Chapter 2

PALMISTRY.

Supper despatched, Dan repaired to the spring for a second bucket of water, while Peter remained selfishly curled up beside the fire. Even when his master returned he took little notice of what was going on, feeling no interest in proceedings unconnected with his appetite.

Dan gave Simon another drink, patted his neck and saw that his halter was safe, then went into the caravan. Thence he emerged with a fur rug, and spreading this beside the fire, he stretched himself thereon with a contented sigh.

And now came in the "sweet o' the night," for Dan pulled out and charged a well-seasoned briar. This was the crowning joy of the day, and Dan envied neither king nor kaiser as he luxuriated in the Indian weed. Simon cropped the sweet grass near at hand; Peter, filled to repletion, snored with wakeful eye in the warmest place; and Dan smoked and read. And what think you he read, but Borrow's glorious "Lavengro?"--the most fitted book for such a gipsy, for such a situation. By the red firelight he read for the hundredth time that ever-new story of the Dingle, of Isopel, and of lovemaking in the Armenian tongue. What magic courtship! "Robinson Crusoe" for boys, but "Lavengro" for men--the more especially for those who incline to gipsydom, and find life flavourless save when on road or heath, under hedge or beside a camp-fire. For such Borrow's books have the authority of Scripture.

In Birrel's happy phrase, Dan was "a born Borrovian." His face was alive with pleasure as he conned the magic page, nor did he fail to compare the situation of Lavengro with his own.

"This might well pass for the Dingle," said he, letting the book fall. "I am certainly Lavengro in real life; but, alas! where is my Isopel? And did I find her, would it be possible to teach her lovemaking in the Armenian tongue? I am ignorant of such recondite matters; therefore it were best that no Isopel, with ready fist and sharp tongue, invade my privacy. Yet I would not mind meeting with the Flaming Tinman." Here he looked at his mighty arm. "I would do my best to thrash him. But woe is me! there is no Borrow to chant my victory."

Such a speech, akin to blank verse, was doubtless inspired by Borrovian periods; but who ever heard a gipsy soliloquize thus, or saw one peruse the chronicle of that modern Ulysses? Dan asserted that he was no gentleman, yet in looks, in words, breeding would out, and Mother Jericho was as clever as the rest of her sex in detecting a palpable fraud. Yet what did this soi-disant vagrant in the pinewood dell reading "Lavengro" by a camp-fire? Ah, that is a long story, and cannot be told at present.

Simon cropped, Peter snored, and Dan was immersed in the account of that Homeric fight between Lavengro and the Flaming Tinman. So profoundly was he interested, that he heard not the approach of stealthy footsteps. But Peter was on the alert, and sprang into the darkness with angry yelp. Roused by the signal of danger, Dan arose to his feet and stood on the defensive, for one meets with adventures in England as in Timbuctoo.

"Who is there?" he demanded, striding to the edge of the circle cast by the firelight.

"He! he! my dearie, call off the dog. May he burn, spark of the evil one!"

"Mother Jericho! Here, Peter!"

"Yes, it is I, dearie. Bless you, rye, I knew you'd camp here."

The scarlet cloak emerged into the firelight, and Dan beheld his gipsy friend uglier than ever in the flickering light. She shook her stick at Peter, who responded with furious tongue; whereat Dan caught him up in his arms and choked him into silence. Mother Jericho, interpreting this as a sign of welcome, hobbled near the fire and seated herself in a comfortable corner. In no wise resentful of her company--for even with "Lavengro" he found the dell a trifle lonely--Dan threw himself down in his old place and waited to hear what his visitor had to say.

Evidently determined to act as a good comrade, Mother Jericho produced a dirty pipe and clawed the air in the direction of Dan's tobacco-pouch. He tossed it towards her, and, while she filled pipe and pocket, produced from the caravan a bottle of whisky. Filling a glass with this desirable drink, he looked interrogatively at the old woman.

"Hot or cold water?" said he, deeming the undiluted spirit too strong for so aged a person.

"Neat, dearie, neat! It's good for me in that way. I git on'y too much water on rainy nights."

Having finished the whisky (a speedily performed operation) she lighted her pipe, and, puffing vigorously, leered at her host out of the smoke like an ugly cherub. He thought of Lavengro's companion in the same situation, and groaned.

"What a substitute for Isopel!" he muttered disgustedly.

"Hey!" croaked Mother Jericho, arching a skinny hand behind her ear. "Speak up, rye; I'm deaf."

"What are you doing so late in this wood?" said Dan, not choosing to repeat his remark, which, indeed, would have been Greek to the old hag. "Where are your people?"

"Near at hand, my dearie, near at hand. I came to see you here afore going to bed."

"I hope none of them will follow your example, mother. I don't want to be robbed."

"You won't be, rye! Burn me if you lose so much as a stick. They are my people," said Mother Jericho, confidentially; "and I told them not to come near you, dearie."

"That's very kind of you," said Dan, somewhat astonished at the protection thus accorded. "And may I ask why you have tabooed me in this way?"

"Hey! Tabooed! What's that?"

"It's Polynesian for protection."

"Polly what? I don't know no Pollys," said Mother Jericho, crossly. "I've come to read your hand and tell your fortune."

"I don't believe in such rubbish."

"You will afore you leave Farbis."

"Will I, indeed? And where is Farbis?"

"Over this ridge by the sea. Can't you hear the waves roaring? You allays hear 'em on still nights, dearie. Give me your hand, my brave rye."

"I don't want my hand read," said Dan, unwillingly. "If it's money you want, here is a half-crown."

Mother Jericho clawed the coin into her pocket with a mumbled exclamation of delight; then, before he could withdraw his hand, seized it and held it towards the red flame, palm upward. Half frowning, half laughing, Dan let her scan the lines, which she followed with the point of a skinny finger.

"There are partings and meetings," said the sibyl. "You have come on a weary journey, and seek a pearl. What you seek you shall find, but beware of gold and silver hair."

"What do you mean? What jargon is this?"

"Two women shall love you, rye, and the one you hate shall seek your hand; she will aim her arrows at your heart."

"At my heart?"

"She will seek to do you evil through one whom you shall love. Here are fire and flame, and furious cries and brave deeds. A false father, a false mother, and joy coming up through the Gates of Dawn."

"Rubbish!"

Not understanding a word of her meaning, he pulled his hand roughly away. The old woman broke into a peal of derisive laughter, and sucked at her pipe in silence. In the red glow of the fire she looked like some evil creature of the night. Dan resented her presence and prophecies, and spoke angrily.

"Why do you come here to tell me this nonsense?" he said, leaning forward. "I am not a superstitious fool, though, you take me for one. I don't love one woman, let alone two."

"You will love afore you leave Farbis, dearie."

"Indeed!" said he contemptuously. "Perhaps I will marry also!"

"Ay. But there is much to be done afore then."

Deeming it useless to argue against such obstinacy, Dan relapsed into silence and smoked his pipe. Yet, in spite of his apparent disbelief, he had an uneasy consciousness that the sibyl had read his mind and purpose clearer than he cared to think. He was a reticent young man, and hated to hear his private affairs discussed. But it was strange that this midnight hag should speak so truly. Dan was puzzled and displeased.

"Have you ever seen me before?" he asked, after a meditative pause.

"No, dearie, I never set eyes on you. I only read what Fate has written on your hand. It's print to me, dearie."

"I tell you I don't believe in palmistry."

"You will some day, rye."

"If I fall in love and marry before I leave Farbis, I may," he responded ironically; "but as that is not likely to happen, I am afraid your black art will not gain a disciple."

Mother Jericho took no notice of this sceptical speech, but rapping the ashes out of her pipe, stowed it carefully away in the folds of her dress.

"I must go now, dearie," she said, rising stiffly to her feet; "but when I see ye to-morrow the spell will be on you. Ay, ay, laugh as you please, but Joy comes up for you through the Gates of Dawn!"

"What Gates of Dawn?"

"You'll see to-morrow, rye! And at noon you will find a guest by your fire."

"You!"

"Not I, dearie. But some one who wishes you well. Good night, my brave rye. I put the spell on you." Here she waved her stick like a malignant fairy. "Go you at daybreak to the sea and meet your fate at the Gates of Dawn."

After the delivery of this mystic speech, she vanished as by magic into the darkness of the night. Dan looked into the gloom, somewhat bewildered by her sudden departure, which smacked of the broomstick, then returned to his book with a shrug of his broad shoulders. But Borrow failed to charm his preoccupied brain, and after one or two unsuccessful attempts to fix his attention on the page, he desisted with an impatient exclamation.

"That old lady is a trifle weak in the head, I fear," said he, yawning. "What does she mean by her 'joy coming up through the Gates of Dawn?' Does she take me for a new Tithonus on the watch for Aurora? Yet it is strange that she knows of my desire," he added reflectively; "I thought no one knew of that but myself. Ah, bah! Every young man wishes to love, to marry. Her necromancy is all guesswork."

Thus contemptuously dismissing the subject, he smoked a final pipe and made his preparations for retiring to rest. The night was so fine that he could not bring himself to sleep in the stuffy caravan, and finally decided to take his rest in the open air. After a drink of whisky to keep out the dews, he wrapped himself in the fur rug, and lay comfortably by the fire. Peter curled himself into a ball, and kept one eye on his master, the other on Simon. The wind wuddered through the pine trees overhead, but in the deep of the dell all was still and warm. The red flames leaped skyward to the stars until the fire died to grey ashes, and, save sigh of wind and roar of sea, no sound was heard. Lying on his back, Dan, oblivious to all outward things, went to the land of dreams, and there met Joy coming up through the Gates of Dawn. Mother Jericho's spell was acting bravely.