The World For Sale, Complete - Gilbert Parker
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It was clear that many of them were deeply moved at being in the presence
of the daughter of the Ry of Rys, who had for so long exiled himself.
Racial, family, clan feeling spoke in voice and gesture, in look and
attitude; but yet there were small groups of younger men whose
salutations were perfunctory, not to say mocking. These were they who
resented deeply Fleda's defection, and truthfully felt that she had
passed out of their circle for ever; that she despised them, and looked
down on them from another sphere. They were all about the age of Jethro
Fawe, but were of a less civilized type, and had semi-barbarism written
all over them. Unlike Jethro they had never known the world of cities.
They repudiated Fleda, because their ambition could not reach to her.
They recognized the touch of fashion and of form, of a worldly education,
of a convention which lifted her away from the tan and the caravan, from
the everlasting itinerary. They had not had Jethro's experiences in
fashionable hotels of Europe, at midnight parties, at gay suppers, at
garish dances, where Gorgio ladies answered the amorous looks of the
ambitious Romany with the fiddle at his chin. Because these young Romanys
knew they dare not aspire, they were resentful; but Jethro, the head of
the rival family and the son of the dead claimant to the headship, had
not such compulsory modesty. He had ranged far and wide, and his
expectations were extensive. He was nowhere to be seen in the groups
which sang and gestured in the light of the many coloured fires, though
once or twice Fleda's quickened ear detected his voice, exulting, in the
chorus of song.
Presently, as she stood watching, listening, and strangely moved in spite
of herself by the sudden dramatic turn which things had taken, a seat was
brought to her. It was a handsome stool, looted perhaps from some chateau
in the Old World, and over it was thrown a dark-red cloth which gave a
semblance of dignity to the seat of authority, which it was meant to be.
Fleda did not refuse the honour. She had choked back the indignant words
which had rushed to her lips as she left the tent where she had been
lying. Prudence had bade her await developments. She could not yet make
up her mind what to do. It was clear that a bold and deep purpose lay
behind it all, and she could not tell how far-reaching it was, nor what
it represented of rebellion against her father's authority. That it did
represent rebellion she had no doubt. She was well enough aware of the
claims of Jethro's dead father to the leadership, abandoned for three
thousand pounds and marriage with herself; and she was also aware that
while her father's mysterious isolation might possibly have developed a
reverence for him, yet active pressure and calumny might well have done
its work. Also, if the marriage was repudiated, Jethro would be justified
in resuming the family claim to the leadership.
She seated herself upon the scarlet seat with a gesture of thanks, while
the salutations and greetings increased; then she awaited events,
thrilled by the weird and pleasant music, with its touches of Eastern
fantasy. In spite of herself she was moved, as Romanys, men and women,
ran forward in excitement with arms raised towards her as though they
meant to strike her, then suddenly stopped short, made obeisance, called
a greeting, and ran backwards to their places.
Presently a group of men began a ceremony or ritual, before which the
spectators now and again covered their eyes, or bent their heads low, or
turned their backs, and raised their hands in a sort of ascription. As
the ceremony neared its end, with its strange genuflections, a woman
dressed in white was brought forward, her hands bound behind her, her
hair falling over her shoulders, and after a moment of apparent
denunciation on the part of the head of the ceremony, she was suddenly
thrown to the ground, and the pretence of drawing a knife across her
throat was made. As Fleda watched it she shuddered, but presently braced
herself, because she knew that this ritual was meant to show what the end
must be of those who, like herself, proved traitor to the traditions of
race.
It was at this point, when fifty knives flashed in the air, with vengeful
exclamations, that Jethro Fawe appeared in the midst of the crowd. He was
dressed in the well-known clothes which he had worn since the day he
first declared himself at Gabriel Druse's home, and, compared with his
friends around him, he showed to advantage. There was command in his
bearing, and experience of life had given him primitive distinction.
For a moment he stood looking at Fleda in undisguised admiration, for she
made a remarkable picture. Animal beauty was hers, too. There was a
delicate, athletic charm in her body and bearing; but it added to, rather
than took away from, the authority of her presence, so differing from
Jethro. She had never compared herself with others, and her passionate
intelligence would have rebelled against the supremacy of the body. She
had no physical vanity, but she had some mental vanity, and it placed
mind so far above matter that her beauty played no part in her
calculations. At sight of him, Fleda's blood quickened, but in
indignation and in no other sense. As he came towards her, however,
despising his vanity as she did, she felt how much he was above all those
by whom he was surrounded. She realized his talent, and it almost made
her forget his cunning and his loathsomeness. As he came near to her he
made a slight gesture to someone in the crowd, and a chorus of
salutations rose.
Composed and still she waited for him to come quite close to her, and the
look in her face was like that of one who was scarcely conscious of what
was passing around her, whose eyes saw distant things of infinite moment.
A few feet away from her he spoke.
"Daughter of the Ry of Rys, you are among your own people once again," he
said. "From everywhere in the world they have come to show their love for
you. You would not have come to them of your own free will, because a
madness 'got hold of you, and so they came to you. You cut yourself off
from them and told yourself you had become a Gorgio. But that was only
your madness; and madness can be cured. We are the Fawes, the ancient
Fawes, who ruled the Romany people before the Druses came to power. We
are of the ancient blood, yet we are faithful to the Druse that rules
over us. His word prevails, although his daughter is mad. Daughter of the
Ry of Rys, you have seen us once again. We have sung to you; we have
spoken to you; we have told you what is in our hearts; we have shown you
how good is the end of those who are faithful, and how terrible is the
end of the traitor. Do not forget it. Speak to us."
Fleda had a fierce desire to spring to her feet and declare to them all
that the sentence of the patrin had been passed upon Jethro Fawe, but she
laid a hand upon herself. She knew they were unaware that the Sentence
had been passed, else they would not have been with Jethro. In that case
none would give him food or shelter or the hand of friendship; none dare
show him any kindness; and it was the law that any one against whom he
committed an offence, however small, might take his life. The Sentence
had been like a cloud upon her mind ever since her father had passed it;
she could not endure the thought of it. She could not bring herself to
speak of it--to denounce him. Sooner or later the Sentence would reach
every Romany everywhere, and Jethro would pass into the darkness of
oblivion, not in his own time nor in the time of Fate. The man was
abhorrent to her, yet his claim was there. Mad and bad as it was, he made
his claim of her upon ancient rights, and she was still enough a Romany
to see his point of view.
Getting to her feet slowly, she ignored Jethro, looked into the face of
the crowd, and said:
"I am the daughter of the Ry of Rys still, though I am a Romany no
longer. I made a pledge to be no more a Romany and I will keep it; yet
you and all Romany people are dear to me because through long generations
the Druses have been of you. You have brought me here against my will. Do
you think the Ry of Rys will forgive that? In your words you have been
kind to me, but yet you have threatened me. Do you think that a Druse has
any fear? Did a Druse ever turn his cheek to be smitten? You know what
the Druses are. I am a Druse still. I will not talk longer, I have
nothing to say to you all except that you must take me back to my father,
and I will see that he forgives you. Some of you have done this out of
love; some of you have done it out of hate; yet set me free again upon
the path to my home, and I shall forget it, and the Ry of Rys will forget
it."
At that instant there suddenly came forward from the doorway of a tent on
the outskirts of the crowd a stalwart woman, with a strong face and a
self-reliant manner. She was still young, but her slightly pockmarked
countenance showed the wear and tear of sorrow of some kind. She had,
indeed, lost her husband and her father in the Montenegrin wars.
Hastening forward to Fleda she reached out a hand.
"Come with me," she said; "come and sleep in my tent to-night. To-morrow
you shall go back to the Ry of Rys, perhaps. Come with me."
There was a sudden murmuring in the crowd, which was stilled by a motion
of Jethro Fawe's hand, and a moment afterwards Fleda gave her hand to the
woman.
"I will go with you," Fleda said. Then she turned to Jethro: "I wish to
speak to you alone, Jethro Fawe," she added.
He laughed triumphantly. "The wife of Jethro Fawe wishes to speak with
him," he bombastically cried aloud to the assembled people, and he
prepared to follow Fleda.
As Fleda entered the woman's tent a black-eyed girl, with tousled hair
and a bold, sensual face, ran up to Jethro, and in an undertone of evil
suggestion said to him:
"To-night is yours, Jethro. You can make tomorrow sure."
CHAPTER XXII
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."