The Gipsy (Bell)

T five o'clock on a fine June morning a fair young man of well-groomed, person and attractive, if somewhat sober, countenance, mounted on a "pushbike," with knapsack on back, rode out of an ancient city of many towers and spires. His name was Arnold Main, and in some respects he was a fortunate young man. In the ancient city he had acquired much learning and some honours, and a few days ago he had outgrown the authority of trustees and come freely into his considerable possessions.

Now, there is nothing extraordinary in a young man riding a bicycle out of an ancient city, even at five o'clock in the morning, and the incident would not now be recorded but for its rather odd circumstances. If you had asked this particular young man why he was going away, whither he was bound, and when he would return, he could not have told you. He could not tell himself. An hour ago, waking from sleep and a dream too flimsy for memory to hold intact, he had simply obeyed an impulse to rise and go, without plan in mind or map in pouch—to make a journey without a destination, to discover he knew not what.

And now it was five in the afternoon.

He was pedalling leisurely along a narrow lane between hawthorn hedges and great elms, for whose shade he was grateful.

Rabbits peeped from the banks under the hedges, and lately a pheasant had whirred across his path. There were no sounds save the subdued soliloquies of birds and the quiet crunching of tyres on flints.

And then, rounding a bend, he found himself just behind a slowly moving caravan—a decidedly attractive little house on wheels, recently painted an olive green, with modest decorations in gilt. On either side of the door, with its fresh lace screen, pots of scarlet geraniums struck the joyous note, while a wisp of pearly smoke from the tiny chimney in the roof supplied the homely touch.

From the front came voices, droning, friendly—husband and wife, perhaps, chatting for chat's sake while the sober old horse took his own time, a contented wanderer like his owners.

On the broad step, just under the door, sat a girl in a red-and-white striped cotton frock, a light shawl of merry colours on her shoulders, red stockings on her slim ankles, which ended in stout but trim shoes. A red feather was thrust through her black tresses, and big gold rings hung from her ears, Her dark countenance was proud to the point of insolence, her attitude that of a throned queen.

"Heavens!" thought Arnold. "Royal Egypt!" And he felt his face grow warmer than the sun had made it.

He raised his cap. The girl, motionless, continued to gaze past him with lustrous, absent eyes, yet, like the ruffling of a pool by a mere breath, her expression betrayed the stir of some inward emotion. Arnold imagined the spirit of a smile, but whether of courtesy or amusement he could not feel certain.

He was now within five yards of the caravan. So narrow was the lane that, in order to pass, he must either request the driver to draw aside, or dismount and carry his cycle along the bank. He reduced his speed to that of the obstruction, half expecting the girl to call to her people, or recommend him to do so, and hoping she would do neither. The hope was realised. She continued to ignore his presence.

And of a sudden it came upon him that he had seen her before, and, of all places, at a cricket match in the ancient city in the month of May. Which, of course, was absurd. The dark girl who had attracted him at the cricket match, who had, in fact, remained as a memory, whose eyes were still among the fragments of a dream, had been no dusky foreign beuty [sic], with gold rings in her ears, but a daughter of England, escorted by an elderly man who, as Arnold chanced to learn, was an eminent doctor of philosophy. Yes, it was only the gipsy's fine features and poise that had startled remembrance.

But the silence tended to become more and more embarrassing. At last he took courage and broke it.

"The summer," he said politely, "seems to be arriving."

For twenty seconds 5 space he thought he had annoyed her. Then she responded with the barest glance and the slightest nod.

It was not encouraging, but Arnold made another venture. "Can you tell me, please, when we shall come to an inn?"

This time he obtained a shake of the head, hut no glance. And in the same moment his back tyre went flat.

He dismounted.

Had the gipsy smiled? Several times he looked after the caravan jolting to the next bend, but detected no change in her attitude.

There was no reason why he should have worked so frantically, and therefore so inefficiently, at the repair. Time was nothing to him; he had no engagement.

Half an hour later he rode up to the parting of two ways. The names on the signpost signified nothing to him. Dismounting, he examined the flinty dust. But he was no scout. Eventually he tossed a coin, and, after a ride of two miles, came to a village, and gratefully beheld the sign of "The White Hart."

An antique hostel it was, little more than an ale-house, unspoiled, it seemed, by the passage of years or the stoppage of motorists. If the lantern-jawed landlord and his quick-tongued, buxom lady looked askance at Arnold Main when he asked for a room, it was not with eyes inhospitable, and he speedily perceived that their doubts were not of him, but rather of their inn's accommodation.

"I started at five this morning," he told them, "and my cycle is giving trouble. Of course, if you can't put me up, I must just go further on, but" He smiled ruefully.

"'Twill maybe be a bit noisy here to-night and to-morrow," said the landlord. "You see, sir, 'tis the fair"

His lady cut him short. "Don't you heed Alfred, sir. 'Tis no great noise and no great fair, after all. Alfred, the poor gentleman has been on the hot road all day. Go, fetch him a glass o' the good ale, and then show him to Elfrida's room."

The landlord obeying, she went on to explain that Elfrida was her daughter, and only child, now living in London. "Alfred Hallis," she concluded, "is a good husband, bold as a lion wi' the neighbours, but terrible shy wi' stranger customers."

Alfred returned with a tray containing a glass and a small brown jug, and Arnold, who had no taste for liquor, and wanted as little as possible, said: "Only one glass! Why, Mr. Hallis, where I come from it's considered most unlucky to drink alone, especially in a lady's company!"

Mr. Hallis thought it out. "Well, now," he replied, "'tis maybe a great truth, what ye ha' said, sir." He hurried away and speedily returned with three tumblers and a brown jug of appalling capacity.

However, the incident made for friendliness, and afterwards Arnold, having given an order for a meal, followed his host up a steep narrow stair and along a passage, short but full of ups and downs. At the end he was shown into a room all whiteness and pale-blueness, airy, yet pervaded by a delicate flowery fragrance.

"'Tis the best we can do, sir," said the landlord, with an anxious glance. "Our Elfrida's, afore she went to London. A good girl, though I says it."

On Arnold's imagination, inspired by his surroundings, was filmed a virginal young creature, all dawn and lilies and roses, kneeling to pray at that white bed. But the picture faded, and another came—a dusky beauty with big gold rings in her ears.

"Your daughter is married?" he said, in idle inquiry.

"No, sir. Time enough for that, though 'tis well when a maid is settled. But our Elfrida, she was clever at her schoolin', and then she was a wonder at makin' up stories and writin' them down—all full o' fancies, Elfrida was! Her mother and me could never understand it, but there it was. And now she is in a place in London where they make books and magazines and so forth. She comes home at Christmas and Easter and midsummer, just the same, but pale. We are lookin' for her in July." The landlord pulled himself up. "But all that is nought to you, sir. Please to ring the bell if you want anything. Hot water is comin' now."

"You have interested me very much," said Arnold, turning to his knapsack, which the host had placed on a chair. "By the way, this fair—is it attended by gipsies?"

"Why, yes, sir. 'Tis amazin' how they turn up, year after year. Decent folk, mostly. Never had no trouble wi' them. And my father said the same, though my grandfather was against them."

"Your grandfather kept this inn?"

"Surely he did, and his grandfather before him. 'Tis maybe nought to boast of, sir," the landlord said, with modest pride, "but there has been an Alfred Hallis in 'The White Hart' for three hundred years and ten over."

"I hope you will allow me," said Arnold, with unaffected enthusiasm, "to shake hands with you. I don't know many families who can go back like that for three centuries."

Whereupon Mr. Hallis dissolved in shyness and, after giving a limp hand, was about to retreat, when Arnold said—

"Coming along to-day, I noticed a caravan, green and gold, with geraniums at the back. Do you know it here?"

"Ah, 'twould be old Jake Ramsey—descended, so he says, from a King o' Egypt o' that name—Ramsey the Third, I do believe. Jake's old woman used to foretell the future, and very well she did it; but foretellin' the future bein' now unlawful, except for politicians and the like, she only foretells the past and reads characters and so forth. You should step into her little tent, sir, to-night or to-morrow. A kind old soul she is, and all her children long dead, poor thing."

"But there was a—a girl on the caravan."

"Like enough. Jake and her would never refuse a lift nor yet a lodgin' to one o' their own people. Ah, here's your hot water, sir."

A piece of fresh, youthful plumpness in pink print, glowing and smiling, brought in the can and retired, followed by the landlord.

"This," reflected Arnold, sniffing the flowery fragrance, "is why I got up so early. If I've any sense, I'll book this room for a month."

And with every intention of doing so, he went downstairs twenty minutes later. As luck would have it, however, while he paused at the open door, surveying the sun-drenched, drowsy village, a gipsy boy slouched past.

"You're mad!" Arnold told himself, and turned into the parlour which now did duty as coffee-room.

The homely fare pleased his appetite, and once more he was promising himself a month's sojourn, when through the open window came riotously the music of a motor-driven conglomeration of trumpets, drums, whistles and cymbals. The fair was begun, and the gipsy girl would be there.

He was lighting a cigarette when Miss Plumpness in Pink came to see if he required anything. He assured her of his satisfaction, and inquired whether she were going to the fair.

"To-night." She smiled, then sighed. "'Tis likely we shall be too busy here to-morrow. Be you going along now, sir?"

"Later on, perhaps."

She expressed wonder that he, a free gentleman, should delay an instant to attend such delights so near at hand. "But maybe 'tis the best fun when it comes darkish and they light the lamps," she allowed, mouth demure, eyes roguish.

Arnold laughed. "I'll be looking for you when the darkness comes, and, if you like, we'll go on the roundabout."

"Not truly?"

"Only you must not let your best boy kill me."

"Haven't got a best boy."

"Well, all your other boys."

She went into a little fit of amusement. "You do say things, sir!"

Courteously he asked if he might know her name.

"Why, surely, 'tis only Ethel."

"That all?"

"Ethel Chance. But nobody calls me aught but Ethel. 'Twould not be kind"—her glance was the least thing inviting—"to call me Miss Chance—now, would it, sir?"

"I'm sure it wouldn't be true, Miss Ethel."

"Miss Ethel!" She bubbled with mirth. "It do sound too funny! I'd not be able to fetch you an egg, or anything, for laughin'!"

"But I'd rather hear you laugh than have an egg, Miss Ethel."

"Oh! Then 'twill be a plain breakfast for you to-morrow mornin, sir!"

"A pretty breakfast!"

"Oh, oh, you do say things!"

A bell rang in the passage and she vanished, still bubbling.

Doubtless it was the reaction from the philosophers and mathematicians. For a minute Arnold sat smiling at his cigarette. She was really delicious in her fresh, simple prettiness and frankness. He had half a mind

With a jolt his thoughts went back to the gipsy girl. In hazy fashion he saw himself in danger of being an ass, yet he was determined to see and, if possible, have speech with "Royal Egypt." But he would wait for a later hour. There were letters that must be written, lest his abrupt departure from the ancient city should give friends offence or apprehension.

So it was in the first grey of dusk that he approached the naphtha flares and the gay pandemonium. Not all the contributors to the fun of the fair had arrived; still, in addition to the roundabout, now in full blast, cocoanut shies and rifle-ranges were already doing business, stalls of glittering gauds and highly-coloured confections had their patrons, while booths and tents had sprung, or were springing, into shape in front of the row of caravans.

Arnold wandered about, seeking the gipsy, yet mindful of his promise to Miss Plumpness. Nor was he so absorbed in his search that he found no sympathetic pleasure in that of the rustics, mostly young men and maidens, who, pausing in their talk, stared at him in friendly enough fashion. At the fair all were equal.

He was concluding that Ethel had thought better of it, and was just a little chagrined, when he spied her emerge from a tent, above the door of which was blazoned the legend—

A young man was waiting for her, but with a word she left him and came straight to Arnold, who fancied she had lost some of her rose-tints. She was certainly agitated.

"Please," she said breathlessly, "I can't come wi' ye on the roundabout. Please, I'm terrible sorry, but I can't do it, sir."

Arnold smiled kindly. "So there's a best boy, after all, and he objects"

"No, no, 'tisn't that, sir—truly, truly." She caught his hand in a childishly confiding fashion. "'Twas a sort o' bargain, and I did mean to keep it, I did, indeed."

"Don't worry, Ethel," he said. "I'm sorry, but I'm not offended. All's right."

"But I never broke a bargain afore—never, never—not if I was hatin' the person, and I'm not hatin' you, sir."

Arnold had an idea. Nodding at the tent, he said: "Zanetta warned you against a stranger?"

Whereupon she gasped and fled into the crowd. Tenderly amused, Arnold strolled over to the tent, passing, and receiving a hard look from, the young man, who had started in pursuit of the girl.

A very old brown man, hovering near the tent, hurried forward to hold open the flap.

"Do I pay inside?" Arnold asked him.

"Yes, handsome gentleman, and outside, too, if it pleases your grace." The sly humour of the smile accompanying the remark was quite worth the shilling.

The interior was indifferently illuminated by a small lamp, with a ruby globe, set on a little table. On one side sat a bowed female figure with a gay gipsy headdress; on the other was a vacant stool. Obeying a sign, Arnold seated himself.

"Your hand, gentle sir," a soft, husky voice requested, and a brown palm received it on the board worn smooth by the superstition of generations.

For the space of a minute or so the bowed gipsy reeled off the usual jargon, concluding with the words "a shilling."

"Can't you tell me more?" Arnold asked, putting down the coin.

"One more shilling, pretty gentleman."

"Righto!" He exchanged the shilling for a florin.

This time she examined his palm with apparently real interest, and her words came slowly—

"You have learning of books, you have industry, you have been rewarded—in a great building full of people and talk and noise." She paused for a moment or two. "You are an orphan, but you are not poor. You do not need to work, but you will work, all the same. You have come from a great, old, beautiful city with many towers. You have been feeling—fed-up. And that is all."

"By Jove!" exclaimed Arnold. "Old lady, how much more do you know about me?"

"That is all," she repeated, withdrawing her hand.

But she ought to have withdrawn it swiftly, and not have turned it. Those soft brown fingers were never an "old lady's." Arnold saw, and his own hand pounced.

"Let me go!" Up went her head, and Arnold was staring into the haughty eyes of his gipsy of the caravan.

"Well!" … And like a fool—his own words half a minute later—he exploded in joyous laughter.

With a screech of concentrated indignation—it sounded like indignation—she tore her hand from his and bounced to her feet. Over went the table; crash—and out—went the lamp, and Arnold found himself alone in the dark tent. It was then that he made the self-derogatory remark just mentioned.

He struck a match, set the table on its legs, adorned it with two half-crowns—to pay for the lamp, perchance—and made his way out. The old man, engaged in assuring several eager clients that the renowned Zanetta would resume immediately, gave him a disapproving glance, followed by a naughty wink, but Arnold caught only the former.

He went up to the roundabout, recognised the delicious Ethel on a hobby-horse, heard her enraptured shrieks, saw her alluring form clasped by the young man of the tent door, and decided to go for a walk.

It was about half-past ten when he returned to "The White Hart." Business was, of course, over for the day, but he found the door standing open in the friendliest fashion. This warmed his heart, though it failed to raise his spirits.

From the ancient kitchen at the end of the passage came homely sounds of chatter and merriment, which made him feel alone in the world. With a sigh he turned to the narrow stair. At the first step he halted. Only fair to let the landlord know he had come in.

The kitchen door was not completely closed. About to knock, he could not resist a peep.

A table was laid with a snowy cloth and an abundant supper, and between host and hostess sat the gipsy girl. Truly the gipsies were in good odour at "The White Hart." But what a lovely creature she was!

Suddenly ashamed of his spying, Arnold retired softly to the front door and shut it rather noisily. This brought out the landlord, eager to learn whether his guest required anything.

"Nothing, thank you. I shall be leaving in the morning. Breakfast at nine. Good night!" said Arnold, and went upstairs.

The night was still, the air that flowed through the open window sweetly cool, the bed, with its faint fragrance, all that tired limbs and dainty senses could desire; but he lay wakeful into the dawn and dozed restlessly thereafter. Before seven he rose and went to the window. Looking upwards, his glance received the promise of another hot day; downwards, it rested a moment on an old-world garden, then leapt to a figure, in dark skirt and white jumper, seated on a bench set against a background of lilac.

At the girl's feet lay a black spaniel, on the bench beside her drowsed a white cat, both of which Arnold had noticed in the inn. He could not see the girl's face, for her dark head was bent over a writing pad, whereon she pencilled industriously.

Arnold was puzzled. There was something familiar about the girl; she reminded him of the gipsy, and yet her colouring, as glimpsed in her neck, was very English.

Unexpectedly she lifted her head, lips parted, eyes gazing into the distance as though seeking, perhaps, "the right word." And Arnold fairly jumped. No wonder she had reminded him of the gipsy, since the gipsy at first sight had reminded him of her—the girl of the cricket match! In wondering delight he stood regarding her till down went her head and off with a rush went the pencil. Why had not the landlord told him he had a lady guest? She must have arrived while he was at the fair.

Half an hour later Arnold met his host in front of the inn.

"You have a fine old garden, Mr. Hallis."

"'Tis well enough in its way," the landlord replied modestly, though he looked pleased. But he did not invite our friend to view it at close quarters.

"I've changed my mind about going to-day," said Arnold presently. "Can I have that charming room for a few days?"

There was some little hesitation on the landlord's part before he answered: "Why, yes, sir; certainly, sir. Pleased to have ye in 'The White Hart.'"

A happy thought struck Arnold. The girl in the garden must be getting hungry; she would surely want breakfast before nine. "I could do with my breakfast as soon as it can be ready," he remarked.

"Very good, sir." And Mr. Hallis hurried to the kitchen.

In the little parlour Arnold found himself alone and no preparations for another guest. Ethel, sweetly blooming as ever, but somewhat subdued in demeanour, though friendly in a shy way, waited upon him. Arnold ate slowly, with an eye on the door, but expectation dwindled with appetite, and with repletion came depression, which he endeavoured to shake off by chaffing Ethel, who was plaintively offering him a fourth egg.

"Ethel, after your cruel treatment of me last night—I had the misery of seeing you on the roundabout with a young man—what have you to say for yourself?"

"Oh, please, sir," said Ethel, all of a twitter and blushing beautifully, "him and me's goin' to wed."

"What? This is too sudden! You led me to believe there was nothing doing!"

"'Twas afore he asked me," she replied meekly, but added with dignity: "Of course, he's been after me for ages and ages."

"Well, I don't wonder; and though you have broken my heart, Ethel, I wish you happiness."

"You do say things, sir! But 'tis fine to get good wishes."

"Are you thinking of getting married soon?"

The blushes returned, and, having good hearing, Arnold understood her to say something about "come Christmas," what time she wriggled bashfully at his side.

He slipped a five-pound note from his pocket, folded it small, and pressed it into her hand, saying: "I'll be a little less unhappy, Ethel, if you'll take this with my best wishes and buy something for the home."

"Oh, sir!" she cried, beaming. And next moment the mercurial creature stooped, pressed dewy lips to his own, burst into tears, and fled from the room.

Yet two minutes later, as he was rising from the table, she came back, all smiling, and with an astounding request.

"If you please, sir, would you kindly allow Miss Elfrida to go into your bed-room?"

"Miss who?"

"Miss Elfrida—master's daughter, sir. She came home late last night, and she be stayin' a few days, and wants some o' her things from the great box in your bedroom, and"

"Where is she—Miss Elfrida—now?"

"She be waitin' at the stair. Shall I"

"I'll go, Ethel. I've got to apologise …" He dashed from the room, and Ethel put some of her apron in her mouth and went off again.

Miss Elfrida received him coldly enough.

"So sorry to trouble you. I hope Ethel explained."

"It's I who ought to be sorry, and am—truly," he said. "I will ask Mr. Hallis at once to give me another room."

"I trust you will do no such thing. I am home for only three days, and it would worry my parents if you said anything."

"But it—it's desecration!" he cried.

"Don't be silly," she quietly returned: yet, as she set foot on the step, she gave him a swift glance not altogether unkindly.

She left him transfixed. What did it all mean? He had looked in her eyes, and her eyes were, without a doubt, the eyes of the gipsy.

Later, of course, they had to argue the question as to whether he should ask for another room, and on his threatening to go out and sleep under a hedge, she gave way. And no two people, still strangers, can argue such a question without becoming, more or less, acquainted, and then they either quarrel and separate, or proceed to talk of other things. Not being void of humour, these two did the latter.

Most mysteries have simple explanations. Miss Elfrida was on the staff of a publishing firm, and for a period it had been her duty to attend upon a learned man of an ancient city, for whom the firm was publishing a ponderous and altogether fearsome treatise, and see that he corrected his proofs in a fashion that a mere human compositor could comprehend. The learned man, nevertheless, was himself quite human, and genial as well, and Miss Elfrida's task was to some extent "a picnic." As she observed, the learned man was an old dear, who really preferred live young moderns to extinct old sages. At the cricket match he had summoned and introduced sundry young men, and one of them, as it chanced, knew Arnold, and, pointing him out, had told them something of his history. So that was that!

Further, Miss Elfrida, becomingly pink, confessed that she was trying to write a book of her own, a part of which was concerned with a country fair, gipsies, and fortune-telling. So, remembering gipsy friends of her childhood, she had got into communication with them, and, later, had played gipsy for a day, afterwards surprising her parents, who, one imagines, were not then surprised by her for the first time. The maid, Ethel, had recognised her in the tent, but not before she had inquired tremblingly about a dark young man, a lover, and also about—sweet little fool!—a stranger who was not dark.

"I know you meant no harm, Mr. Main," said Elfrida—they were sitting in the old garden on the last evening of her stay, which the publishing firm had graciously extended by a week—"but Ethel is such a little goose, and Harry is such a fine young fellow, and has been so faithful, and I just felt that if Ethel, in her fun, went on the roundabout with you, he would—well, let her drop. So I said to her, with the most awful solemnity: 'No good can come of going with the handsome stranger!'"

They both laughed, and Elfrida continued: "And although she recognised me the next minute, she still took me seriously, and"—rather irrelevantly—"it was awfully nice of you to give her such a magnificent present. She tells me she can't sleep for wondering how best to spend it."

"I believe I shall sleep better to-night," said Arnold, "now that you have explained so much. But there's still one thing you have not explained. How could you know I had been feeling fed-up?"

Elfrida smiled. "It wasn't altogether a guess. In the first place, when I saw you come round the corner after the caravan—well, Mr. Main, I have eyes!"

"Heaven knows, you have!" murmured Arnold, looking into them.

"Oh!" said Elfrida, shocked; whereas, as she realised too late, she ought to have said lightly: "Don't be silly!"

"By the way," he remarked, "I've got to go to London on rather urgent business to-morrow. Would you mind if I travelled by your train, Miss Hallis?"

"I hardly think a 'third single' makes it my train, Mr. Main."

"I—I mean, in your compartment?"

"The thirds are usually pretty crowded," she said. "It's getting late, isn't it?"

"Not really." Arnold stooped to pat the spaniel, who was wildly dreaming he was following the guns. "Miss Hallis, this meeting of ours has been the most wonderful thing in the world!"

"Next to the Deluge, perhaps," she admitted, stroking the cat. More kindly: "Yes, it has all been rather a coincidence."

"Coincidence!" he exclaimed. "As a gipsy—if only for a day—won't you call it Fate?"

She did not answer. Possibly there was no need.