Julian came back to the table, carrying his chair. We went on eating. But it could hardly be called a success, the rest of that meal.
I could forgive Francis almost everything else if he did not hurt his father so terribly.
July 8
The gypsies have arrived-the ones Mr. Wolfson mentioned as spending part of the summer on his estate. He told us of it tonight at dinner. Ada at once asked if we might see them.
No, that is not quite right. Ada was not much interested at first. It must have been I who suggested it-or perhaps Julian, I really can't remember. At any rate, the important thing, Mr. Wolfson consented readily. I confess I was a trifle surprised, considering his earlier comments on their habits. But he feels we will be well guarded with both our cousins in attendance-yes, Francis too. There has been an uneasy truce since that last ridiculous episode, and Francis volunteered to come with us. I don't think Julian was much pleased.
It is silly of me, but I am quite excited. I must be more desperate for society than I realized, so to anticipate seeing a band of dusty, disreputable Egyptians!
July 9
I am to marry a tall dark man and travel across the water and become quite rich!
How pleasant it would be if one could believe in such things-especially the last clause. I don't much fancy dark men, in fact. But I fear my fate is settled; a gypsy, as everyone knows, is part witch. Certainly the old hag who told my fortune this morning looks the part.
When we came down to breakfast this morning, we found that it had all been settled, somehow, the night before. We were to visit the gypsies at once, this very day. We set out as soon as the meal was over, I, by Mr. Wolfson's particular orders, ignoring my duties for one day. We let the horses take a leisurely pace, for the day was already growing warm. The north meadows are some distance away; for all his tolerance Mr. W. does not let the vagabonds too near his chicken houses and stables. During the ride, which must have taken us an hour, Julian amused us with predictions and imitations of the gypsies. Francis, slouched over his horse's neck, was his usual self; he is sullen and silent in the mornings.
The encampment is not in the meadow itself, but in the fringe of the patch of woods that stretches from the abbey ruins to the northern pastures. I can see why shelter from rain or sun would be desirable, for the gypsy wagons are cramped and ramshackle affairs.
From a distance the scene was colorful and picturesque-the gaily painted wagons, the horses cropping the grass the meadow, a tin kettle suspended over an open campfire and dark, strange people sprawled on the grass around Some of the men are a hard-looking lot; they might London thieves save for their dark skins and the occasional bright kerchief or golden earring. I suppose the women just as brutish, but they did look quite charming from distance, with their green and crimson and purple skirts, their strings of copper and gold ornaments, and long black hair. They seem to have extraordinarily white teeth, perhaps it is only the contrast against their brown faces. The children are as gay and shy as young puppies, and as alike as members of the same litter: black hair, sparkling black eyes, slim dark arms and legs barely covered by tattered garments. And over it all was a babble of sound-singing, cursing, shouting-in a strange tongue that flowed like music.
For a moment it gave me an uncomfortable feeling, H especially when one young urchin darted out from behind a tree and flashed me an impertinent white grin as he sought the safety of his mother's caravan. It has been a long time, but I remembered a hot, shadowy Roman street. Surely there was once a boy like that. . . .
The babble ceased as soon as we were seen. The brightly dressed figures stiffened and forty pairs of hard black eyes fixed themselves upon us, the intruders. Only for a moment, then they all relaxed, a woman laughed, a man's voice took up its song again. They returned to their previous occupations, but I sensed that they continued to watch us, slyly, from the corners of their eyes. They are a hunted people-deservedly, perhaps-but it is uncomfortable, that sensation of being watched, not by human eyes, but by the bright unwinking stare of an animal calculating the next move of the hunter.
How my fancies have led me on! I wasn't aware of having such thoughts at the time; I simply enjoyed the color and sound of it, and tried to ignore the dirt. Not the dirt of the ground which was their floor-that was unavoidable-but the gay wide skirts had not seen soap and water for too long a time, and the women's hair was oily looking.
When the old woman came down out of the caravan, the noise stopped again briefly. I knew at once she must be the queen or chief personage. Her caravan was bigger and more ornate than the others, but her manner alone would have told me her rank. She was bent with age, and one foot dragged as she came toward us, but she carried her head arrogantly.
She came up to where we sat, still on horseback, and curtsied four times, slowly and deliberately, to each of us in turn. I could see now how really old she was, though her hair had hardly a trace of gray. (I suppose it is artificially colored.) The bright black eyes peered out from a mass of wrinkles. They went at once to Ada's face and never left it. When she spoke, her voice was a harsh cackle.
"Ah, the pretty lady," she said crooningly. "Have you come to old Marian to find what the future holds? Only joy for one so sweet and beautiful, only joy. Come down, pretty dear, and let Marian tell you the future."
Ada's face was a study. She had been prepared to pity the old woman; her enormous compassion flows out to the poor and injured, to the very young and the very old. But despite the gypsy's obsequious manner, she did not command pity.
Then Ada laughed and nodded. Without waiting for assistance she slipped down off the horse's back, leaving the reins dangling. One of the gypsy men stepped forward to take them. He passed quite close to Ada, staring at her boldly.
"Wait a moment, Cousin," said Julian, frowning.
"Why? This is why we came, is it not?"
"That's right, that's right." The gypsy woman chuckled. "Don't listen to the men, little lady, let them folio you. They'll follow, never fear. Come now, come into the caravan with Marian. The ball is there, the magic ball given me by the pharaohs long ago, the ball that tells what was and is and will be."
Julian laughed, his good humor apparently restored. But he was, I noticed, quick to join Ada.
"Lead on, Macduff," he said cheerfully. "Or, no- surely one of the witches, eh, Cousin Ada? Did you ever see a more hagridden countenance?"
Ada frowned at him warningly-she does hate to hurt even a beggar's feelings-but the old woman seemed not to mind. Her cackling laugh mingled with Julian's chuckle.
"That's right, a witch I am, one of the wisewomen who know the future. Come, lady, and you too, Master Julian. Don't you trust old Marian with your pretty mistress?"
They walked off together, making a very oddly assorted trio: Julian, half in jest, held the old woman's elbow and supported her limping steps. Then Francis, who had not moved, grunted and dismounted. He came to me and held up his hands, without speaking; in equal silence I let him lift me down. We followed the others toward the caravan.
It had a half door at the back, with a flight of steps leading up to it. Ada was already seated at a table, with the old woman seated across and Julian lounging behind her. The table was draped with a piece of draggled black velvet, and on it sat a ball of glass or crystal, foggy with dust and cracked along the side.
Marian was already studying the ball, one hand on either side of it, head bent. She looked up, frowning horribly, as I mounted the steps with Francis behind me.
"Come in, lady, come in. There's room, yes, room enough, beyond me. Squeeze past me here, so. That's right. Master Francis, you'd best stay there. You're too large for this little place."
Francis obeyed, leaning his elbows on the half door, while I pushed by the old woman and squeezed myself into a chair between her and Ada. The caravan was certainly small; it was just long enough for a person to lie down in and only half as wide. A heap of ragged blankets in a comer represented the old woman's bedding, now roll
ed up for me day. The table and chairs were the only furnishings, save for a few garments hung on hooks along one side and a corresponding row of pots, pans, and utensils on the other. Calico curtains of varied and hideous colors hung at both ends of the wagon and at the window; the latter curtains were purplish with a yellow flower, the ones at the door were blue-and-green checked. It was a sickeningly poor place, almost too poor. I had a sudden sense that it was deliberately designed to appear that way.
When I looked back at Marian she had already begun her trance, or whatever it is called. A ray of sunlight slanted through the high window above Ada, lighting her hair and holding a positive army of dust motes. It left Julian completely in shadow, but his pose, head tilted and arms folded, was so suggestive of amusement that I fancied I saw him smile. The old woman was also in shadow. Her dark, sharp profile might have been cut out of wood, but her hands, around the crystal, were in the heart of the beam of light. Every vein and tendon in them stood out; they were bird claws with nothing but skin stretched over the brittle bones. Yet in their clawed pose there was an unpleasant suggestion of strength.
Ada sat quietly, hands in her lap, looking at the old woman with the air of a well-bred child at a grown-up tea party. The interior of the cart was cool, being sheltered from the sun; yet the air seemed oppressively still. I could hear a fly droning away somewhere. The babble outside seemed lessened.
Sunlight glanced off the crystal surface of the ball without lighting it; it seemed opaque, perhaps because of the dirt that coated it. No object ever looked less like a source of occult mysteries. Yet the glancing spark of sunlight tended to hold one's gaze. The droning of the fly grew louder in my ears. . . .
"It comes now," said the old woman, in a tone so like the fly's buzz that it startled me. "It comes. I see. I see . . ."
Her voice faded. I stared intently at the crystal. For a moment I fancied I saw something stir, down in the fogged heart of it. But it was only suggestion. The ball remained a dusty cracked globe of crystal, nothing more. I leaned back in my chair.
"I see her," said Marian suddenly. Ada started. "I see her with her head of golden curls and her light quick step, coming across the floor. White she wears, and white flowers-flowers in her hands and on her hair. The pretty lady, dressed for her bridal . . . Her face smiles, her face shines with love for him. . . . His face will not come. I cannot . . . Tall he is-oh, very much the gentleman-a fine strong hand he holds out to take her hand. Fair hair, shining like a cap of gold on his head. His face-no, it is hidden, he turns toward her. Now the other gold comes, the golden, golden coins, they rain down, they fall in heaps, they cover her feet. Wealth, love, happiness ..."
The veined hands clenched. The old woman's body gave a convulsive jerk.
"Wealth, love, happiness," she said, in her normal voice. "It is gone now, the vision. Never does it last. . . . But I saw, I saw! Did you see, pretty lady? Did you see yourself in your bridal flowers, hand in hand with a tall, fair lover?"
Ada shook her head. Her mouth was slightly ajar with fascinated interest, but her hidden core of common sense had not quite deserted her.
"No, I didn't see," she said regretfully. "What a shame! Is it really true?"
From Julian, behind her, came a soft affectionate laugh, but Francis, leaning over the half door, made a more emphatic sound. The old woman grinned unpleasantly, first at one brother, then at the other.
"Ah, they're unbelievers," she said indulgently. "The one laughs, the other scoffs. But never mind, never mind. The future will come, for all of them."
"It was very exciting," Ada said. "Harriet, you must try. Please, Miss-Mrs. Marian, will you tell Harriet now?"
"Ah, the other lady." The dark glance flicked obliquely toward me. "To be sure, it's her turn now. Come, lady, and sit where she is sitting."
"Don't you want your palm crossed with silver once more?" Francis demanded harshly, as Ada and I exchanged seats.
"Oh, yes, oh, yes, the ball won't speak without the precious silver."
Julian threw a coin; it bounced, ringing, on the table till the withered brown fingers snatched it up.
I'll not repeat what she said; it was a formula and she delivered it in a bored voice. I presume she had exhausted her dramatic talents with Ada. What nonsense it all is! And yet it has its amusing aspects-partly, I suppose, because of the spice of adventure involved in visiting so strange a place. I would really feel rather nervous going there without an escort. That is nonsense, too, because these people would never molest anyone who is related to Mr. Wolfson. The old woman asked after him as we left, with the same touch of fear I had seen in the villagers. No doubt, as a qualified witch she respects his superior influence with Satan!
One other thing happened. After we had mounted and were ready to go, Julian addressed the old woman.
"Have you seen David yet?"
Then-then I saw the empress reveal herself. Old, ragged, poor, lame-for an instant I seemed to see her in a high, wide place with fire at her feet.
"No!"
"I'll convey your love," said Julian, laughing. "To your devoted grandson, eh?''
Ada glanced at me and I shrugged. David must be the child of the queen's daughter. I wonder what that makes him in the tribal hierarchy? Well, but we knew he was of gypsy blood and that he had repudiated his heritage. Now we know that his people resent him for denying them. But! what is that to us?
A tall dark man . . . such nonsense!
July 15
I have just left Ada. She is calm now, and sleeping. I wish I were.
There is no reason for my distress, I know. I can't imagine why I was so upset.
Francis has proposed to her.
I expected it. I knew it was bound to happen. Did I not write, in these very pages, that a marriage between Ada and one of her cousins would be of all things the most suitable? And the gypsy spoke of a tall, fair man. . . .
I didn't think it would be Francis.
But he is the elder son. That, too, is just as the real, fashionable world would have arranged the matter. She is so desirable-"such a fine match"-that they must both want her. Then the firstborn should have the first chance to win her.
I happened to be in Ada's room tidying her toilet table- she is such an untidy little thing and I don't like to have the maids touching her trinkets and toys-when she came bursting into my own chamber in search of me. Not finding me there she came at once through the connecting door. She was not crying then, but her cheeks were unnaturally flushed-not a delicate pink but a bright crimson. As soon as she saw me, her blue eyes overflowed.
"What is the matter, Ada?" I demanded. But I wasn't much concerned; Ada can weep over a wounded puppy or a trampled flower.
The tears increased from a trickle to a flood; in a series of gasps and sobs she poured forth the tale of the proposal.
"What did you say to him?" I demanded.
"Why-" Ada peered up at me from between her fingers. "Why, I said No, of course. That is, I said, 'I am deeply honored, Cousin Francis, by your expression of affection, but at the present time . . .' "
She learned that speech from a book of etiquette. I never thought, when we practiced it together amid gales of laughter, that I would hear it repeated under such circumstances.
"Very well," I said, folding her in my arms. "Don't cry, Ada. Was he angry? Is that why you are distressed?"
Ada sniffed.
"No," she said after a moment. "He wasn't angry. He just tweaked my nose-"
"Your nose?"
"Yes. He wasn't disrespectful, Harriet, truly. He was very nice about it. He was laughing when I ran away."
"Why did you run away? If he wasn't angry, why are you crying?"
Ada thought. The tears continued to flow, as casually as rain sliding down a windowpane.
"I don't know," she said at last, and subsided, wailing, into my embrace.
"Oh, Ada, do hush! Was he unhappy?"
"No, I said he was laughing." Ada sat up and fumbled distractedl
y at her skirts. I supplied her with my handkerchief-she can never find hers-and continued to pry.
"Are you sorry that you refused him?"
"Of course not! Harriet, how can you question me like a-like a nasty governess when I am so upset?"
"I am trying," I said patiently, "to ascertain why you are upset. He was not angry; he was not sad; you are not unhappy at refusing him. You are not weeping from sympathy or fright or regret. Why on earth are you weeping?"
It was silly of me; hard enough to make sense out of Ada when she is composed, impossible when she is distracted. I still don't know why she was crying. Just because she is Ada, I suppose.
By the time I left her she was feeling fairly cheerful again. I had her sitting up in bed, looking less like an invalid than any damsel I ever beheld and holding one of Miss Austen's charming tales, which she will not read. That was all I could do for her.
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