The Gipsy: A Tale (Vols I & II). G. P. R. James
and proportions, and to gauge her appetite by the Lavater standard of her mouth, she could have eaten the whole turkey of which she spoke herself--which led her, I say, to press Pharold to his food with hospitable care, declaring that he was a "king of a fellow, though somewhat whimsical."
The gipsies now drew round their fire, and scouts being thrown out on either side to guard against interruption, the pot was unswung from the cross bars that sustained it, trenchers and knives were produced, and, with nature's green robe for a table-cloth, a plentiful supper of manifold good things was spread before the race of wanderers. Nor was the meal unjoyous, nor were their figures--at all times picturesque--without an appearance of loftier beauty and more symmetrical grace, as, reclining on triclinia of nature's providing, with the fire and the evening twilight casting strange lights upon them, they fell into those free and easy attitudes which none but the children of wild activity can assume. The women of the party had all come forth from their huts, and among them were two or three lovely creatures as any race ever produced, from the chosen Hebrew to the beauty-dreaming Greek. In truth, there seemed more women than men of the tribe, and there certainly were more children than either; but due subordination was not wanting; and the urchins who were ranged behind the backs of the rest, though they wanted not sufficient food, intruded not upon the circle of their elders.
Scarcely, however, had the first mouthfuls been swallowed, and the cup passed its round, when the farthest scout--a boy of about twelve years of age--ran in, and whispered the mystical words, "A horse's feet!"
"One--or more than one?" was the instant question of Pharold, while his companions busied themselves in shovelling away the principal portions of their supper, and leaving nothing but what might pass for very frugal fare indeed. "Only one!" replied the boy, running back to his post; and the next instant another report was made to the effect, that a single horseman was coming up the road at full speed, together with such personal marks and appearances as the dim obscurity of the hour permitted the scouts to observe. All this, be it remarked, was carried on with both speed and quietude. The motions of the scouts were all as stealthy as those of a cat over a dewy green, and their words were all whispered; but their steps were quick, and their words were few and rapid.
The motions of the horseman, however, were not less speedy; and ere much counsel could be taken, he was upon the road, exactly abreast of the spot where the gipsies' fire was lighted. There he drew in his reins at once; and, springing to the ground, called aloud to one of the boys, who was acting sentinel, bidding him hold his horse.
"It is he!" said Pharold, "it is he!" and, rising from the turf, he turned to meet the stranger, who, on his part, approached directly to the fire, and at once held out his hand to the gipsy. Pharold took it, and wrung it hard, and then stood gazing upon the countenance of the stranger, as the fitful firelight flashed upon it, while his visiter fixed his eyes with equal intensity upon the dark features of the gipsy; and each might be supposed to contemplate the effect of time's blighting touch upon the face of the other, and apply the chilling tidings such an examination always yields to his own heart.
It is probable, indeed, that such was really the case; for the first words of the gipsy were, "Ay, we are both changed indeed!"
"We are so, truly, Pharold," replied the stranger; "so many years cannot pass without change. But did my last letter reach you?"
"It did," replied the gipsy, "and I have done all that you required."
"Did you obtain a sight of him?" demanded the other, eagerly.
"I did," answered the gipsy, "in the park, as he walked alone--I leaped the wall, and--"
Hitherto, all those first hurried feelings which crowd upon us, when, after a long lapse of years, we meet again with some one whom circumstances have connected closely with us in the past, had prevented the gipsy and his companion from remarking--or rather from remembering--the presence of so many witnesses. In the midst of what he was saying, however, the eye of Pharold glanced for a moment from the face of his companion to the circle by the fire, and he suddenly stopped. The other understood his motive at once, and replied, "True, true; let us come away for a moment, for I must hear it all."
"Of course," answered Pharold, "though you will hear much, perhaps, that you would rather not hear. But come, let us go into the road; we shall be farther there from human ears than anywhere else."
As they walked towards the highway both were silent; for there is not such a dumb thing on the face of the earth as deep emotion; and for some reason, which may, or may not, be explained hereafter, both the stranger and the gipsy were more moved by their meeting in that spot than many less firm spirits have been on occasions of more apparent importance.
After thus walking on without a word for two or three hundred yards, the gipsy abruptly resumed his speech. "Well, well," he said, "when we are young we think of the future, and when we are old we think of the past; and, by my fathers, there is no use of thinking of either! We cannot change what is coming, nor mend what is gone; but, as I was saying, I have seen him: I found that he walked every day in the park by himself, and I watched his hour from behind the wall, and saw him come up the long avenue that leads to the west gate--you remember it?"
"Well, well," answered the other; "but how did he look?--Tell me, Pharold, how did he look?"
"Dark enough, and gloomy," answered the gipsy: "he came with his hands behind his back, and his hat over his brows, and his eyes bent upon the ground; and ever as he walked onward, his white teeth--for he has fine teeth still--gnawed his under lip; and, for my part, if my solitary walk were every day to be like that, I would not walk at all; but would rather lie me down by the roadside and die at once. Well then, often too as he came, he would stop and fix his eyes upon one particular pebble in the gravel, and stare at it, as if it had been enchanted; and then, with a great start, would look behind him to see if there was anyone watching his gloomy ways; or would suddenly whistle, as if for his dogs, though he had no dog with him."
His companion drew a deep sigh, and then asked, "But how seemed he in health, Pharold? Is he much changed? He was once as strong a man as any one could see--does he still seem vigorous and well?"
"You would not know him," replied the gipsy, and was going on, but the other broke in vehemently.
"Not know him? That I would!" he exclaimed, "though age might have whitened his hair and dimmed his eye--though suffering might have shrivelled his flesh and bowed his stature--though death itself, and corruption in its train, might have wrought for days upon him, I would know him so long as the dust held together.--What, Pharold, not know him?--I not know him?"
"Well, well," answered the gipsy, "I meant that he was changed--far, far more changed than you are--you were a young man when last we met, at least in your prime of strength, and now you are an old one, that is all. But he--he does not seem aged but blighted. It is not like a flower that has blown, and bloomed, and withered, but one that with a worm in its heart has shrunk, and shrivelled, and faded. He is yellower than I am, though I gain my colour from a long race who brought it centuries ago from a land of sunshine, and he has got it in less than twenty years from the scorching of a heart on fire. He is bent, too; and his features are as thin as a heron's bill."
"Sad--sad--sad," said his companion; "but how could it be otherwise? Well, what more? Tell me what happened when you met him? Did he know you?"
"At once," answered the gipsy; "no, no; I have seen one of my tribe with a hot iron and an oaken board make painting of men's faces that no water could wash out; and none should know better than you, that my face has been burnt in upon his heart in such a way that it would take a river of tears to sweep away the marks of it. But let me tell my tale. When I saw that he was near, I sprang over the wall into the walk, and stood before him at once. When first he saw me he started back, as if it had been a snake that crossed him; but the moment after, I could see him recollect himself; and I knew that he was calculating whether to own he knew me, or to affect forgetfulness. He chose the first, and asked mildly enough what I did there. 'I thought you were out of the kingdom,' he said, 'and had promised Sir William Ryder never to return.' I replied that he said true, and that I had not returned till Sir William Ryder had told me to do so."
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