; yet she
had no physical fear of him. Something seemed to tell her that, no matter
what happened, Ingolby would not wait for her in vain, and that he 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 me with
your Gorgio talk and the clever things you've learned in the Gorgio
world. You try to look down on me. I'm as well born or as ill born as
you. The only difference between us is the way you dress, the way you
live 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 little
practice, can talk like Gorgio dukes and earls. I've been among them and
I know. I've had my friends among them, too. I've got the hang of it all.
It's no good to me, and I don't want it. It's all part of a set piece.
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 high places
who can't blush. It's no good; it brings nothing in the end. It's all
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've
got their share of happiness, and every day has its pleasures. Listen to
them!" he cried with a gesture of exultation. "Listen to that!"

The colour slowly left Fleda's face. Outside in the light of the dying
fires, under the glittering stars, in the shade of the trees, groups of
Romanys were singing the Romany wedding melody, called "The Song of the
Sealing." It was not like the ringing of wedding bells alone, it sealed
blessing upon the man and the woman. It was a poem in praise of marriage
passion; it was a paean proclaiming the accomplishment of life. Crude,
primitive, it thrilled with Eastern feeling; a weird charm was showered
from its notes.

"Listen!" exclaimed Jethro again, a fire burning in his face. "That's for
you and me. To them you are my wife, and I am your man. 'Mi Duvel'--it
shall be so! I know women. For an hour you will hate me; for a day you
will resent me, and then you will begin to love me. You will fight me,
but I will conquer. I know you--I know you--all you women. But no, 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. Here it is. Can't
you see it in my face? Can't you hear it in my voice? Don't you hear my
heart beating? Every throb says, 'Fleda--Fleda--Fleda, come to me.' I
have loved you since you were three. I want you now. We can be happy.
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 of
happiness--they're hid from the Gorgio world. You and I will know where
to find them. Every land shall be ours; every gift of paradise within our
reach--riches, power, children. Come back to your own people; be a true
daughter of the Ry of Rys; live with your Romany chal. You will never 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 the
camp-fires and the people. "Here--now--come. Be mine while they sing."

For one swift moment the great passion and eloquence of the man lifted
her off her feet; for one instant the Romany in her triumphed, and a
thrill of passion passed through her, storming her senses, like a mist
shutting out all the rest of the world. This Romany was right; there was
in her the wild thing--the everlasting strain of race and years breaking
down all the defences which civilized life had built up within her. Just
for one instant so--and then there flashed before her a face with two
blind eyes.

Like a stream of ether playing upon warm flesh, making it icy cold, so
something of the ineradicable good in her swept like a frozen spray upon
the elements of emotion, and with both hands she made a gesture of
repulsion.

His eyes with their reddish glow burned nearer and nearer to her. He
bulked over her, driving her back against the couch by the tent wall. For
an instant like that--and then, with clenched hand, she struck him in the
face.

Swift as had been the change in her, so a change like a cyclone swept
over him. The hysterical passion which had possessed him suddenly passed,
and a dark, sullen determination swept into his eyes and over his face.
His lips parted in a savage smile.

"Hell, so that's what you've learned in the Gorgio world, is it?" he
asked malevolently. "Then I'll teach you what they do in the Romany
world; and to-morrow you can put the two together and see what they look
like."

With a Romany expletive, he flung back the curtain of the tent and passed
out into the night.

For a long time Fleda sat stunned and overcome by the side of the couch,
her brain tortured by a thousand thoughts. She knew there was no
immediate escape from the encampment. She could only rely upon the hue
and cry which would be raised and the certain hunt which would be made
for her. But what might not happen before any rescue came? The ancient
grudge of the Fawes against the Druses had gained power and activity by
the 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 a
barbarian. He would kill what he loved; he would have his way with what
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, bass
voices gave it a kind of solemnity. The view which the encampment took of
her captivity was clear. Where was the woman that brought her to the
tent--whose tent it was? She seemed kind. Though her face had a hard
look, surely she meant to be friendly. Or did she only mean to betray
her; to give her a fancied security, and leave her to Jethro--and the
night? She looked round for some weapon. There was nothing available save
two brass candlesticks. Though the door of the tent was closed, she knew
that there were watchers outside; that any break for liberty would only
mean defeat, and yet she was determined to save herself.

As she tried to take the measure of the situation and plan what she would
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 voice a little
louder speaking, a voice of someone she remembered, though she could not
place it. Something vital was happening outside, something punctuated by
sharp, angry exclamations; afterwards a voice speaking soothingly,
firmly, prevailed; and then there was silence. As she listened there was
a footstep at the door of the tent, a voice called to her softly, and a
hand drew aside the tent curtain. The woman who had brought her to this
place entered.

"You are all safe now," she said, reaching out both hands to Fleda. "By
long and by last, but it was a close shave! He meant to make you his wife
to-night, whether you would or no. I'm a Fawe, but I'd have none of that.
I was on my way to your father's house when I met someone--someone that
you know. He carries your father's voice in his mouth."

She stepped to the tent door and beckoned; and out of the darkness, only
faintly lightened by the dying fires, there entered one whom Fleda had
seen not more than fifty times in her life, and never but twice since she
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 which had
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 do
his bidding, to say his say. No minister of a Czar was ever more dreaded
or loved. His words were ever few, but his deeds had been many. Now, as
he looked at Fleda, his old eyes gleamed, and he showed a double row of
teeth, not one of which was imperfect, though he was seventy years of
age.

"Would you like to come?" he asked. "Would you like to come home to the
Ry?"

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 kissed
me last. I thought you were ashamed of old Rhodo."

She did not answer, but looked at him with eyes streaming, drawing back
from him. Her embrace was astonishing even to herself, for as a child
Rhodo had been a figure of awe to her, and the feeling had deepened as
the years had gone on, knowing as she did his work throughout the world
for the Ry of Rys. In his face was secrecy, knowledge, and some tragic
underthing which gave him, apart from his office, a singular loneliness
of figure and manner. He was so closely knit in form; there was such
concentration in face, bearing and gesture, that the isolation of his
position 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 who
beheld afar off a promised land, and yet was denied its joys. Rhodo was
wifeless, childless, and had been so for forty years. He had had no
intimates among the Romany people. His life he lived alone. That the
daughter of the Ry of Rys should kiss him was a thing of which he would
dream when deeds were done and over and the shadows threatened.

"I will kiss you again in another fifteen years," she said half-smiling
through 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 wrath in
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," he answered
darkly.

"What was it you said to all of them outside?"--she made a gesture
towards the doorway. "There were angry cries, and I heard Jethro Fawe's
voice."

"Yes, he was blaspheming," remarked the old man grimly.

"Tell me what it was you said, and tell me what has happened," she
persisted.

The old man hesitated a moment, then said grimly: "I told them they must
go one way and Jethro Fawe another. I told them the Ry of Rys had said no
patrins should mark the road Jethro Fawe's feet walked. I had heard of
this gathering here, and I was on my way to bid them begone, for in
following the Ry they have broken his command. As I came, I met the woman
of this tent who has been your friend. She is a good woman; she has
suffered. Her people are gone, but she has a heart for others. I met her.
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 the Romanys of
the world. He has spoken the Word against Jethro, and the Word shall
prevail. The Word of the Ry when it is given cannot be withdrawn. 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 a
Romany walks alone."

Her face was white. "But he has not come to the end of the path--has he?"
she asked tremulously. "Who can tell? This day, or twenty years from now,
or to-morrow, or next moon, he will come to the end of the path. No one
knows, he least of all. He will not see the end, because the road is
dark. I don't think it will be soon," he added, because he saw 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 be time 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 his
word," she urged.

Suddenly the old Gipsy's face hardened. A look of dark resolve and iron
force came into it.

"The Ry will not withdraw. He has spoken, and it must be. If he spoke
lightly he is not fit to rule. Unless the word of the Ry of Rys is good
against breaking, then the Romanys are no more than scattered leaves at
the will of the wind. It is the word of the Ry that holds our folk
together. It shall not bless, and it shall not curse in vain."

Pitying the girl's face, however, and realizing that the Gorgio life had
given her a new view of things; angry with her because it was so, but
loving her for herself, he added:

"But the night road may be long, though it is lonely, and if it should be
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 for the
pitfall."

"He must not die," she insisted.

"Then the Ry of Rys must not live," he rejoined sternly. With a kindly
gesture, however, he stretched out his hand. "Come, we shall reach the
house of the Ry before the morning," he added. "He is not returned from
his journey, and so will not be troubled by having missed you. There will
be an hour for beauty-sleep before the sun rises," he continued with the
same wide smile with which he greeted her first. Then he lifted up the
curtain and passed out into the night.

Following him, Fleda saw that the Romanys had broken camp, and only a
small 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?" she
added, and she took from her throat a brooch which she had worn ever
since her first days in England, after her great illness there. The woman
accepted the brooch. "Lady love," she said, "you've lost your sleep
to-night, but that's a loss you can make good. If there's a night's sleep
owing you, you can collect the debt some time. No, a night's sleep lost
in a tent is nothing, if you're the only one in the tent. But if you're
not alone, and you lose a night's sleep, someone else 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 into
her eyes. She read the parable aright.

"Will you let me kiss you?" she said to the woman, and now it was the
woman's turn to flush.

"You are the daughter of the Ry of Rys," she said almost shyly, yet
proudly.

"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 her
throat.

"Think of Fleda of the Druses sometimes," she said, and she laid a hand
upon the woman's breast. "Lady love--lady love," said the blunt woman
with the pockmarked face, "you've had the worst fright to-night that
you'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, and with the
fortune-teller's air. "You've passed the danger place, and there'll be
wealth and a man who's been in danger, too; and there's children,
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 such
nonsense. Good-bye," she added brusquely, but yet she smiled at the woman
as she turned away.

A moment later she was on her way back to Manitou, but she did not get to
her father's house before the break of day; and in the doorway she met
Madame Bulteel, whose pale, drawn face proclaimed a sleepless night.

"Tell me what has happened? Tell me what has happened?" she asked in
distress.

Fleda took both her hands. "Before I answer, tell me what has happened
here," 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 Madame
Bulteel. "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 not
like a Romany," remarked Madame Bulteel meaningly.

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