The World for Sale, Complete

  CHAPTER VI. THE UNGUARDED FIRES

  The public knew well that Ingolby had solved his biggest businessproblem, because three offices of three railways--one big and twosmall--suddenly became merged under his control. At which there wasrejoicing at Lebanon, followed by dismay and indignation at Manitou, forone of the smaller merged railways had its offices there, and it wasnow removed to Lebanon; while several of the staff, having provedcantankerous, were promptly retired. As they were French Canadians,their retirement became a public matter in Manitou and begot freshquarrel between the rival towns.

  Ingolby had made a tactical mistake in at once removing the officeof the merged railway from Manitou, and he saw it quickly. It was notpossible to put the matter right at once, however.

  There had already been collision between his own railway-men and therivermen from Manitou, whom Felix Marchand had bribed to cause trouble:two Manitou men had been seriously hurt, and feeling ran high. Ingolby'seyes opened wide when he saw Marchand's ugly game. He loathed thedissolute fellow, but he realized now that his foe was a factor to bereckoned with, for Marchand had plenty of money as well as a bad nature.He saw he was in for a big fight with Manitou, and he had to think itout.

  So this time he went pigeon-shooting.

  He got his pigeons, and the slaughter did him good. As though in keepingwith the situation, he shot on both sides of the Sagalac with great goodluck, and in the late afternoon sent his Indian lad on ahead to Lebanonwith the day's spoil, while he loitered through the woods, a gun slungin the hollow of his arm. He had walked many miles, but there was stilla spring to his step and he hummed an air with his shoulders thrown backand his hat on the back of his head. He had had his shooting, he haddone his thinking, and he was pleased with himself. He had shaped hishomeward course so that it would bring him near to Gabriel Druse'shouse.

  He had seen Fleda only twice since the episode at Carillon, and met heronly once, and that was but for a moment at a Fete for the hospitalat Manitou, and with other people present--people who lay in wait forcrumbs of gossip.

  Since the running of the Rapids, Fleda had filled a larger place in theeyes of Manitou and Lebanon. She had appealed to the Western mind:she had done a brave physical thing. Wherever she went she was madeconscious of a new attitude towards herself, a more understandingfeeling. At the Fete when she and Ingolby met face to face, peoplehad immediately drawn round them curious and excited. These could notunderstand why the two talked so little, and had such an every-daymanner with each other. Only old Mother Thibadeau, who had a heartthat sees, caught a look in Fleda's eyes, a warm deepening of colour, asudden embarrassment, which she knew how to interpret.

  "See now, monseigneur," she said to Monseigneur Lourde, nodding towardsFleda and Ingolby, "there would be work here soon for you or FatherBidette if they were not two heretics."

  "Is she a heretic, then, madame?" asked the old white-headed priest, hiseyes quizzically following Fleda.

  "She is not a Catholic, and she must be a heretic, that's certain," wasthe reply.

  "I'm not so sure," mused the priest. Smiling, he raised his hat as hecaught Fleda's eyes. He made as if to go towards her, but something inher look held him back. He realized that Fleda did not wish to speakwith him, and that she was even hurrying away from her father, wholumbered through the crowd as though unconscious of them all.

  Presently Monseigneur Lourde saw Fleda leave the Fete and take the roadtowards home. There was a sense of excitement in her motions, and healso had seen that tremulous, embarrassed look in her eyes. It puzzledhim. He did not connect it wholly with Ingolby as Madame Thibadeauhad done. He had lived so long among primitive people that he was moreaccustomed to study faces than find the truth from words, and he hadalways been conscious that this girl, educated and even intellectual,was at heart as primitive as the wildest daughter of the tepees of theNorth. There was also in her something of that mystery which belongs tothe universal itinerary--that cosmopolitan something which is the nativehuman.

  "She has far to go," the priest said to himself as he turned to greetIngolby with a smile, bright and shy, but gravely reproachful, too.

  This happened on the day before the collision between the railway-menand the river-drivers, and the old priest already knew what trouble wasafoot.

  There was little Felix Marchand did which was hidden from him. He madehis way to Ingolby to warn him.

  As Ingolby now walked in the woods towards Gabriel Druse's house, herecalled one striking phrase used by the aged priest in reference to theclosing of the railway offices.

  "When you strike your camp, put out the fires," was the aphorism.

  Ingolby stopped humming to himself as the words came to his memoryagain. Bending his head in thought for a moment, he stood still,cogitating.

  "The dear old fellow was right," he said presently aloud with upliftedhead. "I struck camp, but I didn't put out the fires. There's a lot ofthat in life."

  That is what had happened also to Gabriel Druse and his daughter. Theyhad struck camp, but had not put out the camp-fires. That which hadbeen done by the River Starzke came again in its appointed time. Theuntended, unguarded fire may spread devastation and ruin, following withangry freedom the marching feet of those who builded it.

  "Yes, you've got to put out your fires when you quit the bivouac,"continued Ingolby aloud, as he gazed ahead of him through the openinggreenery, beyond which lay Gabriel Druse's home. Where he was thewoods were thick, and here and there on either side it was almostimpenetrable. Few people ever came through this wood. It belonged ingreater part to Gabriel Druse, and in lesser part to the Hudson's BayCompany and the Government; and as the land was not valuable till itwas cleared, and there was plenty of prairie land to be had, from whichneither stick nor stump must be removed, these woods were very lonely.Occasionally a trapper or a sportsman wandered through them, but justhere where Ingolby was none ever loitered. It was too thick for game,there was no roadway leading anywhere, but only an overgrown path, usedin the old days by Indians. It was this path which Ingolby trod witheager steps.

  Presently, as he stood still at sight of a ground-hog making for itshiding-place, he saw a shadow fall across the light breaking through thetrees some distance in front of him. It was Fleda. She had not seenhim, and she came hurrying towards where he was with head bent, abrightly-ribboned hat swinging in her fingers. She seemed part of thewoods, its wild simplicity, its depth, its colour-already Autumn wascrimsoning the leaves, touching them with amber tints, making thewoodland warm and kind. She wore a dress of golden brown which matchedher hair, and at her throat was a black velvet ribbon with a brooch ofantique paste which flashed the light like diamonds, but more softly.

  Suddenly, as she came on, she stopped and raised her head in a listeningattitude, her eyes opening wide as if listening, too--it was as thoughshe heard with them as well; alive to catch sounds which evaded capture.She was like some creature of an ancient wood with its own secret andimmemorial history which the world could never know. There was that inher face which did not belong to civilization or to that fighting worldof which Ingolby was so eager a factor. All the generations of the woodand road, the combe and the river, the quarry and the secluded boscagewere in her look. There was that about her which was at once elusive andprimevally real.

  She was not of those who would be lost in the dust of futility.Whatever she was, she was an independent atom in the mass of the world'sbreeding. Perhaps it was consciousness of the dynamic quality in thegirl, her nearness to naked nature, which made Madame Bulteel say thatshe would "have a history."

  If she got twisted as she came wayfaring, if her mind became possessedof a false passion or purpose which she thought a true one, then tragedywould await her. Yet in this quiet wood so near to the centuries thatwere before Adam was, she looked like a spirit of comedy listening tillthe Spirit of the Wood should break the silence.

  Ingolby felt his blood beat faster. He had a feeling that he was lookingat a wood-nymph who might flash out of his vi
sion as a mere fantasy ofthe mind. There shot through him the strangest feeling that if she werehis, he would be linked with something alien to the world of which hewas.

  Yet, recalling the day at Carillon when her cheek lay on his shoulderand her warm breast was pressed unresistingly against him, as he liftedher from his boat, he knew that he would have to make the hardestfight of his life if he meant not to have more of her than this briefacquaintance, so touched by sensation and romance. He was, maybe,somewhat sensational; his career had, even in its present restrictedcompass, been spectacular; but romance, with its reveries and itsmoonshinings, its impulses and its blind adventures, had not been anypart of his existence.

  Hers were not the first red lips which, voluntarily or involuntarily,had invited him; nor hers the first eyes which had sparkled to hisglances; and this triumphant Titian head of hers was not the only one hehad seen.

  When he had taken her hand at the Hospital Fete, her fingers, long andwarm and fine, had folded round his own with a singular confidence,an involuntary enclosing friendliness; and now as he watched herlistening--did she hear something?--he saw her hand stretch out asthough commanding silence, the "hush!" of an alluring gesture.

  This assuredly was not the girl who had run the Carillon Rapids, forthat adventuress was full of a vital force like a man's, and this girlhad the evanishing charm of a dryad.

  Suddenly a change passed over her. She was as one who had listened andhad caught the note of song for which she waited; but her face clouded,and the rapt look gave way to an immediate distress. The fantasy of thewood-nymph underwent translation in Ingolby's mind; she was now like amortal, who, having been transformed, at immortal dictate was returningto mortal state again.

  To heighten the illusion, he thought he heard faint singing in thedepths of the wood. He put his hands to his ears for a moment, and tookthem away again to make sure that it was really singing and not hisimagination; and when he saw Fleda's face again, there was freshevidence that his senses had not deceived him. After all, it was notstrange that some one should be singing in that deepest wood beyond.

  Now Fleda moved forward towards where he stood, quickening her footstepsas though remembering something she must do. He stepped out into thepath and came to meet her. She heard his footsteps, saw him, and stoodstill abruptly.

  She did not make a sound, but a hand went to her bosom quickly, asthough to quiet her heart or to steady herself. He had broken suddenlyupon her intent thoughts, he had startled her as she had beenseldom startled, for all her childhood training had been towardsself-possession before surprise and danger.

  "This is not your side of the Sagalac," she said with a half-smile,regaining composure.

  "That is in dispute," he answered gaily. "I want to belong to both sidesof the Sagalac, I want both sides to belong to each other so that eitherside shall not be my side or your side, or--"

  "Or Monsieur Felix Marchand's side," she interrupted meaningly.

  "Oh, he's on the outside!" snapped the fighter, with a hardening mouth.

  She did not reply at once, but put her hat on, and tied the ribbonsloosely under her chin, looking thoughtfully into the distance.

  "Is that the Western slang for saying he belongs nowhere?" she asked.

  "Nowhere here," he answered with a grim twist to the corner of hismouth, his eyes half-closing with sulky meaning. "Won't you sit down?"he added quickly, in a more sprightly tone, for he saw she was about tomove on. He motioned towards a log lying beside the path and kicked somebranches out of the way.

  After slight hesitation she sat down, burying her shoes in the fallenleaves.

  "You don't like Felix Marchand?" she remarked presently.

  "No. Do you?"

  She met his eyes squarely--so squarely that his own rather lost theircourage, and he blinked more quickly than is needed with a healthy eye.He had been audacious, but he had not surprised the garrison.

  "I have no deep reason for liking or disliking him, and you have," sheanswered firmly; yet her colour rose slightly, and he thought he hadnever seen skin that looked so like velvet-creamy, pink velvet.

  "You seemed to think differently at Carillon not long ago," he returned.

  "That was an accident," she answered calmly. "He was drunk, and that isfor forgetting--always."

  "Always! Have you seen many men drunk?" he asked quickly. He did notmean to be quizzical, but his voice sounded so, and she detected it.

  "Yes, many," she answered with a little ring of defiance in hertone--"many, often."

  "Where?" he queried recklessly.

  "In Lebanon," she retorted. "In Lebanon--your side."

  How different she seemed from a few moments ago when she stood listeninglike a nymph for the song of the Spirit of the Wood! Now she was gay,buoyant, with a chamois-like alertness and a beaming vigour.

  "Now I know what 'blind drunk' means," he replied musingly. "In Manitouwhen men get drunk, the people get astigmatism and can't see thetangledfooted stagger."

  "It means that the pines of Manitou are straighter than the cedars ofLebanon," she remarked.

  "And the pines of Manitou have needles," he rejoined, meaning to giveher the victory.

  "Is my tongue as sharp as that?" she asked, amusement in her eyes.

  "So sharp I can feel the point when I can't see it," he retorted.

  "I'm glad of that," she replied with an affectation of conceit. "Ofcourse if you live in Lebanon you need surgery to make you feel apoint."

  "I give in--you have me," he remarked.

  "You give in to Manitou?" she asked provokingly. "Certainly not--only toyou. I said, 'You have me.'"

  "Ah, you give in to that which won't hurt you--"

  "Wouldn't you hurt me?" he asked in a softening tone.

  "You only play with words," she answered with sudden gravity. "Hurt you?I owe you what I can not pay back. I owe you my life; but as nothing canbe given in exchange for a life, I cannot pay you."

  "But like may be given for like," he rejoined in a tone suddenly full ofmeaning.

  "Again you are playing with words--and with me," she answered brusquely,and a little light of anger dawned in her eyes. Did he think that hecould say a thing of that sort to her--when he pleased? Did he thinkthat because he had done her a great service, he could say casually whatbelonged only to the sacred moments of existence? She looked at him withrising indignation, but there suddenly came to her the conviction thathe had not spoken with affronting gallantry, but that for him the momenthad a gravity not to be marred by the place or the circumstance.

  "I beg your pardon if I spoke hastily," he answered presently. "Yetthere's many a true word spoken in jest."

  There was a moment's silence. She realized that he was drawn to her,and that the attraction was not alone due to his having saved her atCarillon; that he was not taking advantage of the thing which must everbe a bond between them, whatever came of life. When she had seen him atthe Hospital Fete, a feeling had rushed over her that he had got nearerto her than any man had ever done. Then--even then, she felt the thingwhich all lovers, actual, or in the making, feel--that they must dosomething for the being who to them is more than all else and allothers. She was not in love with Ingolby. How could she be in love withthis man she had seen but a few times--this Gorgio. Why was it that evenas they talked together now, she felt the real, true distance betweenthem--of race, of origin, of history, of life, of circumstance? The hutin the wood where Gabriel Druse had carried Jethro Fawe was not threehundred yards away.

  She sighed, stirred, and a wild look came in her eyes--a look ofrebellion or of protest. Presently she recovered herself. She was acreature of sudden moods.

  "What is it you want to do with Manitou and Lebanon?" she asked after apause in which the thoughts of both had travelled far.

  "You really wish to know--you don't know?" he asked with suddenintensity.

  She regarded him frankly, smiled, then she laughed outright, showing herteeth very white and regular and handsome. The boyish eager
ness of hislook, the whimsical twist of his mouth, which always showed when he waskeenly roused--as though everything that really meant anything was partof a comet-like comedy--had caused her merriment. All the hidden thingsin his face seemed to open out into a swift shrewdness and dry candourwhen he was in his mood of "laying all the cards upon the table."

  "I don't know," she answered quietly. "I have heard things, but I shouldlike to learn the truth from you. What are your plans?"

  Her eyes were burning with inquiry. She was suddenly brought to thegateways of a new world. Plans--what had she or her people to do withplans! What Romany ever constructed anything? What did the building ofa city or a country mean to a Romany 'chal' or a Romany 'chi', they wholived from field to field, from common to moor, from barn to citywall. A Romany tent or a Romany camp, with its families, was the wholeterritory of their enterprise, designs and patriotism. They saw thethousand places where cities could be made, and built their fires on thesites of them, and camped a day, and were gone, leaving them waiting andbarren as before. They travelled through the new lands in America fromthe fringe of the Arctic to Patagonia, but they raised no roof-tree;they tilled no acre, opened no market, set up no tabernacle: they hadneither home nor country.

  Fleda was the heir of all this, the product of generations of suchvagabondage. Had the last few years given her the civic sense, the homesense? From the influence of the Englishwoman, who had made her forsakethe Romany life, had there come habits of mind in tune with the womenof the Sagalac, who were helping to build so much more than their homes?Since the incident of the Carillon Rapids she had changed, but what thechange meant was yet in her unopened Book of Revelations. Yet somethingstirred in her which she had never felt before. She had come of a raceof wayfarers, but the spirit of the builders touched her now.

  "What are my plans?" Ingolby drew along breath of satisfaction. "Well,just here where we are will be seen a great thing. There's the Yukonand all its gold; there's the Peace River country and all its unploughedwheat-fields; there's the whole valley of the Sagalac, which alone canmaintain twenty millions of people; there's the East and the Britishpeople overseas who must have bread; there's China and Japan going togive up rice, and eat the wheaten loaf; there's the U. S. A. withits hundred millions of people--it'll be that in a few years--and itsexhausted wheat-fields; and here, right here, is the bread-basket forall the hungry peoples; and Manitou and Lebanon are the centre of it.They will be the distributing centre. I want to see the base laid right.I'm not going to stay here till it all happens, but I want to planit all so that it will happen, then I'll go on and do a bigger thingsomewhere else. These two towns have got to come together; they mustplay one big game. I want to lay the wires for it. That's why I've gotcapitalists to start paper-works, engineering works, a foundry, and asash-door-and-blind factory--just the beginning. That's why I've put twofactories on one side of the river and two on the other."

  "Was it really you who started those factories?" she askedincredulously.

  "Of course! It was part of my plans. I wasn't foolish enough to buildand run them myself. I looked for the right people that had the moneyand the brains, and I let them sweat--let them sweat it out. I'm not amanufacturer; I'm an inventor and a builder. I built the bridge over theriver; and--"

  She nodded. "Yes, the bridge is good; but they say you are a schemer,"she added suggestively.

  "Certainly. But if I have schemes which'll do good, I ought to besupported. I don't mind what they call me, so long as they don't call metoo late for dinner."

  They both laughed. It was seldom he talked like this, and never had hetalked to such a listener before. "The merging of the three railwayswas a good scheme, and I was the schemer," he continued. "It might meanmonopoly, but it won't work out that way. It will simply concentrateenergy and: save elbow-grease. It will set free capital and capacity forother things."

  "They say there will be fewer men at work, not only in the offices buton the whole railway system, and they don't like that in Manitou--ah,no, they don't!" she urged.

  "They're right in a sense," he answered. "But the men will be employedat other things, which won't represent waste and capital overlapping.Overlapping capital hits everybody in the end. But who says all that?Who raises the cry of 'wolf' in Manitou?"

  "A good many people say it now," she answered, "but I think FelixMarchand said it first. He is against you, and he is dangerous."

  He shrugged a shoulder. "Oh, if any fool said it, it would be the same!"he answered. "That's a fire easily lighted; though it sometimes burnslong and hard." He frowned, and a fighting look came into his face.

  "Then you know all that is working against you in Manitou--workingharder than ever before?"

  "I think I do, but I probably don't know all. Have you any special newsabout it?"

  "Felix Marchand is spending money among the men. They are going onstrike on your railways and in the mills."

  "What mills--in Manitou?" he asked abruptly. "In both towns."

  He laughed harshly. "That's a tall order," he said sharply. "Bothtowns--I don't think so, not yet."

  "A sympathetic strike is what he calls it," she rejoined.

  "Yes, a row over some imagined grievance on the railway, and all the menin all the factories to strike--that's the new game of the modernlabour agitator! Marchand has been travelling in France," he addeddisdainfully, "but he has brought his goods to the wrong shop. What dothe priests--what does Monseigneur Lourde say to it all?"

  "I am not a Catholic," she replied gravely. "I've heard, though, thatMonseigneur is trying to stop the trouble. But--" She paused.

  "Yes--but?" he asked. "What were you going to say?"

  "But there are many roughs in Manitou, and Felix Marchand makes friendswith them. I don't think the priests will be able to help much in theend, and if it is to be Manitou against Lebanon, you can't expect agreat deal."

  "I never expect more than I get--generally less," he answered grimly;and he moved the gun about on his knees restlessly, fingering the lockand the trigger softly.

  "I am sure Felix Marchand means you harm," she persisted.

  "Personal harm?"

  "Yes."

  He laughed sarcastically again. "We are not in Bulgaria or Sicily," herejoined, his jaw hardening; "and I can take care of myself. What makesyou say he means personal harm? Have you heard anything?"

  "No, nothing, but I feel it is so. That day at the Hospital Fete helooked at you in a way that told me. I think such instincts are given tosome people and some races. You read books--I read people. I wantedto warn you, and I do so. This has been lucky in a way, this meeting.Please don't treat what I've said lightly. Your plans are in danger andyou also." Was the psychic and fortune-telling instinct of the Romanyalive in her and working involuntarily, doing that faithfully which herpeople did so faithlessly? The darkness which comes from intense feelinghad gathered underneath her eyes, and gave them a look of pensivenessnot in keeping with the glow of her perfect health, the velvet of hercheek.

  "Would you mind telling me where you got your information?" he askedpresently.

  "My father heard here and there, and I, also, and some I got from oldMadame Thibadeau, who is a friend of mine. I talk with her more thanwith any one else in Manitou. First she taught me how to crochet, butshe teaches me many other things, too."

  "I know the old girl by sight. She is a character. She would know a lot,that woman."

  He paused, seemed about to speak, hesitated, then after a moment hastilysaid: "A minute ago you spoke of having the instinct of your race, orsomething like that. What is your race? Is it Irish, or--do you mind myasking? Your English is perfect, but there is something--something--"

  She turned away her head, a flush spreading over her face. She wasunprepared for the question. No one had ever asked it directly of hersince they had come to Manitou. Whatever speculation there had been, shehad never been obliged to tell any one of what race she was. She spokeEnglish with no perceptible accent, as she spoke Spanish, Ital
ian,French, Hungarian and Greek; and there was nothing in her speech markingher as different from the ordinary Western woman. Certainly she wouldhave been considered pure English among the polyglot population ofManitou.

  What must she say? What was it her duty to say? She was living the lifeof a British woman, she was as much a Gorgio in her daily existence asthis man be side her. Manitou was as much home--nay, it was a thousandtimes more home--than the shifting habitat of the days when theywandered from the Caspians to John o' Groat's.

  For years all traces of the past had been removed as completely asthough the tide had washed over them; for years it had been so, untilthe fateful day when she ran the Carillon Rapids. That day saw her wholehorizon alter; that day saw this man beside her enter on the stage ofher life. And on that very day, also, came Jethro Fawe out of the Pastand demanded her return.

  That had been a day of Destiny. The old, panting, unrealized,tempestuous longing was gone. She was as one who saw danger and facedit, who had a fight to make and would make it.

  What would happen if she told this man that she was a Gipsy--thedaughter of a Gipsy ruler, which was no more than being head of a clanof the world's transients, the leader of the world's nomads. Money--herfather had that, at least--much money; got in ways that could not bearthe light at times, yet, as the world counts things, not dishonestly;for more than one great minister in a notable country in Europe hadcommissioned him, more than one ruler and crowned head had used himwhen "there was trouble in the Balkans," or the "sick man of Europe"was worse, or the Russian Bear came prowling. His service had everbeen secret service, when he lived the life of the caravan and the openhighway. He had no stable place among the men of all nations, and yetsecret rites and mysteries and a language which was known from Bokharato Wandsworth, and from Waikiki to Valparaiso, gave him dignity of akind, clothed him with importance.

  Yet she wanted to tell this man beside her the whole truth, and seewhat he would do. Would he turn his face away in disgust? What had shea right to tell? She knew well that her father would wish her to keepto that secrecy which so far had sheltered them--at least until JethroFawe's coming.

  At last she turned and looked him in the eyes, the flush gone from herface.

  "I'm not Irish--do I look Irish?" she asked quietly, though her heartwas beating unevenly.

  "You look more Irish than anything else, except, maybe, Slav orHungarian--or Gipsy," he said admiringly and unwittingly.

  "I have Gipsy blood in me," she answered slowly, "but no Irish orHungarian blood."

  "Gipsy--is that so?" he said spontaneously, as she watched him sointently that the pulses throbbed at her temples.

  A short time ago Fleda might have announced her origin defiantly, nowher courage failed her. She did not wish him to be prejudiced againsther.

  "Well, well," he added, "I only just guessed at it, because there'ssomething unusual and strong in you, not because your eyes are so darkand your hair so brown."

  "Not because of my 'wild beauty'--I thought you were going to say that,"she added ironically and a little defiantly. "I got some verses by postthe other day from one of your friends in Lebanon--a stock-rider I thinkhe was, and they said I had a 'wild beauty' and a 'savage sweetness.'"

  He laughed, yet he suddenly saw her sensitive vigilance, and by instincthe felt that she was watching for some sign of shock or disdain on hispart; yet in truth he cared no more whether she had Gipsy blood in herthan he would have done if she had said she was a daughter of the Czar.

  "Men do write that kind of thing," he added cheerfully, "but it's quiteharmless. There was a disease at college we called adjectivitis. Yourpoet friend had it. He could have left out the 'wild' and 'savage' andhe'd have been pleasant, and truthful too--no, I apologize."

  He had seen her face darken under the compliment, and he hastened to putit right.

  "I loved a Gipsy once," he added whimsically to divert attention fromhis mistake, and with so genuine a sympathy in his voice that she wasdisarmed. "I was ten and she was fifty at least. Oh, a wonderful woman!I had a boy friend, a fat, happy, little joker he was; his name wasCharley Long. Well, this woman was his aunt. When she moved throughthe town people looked twice. She was tall and splendidly made, and hermanner--oh, as if she owned the place. She did own a lot--she had moremoney than any one else thereabouts, anyhow. It was the tallest kind ofa holiday when Charley and I walked out to the big white house-golly,but it was white--to visit her! We didn't eat much the day before wewent to see her; and we didn't eat much the day after, either. She usedto feed us--I wish I could eat like that now! I can see her brown eyesfollowing us about, full of fire, but soft and kind, too. She had agreat temper, they said, but everybody liked her, and some loved her.She'd had one girl, but she died of consumption, got camping out inbad weather. Aunt Cynthy--that was what we called her, her name beingCynthia--never got over her girl's death. She blamed herself for it. Shehad had those fits of going back to the open-for weeks at a time. Thegirl oughtn't to have been taken to camp out. She was never strong, andit was the wrong place and the wrong time of year--all right in Augustand all wrong in October.

  "Well, always after her girl's death Aunt Cynthy was as I knew her,being good to us youngsters as no one else ever was, or could be. Hertea-table was a sight; and the rest of the meals were banquets. Thefirst time I ever ate hedgehog was at her place. A little while ago,just before you came, I thought of her. A hedgehog crossed the pathhere, and it brought those days back to me--Charley Long and Aunt Cynthyand all. Yes, the first time I ever ate hedgehog; was in Aunt Cynthy'shouse. Hi-yi, as old Tekewani says, but it was good!"

  "What is the Romany word for hedgehog?" Fleda asked in a low tone.

  "Hotchewitchi," he replied instantly. "That's right, isn't it?"

  "Yes, it is right," she answered, and her eyes had a far-away look, butthere was a kind of trouble at her mouth.

  "Do you speak Romany?" she added a little breathlessly.

  "No, no. I only picked up words I heard Aunt Cynthy use now and thenwhen she was in the mood."

  "What was the history of Aunt Cynthy?"

  "I only know what Charley Long told me. Aunt Cynthy was the daughterof a Gipsy--they say the only Gipsy in that part of the country atthe time--who used to buy and sell horses, and travel in a big vanas comfortable as a house. The old man suddenly died on the farm ofCharley's uncle. In a month the uncle married the girl. She brought himthirty thousand dollars."

  Fleda knew that this man who had fired her spirit for the first time hadtold his childhood story to show her the view he took of her origin; butshe did not like him less for that, though she seemed to feel a chasmbetween them still. The new things moving in her were like breezes thatstir the trees, not like the wind turning the windmill which grinds thecorn. She had scarcely yet begun to grind the corn of life.

  She did not know where she was going, what she would find, or where thenew trail would lead her. The Past dogged her footsteps, hung round herlike the folds of a garment. Even as she rejected it, it asserted itspower, troubled her, angered her, humiliated her, called to her.

  She was glad of this meeting with Ingolby. It had helped her. She hadset out to do a thing she dreaded, and it was easier now than it wouldhave been if they had not met. She had been on her way to the Hut in theWood, and now the dread of the visit to Jethro Fawe had diminished. Thelast voice she would hear before she entered Jethro Fawe's prison wasthat of the man who represented to her, however vaguely, the life whichmust be her future--the settled life, the life of Society and not of theSaracen.

  After he had told his boyhood story they sat in silence for a momentor two, then she rose, and, turning to him, was about to speak. At thatinstant there came distinctly through the wood a faint, trilling sound.Her face paled a little, and the words died upon her lips. Ingolby,having turned his head as though to listen, did not see the change inher face, and she quickly regained her self-control.

  "I heard that sound before," he said, "and I thought from your look youh
eard it, too. It's funny. It is singing, isn't it?"

  "Yes, it's singing," she answered.

  "Who is it--some of the heathen from the Reservation?"

  "Yes, some of the heathen," she answered.

  "Has Tekewani got a lodge about here?"

  "He had one here in the old days."

  "And his people go to it still-was that where you were going when Ibroke in on you?"

  "Yes, I was going there. I am a heathen, also, you know."

  "Well, I'll be a heathen, too, if you'll show me how; if you think I'dpass for one. I've done a lot of heathen things in my time."

  She gave him her hand to say good-bye. "Mayn't I go with you?" he asked.

  "'I must finish my journey alone,'" she answered slowly, repeating aline from the first English book she had ever read.

  "That's English enough," he responded with a laugh. "Well, if I mustn'tgo with you I mustn't, but my respects to Robinson Crusoe." He slungthe gun into the hollow of his arm. "I'd like much to go with you," heurged.

  "Not to-day," she answered firmly.

  Again the voice came through the woods, a little louder now.

  "It sounds like a call," he remarked.

  "It is a call," she answered--"the call of the heathen."

  An instant after she had gone on, with a look half-smiling,half-forbidding, thrown over her shoulder at him.

  "I've a notion to follow her," he said eagerly, and he took a step inher direction.

  Suddenly she turned and came back to him. "Your plans are indanger--don't forget Felix Marchand," she said, and then turned from himagain.

  "Oh, I'll not forget," he answered, and waved his cap after her. "No,I'll not forget monsieur," he added sharply, and he stepped out with alight of battle in his eyes.