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                                RED MONEY

                              BY FERGUS HUME

Author of "The Mystery of a Hansom Cab," "The Solitary Farm," "The
Peacock of Jewels," "The Red Window," "The Steel Crown," etc.

                                  1911

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

       I. THE DRAMA OF LITTLE THINGS

      II. IN THE WOOD

     III. AN UNEXPECTED RECOGNITION

      IV. SECRETS

       V. THE WOMAN AND THE MAN

      VI. THE MAN AND THE WOMAN

     VII. THE SECRETARY

    VIII. AT MIDNIGHT

      IX. AFTERWARDS

       X. A DIFFICULT POSITION

      XI. BLACKMAIL

     XII. THE CONSPIRACY

    XIII. A FRIEND IN NEED

     XIV. MISS GREEBY, DETECTIVE

      XV. GUESSWORK

     XVI. THE LAST STRAW

    XVII. ON THE TRAIL

   XVIII. AN AMAZING ACCUSATION

     XIX. MOTHER COCKLESHELL

      XX. THE DESTINED END

     XXI. A FINAL SURPRISE

RED MONEY

CHAPTER I.

THE DRAMA OF LITTLE THINGS.

"Gypsies! How very delightful! I really must have my fortune told. The
dear things know all about the future."

As Mrs. Belgrove spoke she peered through her lorgnette to see if anyone
at the breakfast-table was smiling. The scrutiny was necessary, since
she was the oldest person present, and there did not appear to be any
future for her, save that very certain one connected with a funeral. But
a society lady of sixty, made up to look like one of forty (her maid
could do no more), with an excellent digestion and a constant desire,
like the Athenians of old, for "Something New!" can scarcely be expected
to dwell upon such a disagreeable subject as death. Nevertheless, Mrs.
Belgrove could not disguise from herself that her demise could not be
postponed for many more years, and examined the faces of the other
guests to see if they thought so too. If anyone did, he and she politely
suppressed a doubtful look and applauded the suggestion of a
fortune-telling expedition.

"Let us make up a party and go," said the hostess, only too thankful to
find something to amuse the house-party for a few hours. "Where did you
say the gypsies were, Garvington?"

"In the Abbot's Wood," replied her husband, a fat, small round-faced
man, who was methodically devouring a large breakfast.

"That's only three miles away. We can drive or ride."

"Or motor, or bicycle, or use Shanks' mare," remarked Miss Greeby rather
vulgarly. Not that any one minded such a speech from her, as her
vulgarity was merely regarded as eccentricity, because she had money and
brains, an exceedingly long tongue, and a memory of other people's
failings to match.

Lord Garvington made no reply, as breakfast, in his opinion, was much
too serious a business to be interrupted. He reached for the marmalade,
and requested that a bowl of Devonshire cream should be passed along.
His wife, who was lean and anxious-looking even for an August hostess,
looked at him wrathfully. He never gave her any assistance in
entertaining their numerous guests, yet always insisted that the house
should be full for the shooting season. And being poor for a titled
pair, they could not afford to entertain even a shoeblack, much less a
crowd of hungry sportsmen and a horde of frivolous women, who required
to be amused expensively. It was really too bad of Garvington.

At this point the reflections of the hostess were interrupted by Miss
Greeby, who always had a great deal to say, and who always tried, as an
American would observe, "to run the circus." "I suppose you men will go
out shooting as usual?" she said in her sharp, clear voice.

The men present collectively declared that such was their intention, and
that they had come to "The Manor" for that especial purpose, so it was
useless to ask them, or any one of them, to go on a fortune-telling
expedition when they could find anything of that sort in Bond Street.
"And it's all a lot of rot, anyhow," declared one sporting youth with
obviously more muscle and money than brains; "no one can tell my
fortune."

"I can, Billy. You will be Prime Minister," flashed out Miss Greeby, at
which there was a general laugh. Then Garvington threw a bombshell.

"You'd better get your fortunes told to-day, if you want to," he
grunted, wiping his mustache; "for to-morrow I'm going to have these
rotters moved off my land straight away. They're thieves and liars."

"So are many other people," snapped Miss Greeby, who had lost heavily at
bridge on the previous night and spoke feelingly.

Her host paid no attention to her. "There's been a lot of burglaries in
this neighborhood of late. I daresay these gypsies are mixed up in
them."

"Burglaries!" cried Mrs. Belgrove, and turned pale under her rouge, as
she remembered that she had her diamonds with her.

"Oh, it's all right! Don't worry," said Garvington, pushing back his
chair. "They won't try on any games in this house while I'm here. If any
one tries to get in I'll shoot the beast."

"Is that allowed by law?" asked an army officer with a shrug.

"I don't know and I don't care," retorted Garvington. "An Englishman's
house is his castle, you know, and he can jolly well shoot any one who
tries to get into it. Besides, I shouldn't mind potting a burglar. Great
sport."

"You'd ask his intentions first, I presume," said Lady Garvington
tartly.

"Not me. Any one getting into the house after dark doesn't need his
intentions to be asked. I'd shoot."

"What about Romeo?" asked a poetic-looking young man. "He got into
Juliet's house, but did not come as a burglar."

"He came as a guest, I believe," said a quiet, silvery voice at the end
of the table, and every one turned to look at Lady Agnes Pine, who had
spoken.

She was Garvington's sister, and the wife of Sir Hubert Pine, the
millionaire, who was absent from the house party on this occasion. As a
rule, she spoke little, and constantly wore a sad expression on her pale
and beautiful face. And Agnes Pine really was beautiful, being one of
those tall, slim willowy-looking women who always look well and act
charmingly. And, indeed, her undeniable charm of manner probably had
more to do with her reputation as a handsome woman than her actual
physical grace. With her dark hair and dark eyes, her Greek features and
ivory skin faintly tinted with a tea-rose hue, she looked very lovely
and very sad. Why she should be, was a puzzle to many women, as being
the wife of a superlatively rich man, she had all the joys that money
could bring her. Still it was hinted on good authority--but no one ever
heard the name of the authority--that Garvington being poor had forced
her into marrying Sir Hubert, for whom she did not care in the least.
People said that her cousin Noel Lambert was the husband of her choice,
but that she had sacrificed herself, or rather had been compelled to do
so, in order that Garvington might be set on his legs. But Lady Agnes
never gave any one the satisfaction of knowing the exact truth. She
moved through the social world like a gentle ghost, fulfilling her
duties admirably, but apparently indifferent to every one and
everything. "Clippin' to look at," said the young men, "but tombs to
talk to. No sport at all." But then the young men did not possess the
key to Lady Agnes Pine's heart. Nor did her husband apparently.

Her voice was very low and musical, and every one felt its charm.
Garvington answered her question as he left the room. "Romeo or no
Romeo, guest or no guest," he said harshly, "I'll shoot any beast who
tries to enter my house. Come on, you fellows. We start in half an hour
for the coverts."

When the men left the room, Miss Greeby came and sat down in a vacant
seat near her hostess. "What did Garvington mean by that last speech?"
she asked with a significant look at Lady Agnes.

"Oh, my dear, when does Garvington ever mean anything?" said the other
woman fretfully. "He is so selfish; he leaves me to do everything."

"Well," drawled Miss Greeby with a pensive look on her masculine
features, "he looked at Agnes when he spoke."

"What do you mean?" demanded Lady Garvington sharply.

Miss Greeby gave a significant laugh. "I notice that Mr. Lambert is not
in the house," she said carelessly. "But some one told me he was near at
hand in the neighborhood. Surely Garvington doesn't mean to shoot him."

"Clara." The hostess sat up very straight, and a spot of color burned on
either sallow cheek. "I am surprised at you. Noel is staying in the
Abbot's Wood Cottage, and indulging in artistic work of some sort. But
he can come and stay here, if he likes. You don't mean to insinuate that
he would climb into the house through a window after dark like a
burglar?"

"That's just what I do mean," retorted Miss Greeby daringly, "and if he
does, Garvington will shoot him. He said so."

"He said nothing of the sort," cried Lady Garvington, angrily rising.

"Well, he meant it. I saw him looking at Agnes. And we know that Sir
Hubert is as jealous as Othello. Garvington is on guard I suppose,
and--"

"Will you hold your tongue?" whispered the mistress of the Manor
furiously, and she would have shaken Miss Greeby, but that she had
borrowed money from her and did not dare to incur her enmity. "Agnes
will hear you; she is looking this way; can't you see?"

"As if I cared," laughed Miss Greeby, pushing out her full lower lip in
a contemptuous manner. However, for reasons best known to herself, she
held her peace, although she would have scorned the idea that the hint
of her hostess made her do so.

Lady Garvington saw that her guests were all chattering with one
another, and that the men were getting ready to leave for the day's
shooting, so she went to discuss the dinner in the housekeeper's room.
But all the time she and the housekeeper were arguing what Lord
Garvington would like in the way of food, the worried woman was
reflecting on what Miss Greeby had said. When the menu was finally
settled--no easy task when it concerned the master of the house--Lady
Garvington sought out Mrs. Belgrove. That juvenile ancient was sunning
herself on the terrace, in the hope of renewing her waning vitality,
and, being alone, permitted herself to look old. She brisked up with a
kittenish purr when disturbed, and remarked that the Hengishire air was
like champagne. "My spirits are positively wild and wayward," said the
would-be Hebe with a desperate attempt to be youthful.

"Ah, you haven't got the house to look after," sighed Lady Garvington,
with a weary look, and dropped into a basket chair to pour out her woes
to Mrs. Belgrove. That person was extremely discreet, as years of
society struggling had taught her the value of silence. Her discretion
in this respect brought her many confidences, and she was renowned for
giving advice which was never taken.

"What's the matter, my dear? You look a hundred," said Mrs. Belgrove,
putting up her lorgnette with a chuckle, as if she had made an original
observation. But she had not, for Lady Garvington always appeared worn
and weary, and sallow, and untidy. She was the kind of absent-minded
person who depended upon pins to hold her garments together, and who
would put on her tiara crookedly for a drawing-room.

"Clara Greeby's a cat," said poor, worried Lady Garvington, hunting for
her pocket handkerchief, which was rarely to be found.

"Has she been making love to Garvington?"

"Pooh! No woman attracts Garvington unless she can cook, or knows
something about a kitchen range. I might as well have married a soup
tureen. I'm sure I don't know why I ever did marry him," lamented the
lady, staring at the changing foliage of the park trees. "He's a pauper
and a pig, my dear, although I wouldn't say so to every one. I wish my
mother hadn't insisted that I should attend cooking classes."

"What on earth has that to do with it?"

"To do with what?" asked Lady Garvington absentmindedly. "I don't know
what you're talking about, I'm sure. But mother knew that Garvington was
fond of a good dinner, and made me attend those classes, so as to learn
to talk about French dishes. We used to flirt about soups and creams and
haunches of venison, until he thought that I was as greedy as he was. So
he married me, and I've been attending to his meals ever since. Why,
even for our honeymoon we went to Mont St. Michel. They make splendid
omelettes there, and Garvington ate all the time. Ugh!" and the poor
lady shuddered.

Mrs. Belgrove saw that her companion was meandering, and would never
come to the point unless forced to face it, so she rapped her knuckles
with the lorgnette. "What about Clara Greeby?" she demanded sharply.

"She's a cat!"

"Oh, we're all cats, mewing or spitting as the fit takes us," said Mrs.
Belgrove comfortably. "I can't see why cat should be a term of
opprobrium when applied to a woman. Cats are charmingly pretty animals,
and know what they want, also how to get it. Well, my dear?"

"I believe she was in love with Noel herself," ruminated Lady
Garvington.

"Who was in love? Come to the point, my dear Jane."

"Clara Greeby."

Mrs. Belgrove laughed. "Oh, that ancient history. Every one who was
anybody knew that Clara would have given her eyes--and very ugly eyes
they are--to have married Noel Lambert. I suppose you mean him? Noel
isn't a common name. Quite so. You mean him. Well, Clara wanted to buy
him. He hasn't any money, and as a banker's heiress she is as rich as a
Jew. But he wouldn't have her."

"Why wouldn't he?" asked Lady Garvington, waking up--she had been
reflecting about a new soup which she hoped would please her husband.
"Clara has quite six thousand a year, and doesn't look bad when her maid
makes her dress in a proper manner. And, talking about maids, mine wants
to leave, and--"

"She's too like Boadicea," interrupted Mrs. Belgrove, keeping her
companion to the subject of Miss Greeby. "A masculine sort of hussy.
Noel is far too artistic to marry such a maypole. She's six foot two, if
she's an inch, and her hands and feet--" Mrs. Belgrove shuddered with a
gratified glance at her own slim fingers.

"You know the nonsense that Garvington was talking; about shooting a
burglar," said the other woman vaguely. "Such nonsense, for I'm sure no
burglar would enter a house filled with nothing but Early Victorian
furniture."

"Well? Well? Well?" said Mrs. Belgrove impatiently.

"Clara Beeby thought that Garvington meant to shoot Noel."

"Why, in heaven's name! Because Noel is his heir?"

"I'm sure I can't help it if I've no children," said Lady Garvington,
going off on another trail--the one suggested by Mrs. Belgrove's remark.
"I'd be a happier woman if I had something else to attend to than
dinners. I wish we all lived on roots, so that Garvington could dig them
up for himself."

"My dear, he'd send you out with a trowel to do that," said Mrs.
Belgrove humorously. "But why does Garvington want to shoot Noel?"

"Oh, he doesn't. I never said he did. Clara Greeby made the remark. You
see, Noel loved Agnes before she married Hubert, and I believe he loves
her still, which isn't right, seeing she's married, and isn't half so
good-looking as she was. And Noel stopping at that cottage in the
Abbot's Wood painting in water-colors. I think he is, but I'm not sure
if it isn't in oils, and the--"

"Well? Well? Well?" asked Mrs. Belgrove again.

"It isn't well at all, when you think what a tongue Clara Greeby has,"
snapped Lady Garvington. "She said if Noel came to see Agnes by night,
Garvington, taking him for a burglar, might shoot him. She insisted that
he looked at Agnes when he was talking about burglars, and meant that."

"What nonsense!" cried Mrs. Belgrove vigorously, at last having arrived
at a knowledge of why Lady Garvington had sought her. "Noel can come
here openly, so there is no reason he should steal here after dark."

"Well, he's romantic, you know, dear. And romantic people always prefer
windows to doors and darkness to light. The windows here are so
insecure," added Lady Garvington, glancing at the facade above her
untidy hair. "He could easily get in by sticking a penknife in between
the upper and lower sash of the window. It would be quite easy."

"What nonsense you talk, Jane," said Mrs. Belgrove, impatiently. "Noel
is not the man to come after a married woman when her husband is away. I
have known him since he was a Harrow schoolboy, so I have every right to
speak. Where is Sir Hubert?"

"He is at Paris or Pekin, or something with a 'P,'" said Lady Garvington
in her usual vague way. "I'm sure I don't know why he can't take Agnes
with him. They get on very well for a married couple."

"All the same she doesn't love him."

"He loves her, for I'm sure he's that jealous that he can't scarcely
bear her out of his sight."

"It seems to me that he can," remarked Mrs. Belgrove dryly. "Since he is
at Paris or Pekin and she is here."

"Garvington is looking after her, and he owes Sir Hubert too much, not
to see that Agnes is all right."

Mrs. Belgrove peered at Lady Garvington through her lorgnette. "I think
you talk a great deal of nonsense, Jane, as I said before," she
observed. "I don't suppose for one moment that Agnes thinks of Noel, or
Noel of Agnes."

"Clara Greeby says--"

"Oh, I know what she says and what she wishes. She would like to get
Noel into trouble with Sir Hubert over Agnes, simply because he will not
marry her. As to her chatter about burglars--"

"Garvington's chatter," corrected her companion.

"Well, then, Garvington's. It's all rubbish. Agnes is a sweet girl,
and--"

"Girl?" Lady Garvington laughed disdainfully. "She is twenty-five."

"A mere baby. People cannot be called old until they are seventy or
eighty. It is a bad habit growing old. I have never encouraged it
myself. By the way, tell me something about Sir Hubert Pine. I have only
met him once or twice. What kind of a man is he?"

"Tall, and thin, and dark, and--"

"I know his appearance. But his nature?"

"He's jealous, and can be very disagreeable when he likes. I don't know
who he is, or where he came from. He made his money out of penny toys
and South African investments. He was a member of Parliament for a few
years, and helped his party so much with money that he was knighted.
That's all I know of him, except that he is very mean."

"Mean? What you tell me doesn't sound mean."

"I'm talking of his behavior to Garvington," explained the hostess,
touching her ruffled hair, "he doesn't give us enough money."

"Why should he give you any?" asked Mrs. Belgrove bluntly.

"Well, you see, dear, Garvington would never have allowed his sister to
marry a nobody, unless--"

"Unless the nobody paid for his footing. I quite understand. Every one
knows that Agnes married the man to save her family from bankruptcy.
Poor girl!" Mrs. Belgrove sighed. "And she loved Noel. What a shame that
she couldn't become his wife!"

"Oh, that would have been absurd," said Lady Garvington pettishly.
"What's the use of Hunger marrying Thirst? Noel has no money, just like
ourselves, and if it hadn't been for Hubert this place would have been
sold long ago. I'm telling you secrets, mind."

"My dear, you tell me nothing that everybody doesn't know."

"Then what is your advice?"

"About what, my dear?"

"About what I have been telling you. The burglar, and--"

"I have told you before, that it is rubbish. If a burglar does come here
I hope Lord Garvington will shoot him, as I don't want to lose my
diamonds."

"But if the burglar is Noel?"

"He won't be Noel. Clara Greeby has simply made a nasty suggestion which
is worthy of her. But if you're afraid, why not get her to marry Noel?"

"He won't have her," said Lady Garvington dolefully.

"I know he won't. Still a persevering woman can do wonders, and Clara
Greeby has no self-respect. And if you think Noel is too near, get Agnes
to join her husband in Pekin."

"I think it's Paris."

"Well then, Paris. She can buy new frocks."

"Agnes doesn't care for new frocks. Such simple tastes she has, wanting
to help the poor. Rubbish, I call it."

"Why, when her husband helps Lord Garvington?" asked Mrs. Belgrove
artlessly.

Lady Garvington frowned. "What horrid things you say."

"I only repeat what every one is saying."

"Well, I'm sure I don't care," cried Lady Garvington recklessly, and
rose to depart on some vague errand. "I'm only in the world to look
after dinners and breakfasts. Clara Greeby's a cat making all this fuss
about--"

"Hush! There she is."

Lady Garvington fluttered round, and drifted towards Miss Greeby, who
had just stepped out on to the terrace. The banker's daughter was in a
tailor-made gown with a man's cap and a man's gloves, and a man's
boots--at least, as Mrs. Belgrove thought, they looked like that--and
carried a very masculine stick, more like a bludgeon than a cane. With
her ruddy complexion and ruddy hair, and piercing blue eyes, and
magnificent figure--for she really had a splendid figure in spite of
Mrs. Belgrove's depreciation--she looked like a gigantic Norse goddess.
With a flashing display of white teeth, she came along swinging her
stick, or whirling her shillalah, as Mrs. Belgrove put it, and seemed
the embodiment of coarse, vigorous health.

"Taking a sun-bath?" she inquired brusquely and in a loud baritone
voice. "Very wise of you two elderly things. I am going for a walk."

Mrs. Belgrove was disagreeable in her turn. "Going to the Abbot's Wood?"

"How clever of you to guess," Miss Greeby smiled and nodded. "Yes, I'm
going to look up Lambert"; she always spoke of her male friends in this
hearty fashion. "He ought to be here enjoying himself instead of living
like a hermit in the wilds."

"He's painting pictures," put in Lady Garvington. "Do hermits paint?"

"No. Only society women do that," said Miss Greeby cheerfully, and Mrs.
Belgrove's faded eyes flashed. She knew that the remark was meant for
her, and snapped back. "Are you going to have your fortune told by the
gypsies, dear?" she inquired amiably. "They might tell you about your
marriage."

"Oh, I daresay, and if you ask they will prophesy your funeral."

"I am in perfect health, Miss Greeby."

"So I should think, since your cheeks are so red."

Lady Garvington hastily intervened to prevent the further exchange of
compliments. "Will you be back to luncheon, or join the men at the
coverts?"

"Neither. I'll drop on Lambert for a feed. Where are you going?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said the hostess vaguely. "There's lots to do.
I shall know what's to be done, when I think of it," and she drifted
along the terrace and into the house like a cloud blown any way by the
wind. Miss Greeby looked after her limp figure with a contemptuous grin,
then she nodded casually to Mrs. Belgrove, and walked whistling down the
terrace steps.

"Cat, indeed!" commented Mrs. Belgrove to herself when she saw Miss
Greeby's broad back disappear behind the laurels. "Nothing half so
pretty. She's like a great Flanders mare. And I wish Henry VIII was
alive to marry her," she added the epithet suggesting that king, "if
only to cut her head off."

CHAPTER II.

IN THE WOOD.

Miss Greeby swung along towards her destination with a masculine stride
and in as great a hurry as though she had entered herself for a Marathon
race. It was a warm, misty day, and the pale August sunshine radiated
faintly through the smoky atmosphere. Nothing was clear-cut and nothing
was distinct, so hazy was the outlook. The hedges were losing their
greenery and had blossomed forth into myriad bunches of ruddy hips and
haws, and the usually hard road was soft underfoot because of the
penetrating quality of the moist air. There was no wind to clear away
the misty greyness, but yellow leaves without its aid dropped from the
disconsolate trees. The lately-reaped fields, stretching on either side
of the lane down which the lady was walking, presented a stubbled
expanse of brown and dim gold, uneven and distressful to the eye. The
dying world was in ruins and Nature had reduced herself to that
necessary chaos, out of which, when the coming snow completed its task,
she would build a new heaven and a new earth.

An artist might have had some such poetic fancy, and would certainly
have looked lovingly on the alluring colors and forms of decay. But Miss
Greeby was no artist, and prided herself upon being an aggressively
matter-of-fact young woman. With her big boots slapping the ground and
her big hands thrust into the pockets of her mannish jacket, she bent
her head in a meditative fashion and trudged briskly onward. What
romance her hard nature was capable of, was uppermost now, but it
had to do strictly with her personal feelings and did not require the
picturesque autumn landscape to improve or help it in any way. One man's
name suggested romance to bluff, breezy Clara Greeby, and that name was
Noel Lambert. She murmured it over and over again to her heart, and her
hard face flushed into something almost like beauty, as she remembered
that she would soon behold its owner. "But he won't care," she said
aloud, and threw back her head defiantly: then after a pause, she
breathed softly, "But I shall make him care."

If she hoped to do so, the task was one which required a great amount of
skill and a greater amount of womanly courage, neither of which
qualities Miss Greeby possessed. She had no skill in managing a man, as
her instincts were insufficiently feminine, and her courage was of a
purely rough-and-tumble kind. She could have endured hunger and thirst
and cold: she could have headed a forlorn hope: she could have held to a
sinking ship: but she had no store of that peculiar feminine courage
which men don't understand and which women can't explain, however much
they may exhibit it. Miss Greeby was an excellent comrade, but could not
be the beloved of any man, because of the very limitations of
semi-masculinity upon which she prided herself. Noel Lambert wanted a
womanly woman, and Lady Agnes was his ideal of what a wife should be.
Miss Greeby had in every possible way offered herself for the post, but
Lambert had never cared for her sufficiently to endure the thought of
passing through life with her beside him. He said she was "a good sort";
and when a man says that of a woman, she may be to him a good friend, or
even a platonic chum, but she can never be a desirable wife in his eyes.
What Miss Greeby lacked was sex, and lacking that, lacked everything. It
was strange that with her rough common sense she could not grasp this
want. But the thought that Lambert required what she could never
give--namely, the feminine tenderness which strong masculine natures
love--never crossed her very clear and mathematical mind.

So she was bent upon a fool's errand, as she strode towards the Abbot's
Wood, although she did not know it. Her aim was to capture Lambert as
her husband; and her plan, to accomplish her wish by working on the
heart-hunger he most probably felt, owing to the loss of Agnes Pine. If
he loved that lady in a chivalrous fashion--and Miss Greeby believed
that he did--she was absolutely lost to him as the wife of another man.
Lambert would never degrade her into a divorce court appearance. And
perhaps, after all, as Miss Greeby thought hopefully, his love for Sir
Hubert's wife might have turned to scorn that she had preferred money to
true love. But then, again, as Miss Greeby remembered, with a darkening
face, Agnes had married the millionaire so as to save the family estates
from being sold. Rank has its obligation, and Lambert might approve of
the sacrifice, since he was the next heir to the Garvington title. "We
shall see what his attitude is," decided Miss Greeby, as she entered the
Abbot's Wood, and delayed arranging her future plans until she fully
understood his feelings towards the woman he had lost. In the meantime,
Lambert would want a comrade, and Miss Greeby was prepared to sink her
romantic feelings, for the time being, in order to be one.

The forest--which belonged to Garvington, so long as he paid the
interest on the mortgage--was not a very large one. In the old days it
had been of greater size and well stocked with wild animals; so well
stocked, indeed, that the abbots of a near monastery had used it for
many hundred years as a hunting ground. But the monastery had vanished
off the face of the earth, as not even its ruins were left, and the game
had disappeared as the forest grew smaller and the district around
became more populous. A Lambert of the Georgian period--the family name
of Lord Garvington was Lambert--had acquired what was left of the
monastic wood by winning it at a game of cards from the nobleman who had
then owned it. Now it was simply a large patch of green in the middle of
a somewhat naked county, for Hengishire is not remarkable for woodlands.
There were rabbits and birds, badgers, stoats, and such-like wild things
in it still, but the deer which the abbots had hunted were conspicuous
by their absence. Garvington looked after it about as much as he did
after the rest of his estates, which was not saying much. The fat, round
little lord's heart was always in the kitchen, and he preferred eating
to fulfilling his duties as a landlord. Consequently, the Abbot's Wood
was more or less public property, save when Garvington turned crusty and
every now and then cleared out all interlopers. But tramps came to sleep
in the wood, and gypsies camped in its glades, while summer time brought
many artists to rave about its sylvan beauties, and paint pictures of
ancient trees and silent pools, and rugged lawns besprinkled with
rainbow wild flowers. People who went to the Academy and to the various
art exhibitions in Bond Street knew the Abbot's Wood fairly well, as it
was rarely that at least one picture dealing with it did not appear.

Miss Greeby had explored the wood before and knew exactly where to find
the cottage mentioned by Lady Garvington. On the verge of the trees she
saw the blue smoke of the gypsies' camp fires, and heard the vague
murmur of Romany voices, but, avoiding the vagrants, she took her way
through the forest by a winding path. This ultimately led her to a
spacious glade, in the centre of which stood a dozen or more rough
monoliths of mossy gray and weather-worn stones, disposed in a circle.
Probably these were all that remained of some Druidical temple, and
archaeologists came from far and near to view the weird relics. And in
the middle of the circle stood the cottage: a thatched dwelling, which
might have had to do with a fairy tale, with its whitewashed walls
covered with ivy, and its latticed windows, on the ledges of which stood
pots of homely flowers. There was no fence round this rustic dwelling,
as the monoliths stood as guardians, and the space between the cottage
walls and the gigantic stones was planted thickly with fragrant English
flowers. Snapdragon, sweet-william, marigolds, and scented clove
carnations, were all to be found there: also there was thyme, mint,
sage, and other pot-herbs. And the whole perfumed space was girdled by
trees old and young, which stood back from the emerald beauty of
untrimmed lawns. A more ideal spot for a dreamer, or an artist, or a
hermit, or for the straying prince of a fairy tale, it would have been
quite impossible to find. Miss Greeby's vigorous and coarse personality
seemed to break in a noisy manner--although she did not utter a single
word--the enchanted silence of the solitary place.

However, the intruder was too matter-of-fact to trouble about the
sequestered liveliness of this unique dwelling. She strode across the
lawns, and passing beyond the monoliths, marched like an invader up the
narrow path between the radiant flower-beds. From the tiny green door
she raised the burnished knocker and brought it down with an emphatic
bang. Shortly the door opened with a pettish tug, as though the person
behind was rather annoyed by the noise, and a very tall, well-built,
slim young man made his appearance on the threshold. He held a palette
on the thumb of one hand, and clutched a sheaf of brushes, while another
brush was in his mouth, and luckily impeded a rather rough welcome. The
look in a pair of keen blue eyes certainly seemed to resent the
intrusion, but at the sight of Miss Greeby this irritability changed to
a glance of suspicion. Lambert, from old associations, liked his visitor
very well on the whole, but that feminine intuition, which all creative
natures possess, warned him that it was wise to keep her at arm's
length. She had never plainly told her love; but she had assuredly
hinted at it more or less by eye and manner and undue hauntings of his
footsteps when in London. He could not truthfully tell himself that he
was glad of her unexpected visit. For quite half a minute they stood
staring at one another, and Miss Greeby's hard cheeks flamed to a poppy
red at the sight of the man she loved.

"Well, Hermit." she observed, when he made no remark. "As the mountain
would not come to Mahomet, the prophet has come to the mountain."

"The mountain is welcome," said Lambert diplomatically, and stood
aside, so that she might enter. Then adopting the bluff and breezy,
rough-and-ready-man-to-man attitude, which Miss Greeby liked to see in
her friends, he added: "Come in, old girl! It's a pal come to see a pal,
isn't it?"

"Rather," assented Miss Greeby, although, woman-like, she was not
entirely pleased with this unromantic welcome. "We played as brats
together, didn't we?

"Yes," she added meditatively, when following Lambert into his studio,
"I think we are as chummy as a man and woman well can be."

"True enough. You were always a good sort, Clara. How well you are
looking--more of a man than ever."

"Oh, stop that!" said Miss Greeby roughly.

"Why?" Lambert raised his eyebrows. "As a girl you always liked to be
thought manly, and said again and again that you wished you were a boy."

"I find that I am a woman, after all," sighed the visitor, dropping into
a chair and looking round; "with a woman's feelings, too."

"And very nice those feelings are, since they have influenced you to pay
me a visit in the wilds," remarked the artist imperturbably.

"What are you doing in the wilds?"

"Painting," was the laconic retort.

"So I see. Still-life pictures?"

"Not exactly." He pointed toward the easel. "Behold and approve."

Miss Greeby did behold, but she certainly did not approve, because she
was a woman and in love. It was only a pictured head she saw, but the
head was that of a very beautiful girl, whose face smiled from the
canvas in a subtle, defiant way, as if aware of its wild loveliness. The
raven hair streamed straightly down to the shoulders--for the bust of
the model was slightly indicated--and there, bunched out into curls. A
red and yellow handkerchief was knotted round the brows, and dangling
sequins added to its barbaric appearance. Nose and lips and eyes, and
contours, were all perfect, and it really seemed as though the face were
idealized, so absolutely did it respond to all canons of beauty. It was
a gypsy countenance, and there lurked in its loveliness that wild,
untamed look which suggested unrestricted roamings and the spacious
freedom of the road.

The sudden, jealous fear which surged into Miss Greeby's heart climbed
to her throat and choked her speech. But she had wisdom enough to check
unwise words, and glanced round the studio to recover her composure. The
room was small and barely furnished; a couch, two deep arm-chairs, and a
small table filled its limited area. The walls and roof were painted a
pale green, and a carpet of the same delicate hue covered the floor. Of
course, there were the usual painting materials, brushes and easel and
palettes and tubes of color, together with a slightly raised platform
near the one window where the model could sit or stand. The window
itself had no curtains and was filled with plain glass, affording plenty
of light.

"The other windows of the cottage are latticed," said Lambert, seeing
his visitor's eyes wander in that direction. "I had that glass put in
when I came here a month ago. No light can filter through lattices--in
sufficient quantity that is--to see the true tones of the colors."

"Oh, bother the window!" muttered Miss Greeby restlessly, for she had
not yet gained command of her emotions.

Lambert laughed and looked at his picture with his head on one side, and
a very handsome head it was, as Miss Greeby thought. "It bothered me
until I had it put right, I assure you. But you don't seem pleased with
my crib."

"It's not good enough for you."

"Since when have I been a sybarite, Clara?"

"I mean you ought to think of your position."

"It's too unpleasant to think about," rejoined Lambert, throwing himself
on the couch and producing his pipe. "May I smoke?"

"Yes, and if you have any decent cigarettes I'll join you. Thanks!" She
deftly caught the silver case he threw her. "But your position?"

"Five hundred a year and no occupation, since I have been brought up to
neither trade nor profession," said Lambert leisurely. "Well?"

"You are the heir to a title and to a large property."

"Which is heavily mortgaged. As to the title"--Lambert shrugged his
shoulders--"Garvington's wife may have children."

"I don't think so. They have been married ten years and more. You are
certain to come in for everything."

"Everything consists of nothing," said the artist coolly.

"Well," drawled Miss Greeby, puffing luxuriously at her cigarette, which
was Turkish and soothing, "nothing may turn into something when these
mortgages are cleared off."

"Who is going to clear them off?"

"Sir Hubert Pine."

Lambert's brows contracted, as she knew they would when this name was
mentioned, and he carefully attended to filling his pipe so as to avoid
meeting her hard, inquisitive eyes. "Pine is a man of business, and if
he pays off the mortgages he will take over the property as security. I
don't see that Garvington will be any the better off in that case."

"Lambert," said Miss Greeby very decidedly, and determined to know
precisely what he felt like, "Garvington only allowed his sister to
marry Sir Hubert because he was rich. I don't know for certain, of
course, but I should think it probable that he made an arrangement with
Pine to have things put straight because of the marriage."

"Possible and probable," said the artist shortly, and wincing; "but old
friend as you are, Clara, I don't see the necessity of talking about
business which does not concern me. Speak to Garvington."

"Agnes concerns you."

"How objectionably direct you are," exclaimed Lambert in a vexed tone.
"And how utterly wrong. Agnes does not concern me in the least. I loved
her, but as she chose to marry Pine, why there's no more to be said."

"If there was nothing more to be said," observed Miss Greeby shrewdly,
"you would not be burying yourself here."

"Why not? I am fond of nature and art, and my income is not enough to
permit my living decently in London. I had to leave the army because I
was so poor. Garvington has given me this cottage rent free, so I'm
jolly enough with my painting and with Mrs. Tribb as housekeeper and
cook. She's a perfect dream of a cook," ended Lambert thoughtfully.

Miss Greeby shook her red head. "You can't deceive me."

"Who wants to, anyhow?" demanded the man, unconsciously American.

"You do. You wish to make out that you prefer to camp here instead of
admitting that you would like to be at The Manor because Agnes--"

Lambert jumped up crossly. "Oh, leave Agnes out of the question. She is
Pine's wife, so that settles things. It's no use crying for the moon,
and--"

"Then you still wish for the moon," interpolated the woman quickly.

"Not even you have the right to ask me such a question," replied Lambert
in a quiet and decisive tone. "Let us change the subject."

Miss Greeby pointed to the beautiful face smiling on the easel. "I
advise you to," she said significantly.

"You seem to have come here to give me good advice."

"Which you won't take," she retorted.

"Because it isn't needed."

"A man's a man and a woman's a woman."

"That's as true as taxes, as Mr. Barkis observed, if you are acquainted
with the writings of the late Charles Dickens. Well?"

Again Miss Greeby pointed to the picture. "She's very pretty."

"I shouldn't have painted her otherwise."

"Oh, then the original of that portrait does exist?"

"Could you call it a portrait if an original didn't exist?" demanded
the young man tartly. "Since you want to know so much, you may as well
come to the gypsy encampment on the verge of the wood and satisfy
yourself." He threw on a Panama hat, with a cross look. "Since when have
you come to the conclusion that I need a dry nurse?"

"Oh, don't talk bosh!" said Miss Greeby vigorously, and springing to her
feet. "You take me at the foot of the letter and too seriously. I only
came here to see how my old pal was getting on."

"I'm all right and as jolly as a sandboy. Now are you satisfied?"

"Quite. Only don't fall in love with the original of your portrait."

"It's rather late in the day to warn me," said Lambert dryly, "for I
have known the girl for six months. I met her in a gypsy caravan when on
a walking tour, and offered to paint her. She is down here with her
people, and you can see her whenever you have a mind to."

"There's no time like the present," said Miss Greeby, accepting the
offer with alacrity. "Come along, old boy." Then, when they stepped out
of the cottage garden on to the lawns, she asked pointedly, "What is her
name?"

"Chaldea."

"Nonsense. That is the name of the country."

"I never denied that, my dear girl. But Chaldea was born in the country
whence she takes her name. Down Mesopotamia way, I believe. These
gypsies wander far and wide, you know. She's very pretty, and has the
temper of the foul fiend himself. Only Kara can keep her in order."

"Who is Kara?"

"A Servian gypsy who plays the fiddle like an angel. He's a
crooked-backed, black-faced, hairy ape of a dwarf, but highly popular on
account of his music. Also, he's crazy about Chaldea, and loves her to
distraction."

"Does she love him?" Miss Greeby asked in her direct fashion.

"No," replied Lambert, coloring under his tan, and closed his lips
firmly. He was a very presentable figure of a man, as he walked beside
the unusually tall woman. His face was undeniably handsome in a fair
Saxon fashion, and his eyes were as blue as those of Miss Greeby
herself, while his complexion was much more delicate. In fact, she
considered that it was much too good a complexion for one of the male
sex, but admitted inwardly that its possessor was anything but
effeminate, when he had such a heavy jaw, such a firm chin, and such set
lips. Lambert, indeed, at first sight did indeed look so amiable, as to
appear for the moment quite weak; but danger always stiffened him into a
dangerous adversary, and his face when aroused was most unpleasantly
fierce. He walked with a military swing, his shoulders well set back and
his head crested like that of a striking serpent. A rough and warlike
life would have brought out his best points of endurance, capability to
plan and strike quickly, and iron decision; but the want of opportunity
and the enervating influences of civilized existence, made him a man of
possibilities. When time, and place, and chance offered he could act the
hero with the best; but lacking these things he remained innocuous like
gunpowder which has no spark to fire it.

Thinking of these things, Miss Greeby abandoned the subject of Chaldea,
and of her possible love for Lambert, and exclaimed impulsively, "Why
don't you chuck civilization and strike the out-trail?"

"Why should I?" he asked, unmoved, and rather surprised by the change of
the subject. "I'm quite comfortable here."

"Too comfortable," she retorted with emphasis. "This loafing life of
just-enough-to-live-on doesn't give you a chance to play the man. Go out
and fight and colonize and prove your qualities."

Lambert's color rose again, and his eyes sparkled. "I would if the
chance--"

"Ah, bah, Hercules and Omphale!" interrupted his companion.

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind," retorted Miss Greeby, who guessed that he knew what she
meant very well. His quick flush showed her how he resented this
classical allusion to Agnes Pine. "You'd carry her off if you were a
man."

"Chaldea?" asked Lambert, wilfully misunderstanding her meaning.

"If you like. Only don't try to carry her off at night. Garvington says
he will shoot any burglar who comes along after dark."

"I never knew Garvington had anything to do with Chaldea."

"Neither did I. Oh, I think you know very well what I mean."

"Perhaps I do," said the young man with an angry shrug, for really her
interference with his affairs seemed to be quite unjustifiable. "But I
am not going to bring a woman I respect into the Divorce Court."

"Respect? Love, you mean to say."

Lambert stopped, and faced her squarely. "I don't wish to quarrel with
you, Clara, as we are very old friends. But I warn you that I do possess
a temper, and if you wish to see it, you are going the best way to get
what you evidently want. Now, hold your tongue and talk of something
else. Here is Chaldea."

"Watching for you," muttered Miss Greeby, as the slight figure of the
gypsy girl was seen advancing swiftly. "Ha!" and she snorted
suspiciously.

"Rye!" cried Chaldea, dancing toward the artist. "Sarishan rye."

Miss Greeby didn't understand Romany, but the look in the girl's eyes
was enough to reveal the truth. If Lambert did not love his beautiful
model, it was perfectly plain that the beautiful model loved Lambert.

"O baro duvel atch' pa leste!" said Chaldea, and clapped her slim hands.

CHAPTER III.

AN UNEXPECTED RECOGNITION.

"I wish you wouldn't speak the calo jib to me, Chaldea," said Lambert,
smiling on the beautiful eager face. "You know I don't understand it."

"Nor I," put in Miss Greeby in her manly tones. "What does Oh baro devil,
and all the rest of it mean?"

"The Great God be with you," translated Chaldea swiftly, "and duvel is
not devil as you Gorgios call it."

"Only the difference of a letter," replied the Gentile lady
good-humoredly. "Show us round your camp, my good girl."

The mere fact that the speaker was in Lambert's company, let alone the
offensively patronizing tone in which she spoke, was enough to rouse the
gypsy girl's naturally hot temper. She retreated and swayed like a cat
making ready to spring, while her black eyes snapped fire in a most
unpleasant manner.

But Miss Greeby was not to be frightened by withering glances, and
merely laughed aloud, showing her white teeth. Her rough merriment and
masculine looks showed Chaldea that, as a rival, she was not to be
feared, so the angry expression on the dark face changed to a wheedling
smile.

"Avali! Avali! The Gorgios lady wants her fortune told."

For the sake of diplomacy Miss Greeby nodded and fished in her pocket.
"I'll give you half a crown to tell it."

"Not me--not me, dear lady. Mother Cockleshell is our great witch."

"Take me to her then," replied the other, and rapidly gathered into her
brain all she could of Chaldea's appearance.

Lambert had painted a very true picture of the girl, although to a
certain extent he had idealized her reckless beauty. Chaldea's looks had
been damaged and roughened by wind and rain, by long tramps, and by
glaring sunshine. Yet she was superlatively handsome with her warm and
swarthy skin, under which the scarlet blood circled freely. To an oval
face, a slightly hooked nose and two vermilion lips, rather full, she
added the glossy black eyes of the true Romany, peaked at the corners.
Her jetty hair descended smoothly from under a red handkerchief down to
her shoulders, and there, at the tips, became tangled and curling. Her
figure was magnificent, and she swayed and swung from the hips with an
easy grace, which reminded the onlookers of a panther's lithe movements.
And there was a good deal of the dangerous beast-of-prey beauty about
Chaldea, which was enhanced by her picturesque dress. This was ragged
and patched with all kinds of colored cloths subdued to mellow tints by
wear and weather. Also she jingled with coins and beads and barbaric
trinkets of all kinds. Her hands were perfectly formed, and so doubtless
were her feet, although these last were hidden by heavy laced-up boots.
On the whole, she was an extremely picturesque figure, quite comforting
to the artistic eye amidst the drab sameness of latterday civilization.

"All the same, I suspect she is a sleeping volcano," whispered Miss
Greeby in her companion's ear as they followed the girl through the camp.

"Scarcely sleeping," answered Lambert in the same tone. "She explodes on
the slightest provocation, and not without damaging results."

"Well, you ought to know. But if you play with volcanic fire you'll burn
more than your clever fingers."

"Pooh! The girl is only a model."

"Ha! Not much of the lay figure about her, anyway."

Lambert, according to his custom, shrugged his shoulders and did not
seek to explain further. If Miss Greeby chose to turn her fancies into
facts, she was at liberty to do so. Besides, her attention was luckily
attracted by the vivid life of the vagrants which hummed and bustled
everywhere. The tribe was a comparatively large one, and--as Miss Greeby
learned later--consisted of Lees, Loves, Bucklands, Hernes, and others,
all mixed up together in one gypsy stew. The assemblage embraced many
clans, and not only were there pure gypsies, but even many diddikai, or
half-bloods, to be seen. Perhaps the gradually diminishing Romany clans
found it better to band together for mutual benefit than to remain
isolated units. But the camp certainly contained many elements, and
these, acting co-operatively, formed a large and somewhat reckless
community, which justified Garvington's alarm. A raid in the night by
one or two, or three, or more of these lean, wiry, dangerous-looking
outcasts was not to be despised. But it must be admitted that, in a
general way, law and order prevailed in the encampment.

There were many caravans, painted in gay colors and hung round with
various goods, such as brushes and brooms, goat-skin rugs, and much
tinware, together with baskets of all sorts and sizes. The horses, which
drew these rainbow-hued vehicles, were pasturing on the outskirts of the
camp, hobbled for the most part. Interspersed among the travelling homes
stood tents great and small, wherein the genuine Romany had their abode,
but the autumn weather was so fine that most of the inmates preferred to
sleep in the moonshine. Of course, there were plenty of dogs quarrelling
over bones near various fires, or sleeping with one eye open in odd
corners, and everywhere tumbled and laughed and danced, brown-faced,
lithe-limbed children, who looked uncannily Eastern. And the men,
showing their white teeth in smiles, together with the fawning women,
young and handsome, or old and hideously ugly, seemed altogether alien
to the quiet, tame domestic English landscape. There was something
prehistoric about the scene, and everywhere lurked that sense of
dangerous primeval passions held in enforced check which might burst
forth on the very slightest provocation.

"It's a migrating tribe of Aryans driven to new hunting grounds by
hunger or over-population," said Miss Greeby, for even her unromantic
nature was stirred by the unusual picturesqueness of the scene. "The
sight of these people and the reek of their fires make me feel like a
cave-woman. There is something magnificent about this brutal freedom."

"Very sordid magnificence," replied Lambert, raising his shoulders. "But
I understand your feelings. On occasions we all have the nostalgia of
the primitive life at times, and delight to pass from ease to hardship."

"Well, civilization isn't much catch, so far as I can see," argued his
companion. "It makes men weaklings."

"Certainly not women," he answered, glancing sideways at her Amazonian
figure.

"I agree with you. For some reason, men are going down while women are
going up, both physically and mentally. I wonder what the future of
civilized races will be."

"Here is Mother Cockleshell. Best ask her."

The trio had reached a small tent at the very end of the camp by this
time, snugly set up under a spreading oak and near the banks of a
babbling brook. Their progress had not been interrupted by any claims on
their attention or purses, for a wink from Chaldea had informed her
brother and sister gypsies that the Gentile lady had come to consult the
queen of the tribe. And, like Lord Burleigh's celebrated nod, Chaldea's
wink could convey volumes. At all events, Lambert and his companion were
unmolested, and arrived in due course before the royal palace. A
croaking voice announced that the queen was inside her Arab tent, and
she was crooning some Romany song. Chaldea did not open her mouth, but
simply snapped her fingers twice or thrice rapidly. The woman within
must have had marvellously sharp ears, for she immediately stopped her
incantation--the songs sounded like one--and stepped forth.

"Oh!" said Miss Greeby, stepping back, "I am disappointed."

She had every reason to be after the picturesqueness of the camp in
general, and Chaldea in particular, for Mother Cockleshell looked like a
threadbare pew-opener, or an almshouse widow who had seen better days.
Apparently she was very old, for her figure had shrivelled up into a
diminutive monkey form, and she looked as though a moderately high wind
could blow her about like a feather. Her face was brown and puckered and
lined in a most wonderful fashion. Where a wrinkle could be, there a
wrinkle was, and her nose and chin were of the true nutcracker order, as
a witch's should be. Only her eyes betrayed the powerful vitality that
still animated the tiny frame, for these were large and dark, and had in
them a piercing look which seemed to gaze not at any one, but through
and beyond. Her figure, dried like that of a mummy, was surprisingly
straight for one of her ancient years, and her profuse hair was scarcely
touched with the gray of age. Arrayed in a decent black dress, with a
decent black bonnet and a black woollen shawl, the old lady looked
intensely respectable. There was nothing of the picturesque vagrant
about her. Therefore Miss Greeby, and with every reason, was
disappointed, and when the queen of the woodland spoke she was still
more so, for Mother Cockleshell did not even interlard her English
speech with Romany words, as did Chaldea.

"Good day to you, my lady, and to you, sir," said Mother Cockleshell in
a stronger and harsher voice than would have been expected from one of
her age and diminished stature. "I hope I sees you well," and she
dropped a curtsey, just like any village dame who knew her manners.

"Oh!" cried Miss Greeby again. "You don't look a bit like a gypsy queen."

"Ah, my lady, looks ain't everything. But I'm a true-bred Romany--a
Stanley of Devonshire. Gentilla is my name and the tent my home, and I
can tell fortunes as no one else on the road can."

"Avali, and that is true," put in Chaldea eagerly. "Gentilla's a bori
chovihani."

"The child means that I am a great witch, my lady," said the old dame
with another curtsey. "Though she's foolish to use Romany words to
Gentiles as don't understand the tongue which the dear Lord spoke in
Eden's garden, as the good Book tells us."

"In what part of the Bible do you find that?" asked Lambert laughing.

"Oh, my sweet gentleman, it ain't for the likes of me to say things to
the likes of you," said Mother Cockleshell, getting out of her
difficulty very cleverly, "but the dear lady wants her fortune told,
don't she?"

"Why don't you say dukkerin?"

"I don't like them wicked words, sir," answered Mother Cockleshell
piously.

"Wicked words," muttered Chaldea tossing her black locks. "And them true
Romany as was your milk tongue. No wonder the Gentiles don't fancy you a
true one of the road. If I were queen of--"

A vicious little devil flashed out of the old woman's eyes, and her
respectable looks changed on the instant. "Tol yer chib, or I'll heat
the bones of you with the fires of Bongo Tem," she screamed furiously,
and in a mixture of her mother-tongue and English. "Ja pukenus, slut of
the gutter," she shook her fist, and Chaldea, with an insulting laugh,
moved away. "Bengis your see! Bengis your see! And that, my generous
lady," she added, turning round with a sudden resumption of her fawning
respectability, "means 'the devil in your heart,' which I spoke
witchly-like to the child. Ah, but she's a bad one."

Miss Greeby laughed outright. "This is more like the real thing."

"Poor Chaldea," said Lambert. "You're too hard on her, mother."

"And you, my sweet gentleman, ain't hard enough. She'll sell you, and
get Kara to put the knife between your ribs."

"Why should he? I'm not in love with the girl."

"The tree don't care for the ivy, but the ivy loves the tree," said
Mother Cockleshell darkly. "You're a good and kind gentleman, and I
don't want to see that slut pick your bones."

"So I think," whispered Miss Greeby in his ear. "You play with fire."

"Aye, my good lady," said Mother Cockleshell, catching the whisper--she
had the hearing of a cat. "With the fire of Bongo Tern, the which you
may call The Crooked Land," and she pointed significantly downward.

"Hell, do you mean?" asked Miss Greeby in her bluff way.

"The Crooked Land we Romany calls it," insisted the old woman. "And the
child will go there, for her witchly doings."

"She's too good-looking to lose as a model, at all events," said
Lambert, hitching his shoulders. "I shall leave you to have your fortune
told, Clara, and follow Chaldea to pacify her."

As he went toward the centre of the camp, Miss Greeby took a hesitating
step as though to follow him. In her opinion Chaldea was much too
good-looking, let alone clever, for Lambert to deal with alone. Gentilla
Stanley saw the look on the hard face and the softening of the hard eyes
as the cheeks grew rosy red. From this emotion she drew her conclusions,
and she chuckled to think of how true a fortune she could tell the
visitor on these premises. Mother Cockleshell's fortune-telling was not
entirely fraudulent, but when her clairvoyance was not in working order
she made use of character-reading with good results.

"Won't the Gorgios lady have her fortune told?" she asked in wheedling
tones. "Cross Mother Cockleshell's hand with silver and she'll tell the
coming years truly."

"Why do they call you Mother Cockleshell?" demanded Miss Greeby, waiving
the question of fortune-telling for the time being.

"Bless your wisdom, it was them fishermen at Grimsby who did so. I
walked the beaches for years and told charms and gave witchly spells for
fine weather. Gentilla Stanley am I called, but Mother Cockleshell was
their name for me. But the fortune, my tender Gentile--"

"I don't want it told," interrupted Miss Greeby abruptly. "I don't
believe in such rubbish."

"There is rubbish and there is truth," said the ancient gypsy darkly.
"And them as knows can see what's hidden from others."

"Well, you will have an opportunity this afternoon of making money. Some
fools from The Manor are coming to consult you."

Mother Cockleshell nodded and grinned to show a set of beautifully
preserved teeth. "I know The Manor," said she, rubbing her slim hands.
"And Lord Garvington, with his pretty sister."

"Lady Agnes Pine?" asked Miss Greeby. "How do you know, her?"

"I've been in these parts before, my gentle lady, and she was good to me
in a sick way. I would have died in the hard winter if she hadn't fed me
and nursed me, so to speak. I shall love to see her again. To dick a
puro pal is as commoben as a aushti habben, the which, my precious
angel, is true Romany for the Gentile saying, 'To see an old friend is
as good as a fine dinner.' Avali! Avali!" she nodded smilingly. "I shall
be glad to see her, though here I use Romany words to you as doesn't
understand the lingo."

Miss Greeby was not at all pleased to hear Lady Agnes praised; as,
knowing that Lambert had loved her, and probably loved her still, she
was jealous enough to wish her all possible harm. However, it was not
diplomatic to reveal her true feelings to Mother Cockleshell, lest the
old gypsy should repeat her words to Lady Agnes, so she turned the
conversation by pointing to a snow-white cat of great size, who stepped
daintily out of the tent. "I should think, as a witch, your cat ought to
be black," said Miss Greeby. Mother Cockleshell screeched like a
night-owl and hastily pattered some gypsy spell to avert evil. "Why, the
old devil is black," she cried. "And why should I have him in my house
to work evil? This is my white ghost." Her words were accompanied by a
gentle stroking of the cat. "And good is what she brings to my
roof-tree. But I don't eat from white dishes, or drink from white mugs.
No! No! That would be too witchly."

Miss Greeby mused. "I have heard something about these gypsy
superstitions before," she remarked meditatively.

"Avo! Avo! They are in a book written by a great Romany Rye. Leland is
the name of that rye, a gypsy Lee with Gentile land. He added land to
the lea as he was told by one of our people. Such a nice gentleman,
kind, and free of his money and clever beyond tellings, as I always
says. Many a time has he sat pal-like with me, and 'Gentilla,' says he,
'your're a bori chovihani'; and that, my generous lady, is the gentle
language for a great witch."

"Chaldea said that you were that," observed Miss Greeby carelessly.

"The child speaks truly. Come, cross my hand, sweet lady."

Miss Greeby passed along half a crown. "I only desire to know one
thing," she said, offering her palm. "Shall I get my wish?"

Mother Cockleshell peered into the hands, although she had already made
up her mind what to say. Her faculties, sharpened by years of chicanery,
told her from the look which Miss Greeby had given when Lambert followed
Chaldea, that a desire to marry the man was the wish in question. And
seeing how indifferent Lambert was in the presence of the tall lady,
Mother Cockleshell had no difficulty in adjusting the situation in her
own artful mind. "No, my lady," she said, casting away the hand with
quite a dramatic gesture. "You will never gain your wish."

Miss Greeby looked angry. "Bah! Your fortune-telling is all rubbish, as
I have always thought," and she moved away.

"Tell me that in six months," screamed the old woman after her.

"Why six months?" demanded the other, pausing.

"Ah, that's a dark saying," scoffed the gypsy. "Call it seven, my
hopeful-for-what-you-won't-get, like the cat after the cream, for
seven's a sacred number, and the spell is set."

"Gypsy jargon, gypsy lies," muttered Miss Greeby, tossing her ruddy
mane. "I don't believe a word. Tell me--"

"There's no time to say more," interrupted Mother Cockleshell rudely,
for, having secured her money, she did not think it worth while to be
polite, especially in the face of her visitor's scepticism. "One of our
tribe--aye, and he's a great Romany for sure--is coming to camp with us.
Each minute he may come, and I go to get ready a stew of hedgehog, for
Gentile words I must use to you, who are a Gorgio. And so good day to
you, my lady," ended the old hag, again becoming the truly respectable
pew-opener. Then she dropped a curtsey--whether ironical or not, Miss
Greeby could not tell--and disappeared into the tent, followed by the
white cat, who haunted her footsteps like the ghost she declared it to
be.

Clearly there was nothing more to be learned from Mother Cockleshell,
who, in the face of her visitor's doubts, had become hostile, so Miss
Greeby, dismissing the whole episode as over and done with, turned her
attention toward finding Lambert. With her bludgeon under her arm and
her hands in the pockets of her jacket, she stalked through the camp in
quite a masculine fashion, not vouchsafing a single reply to the
greetings which the gypsies gave her. Shortly she saw the artist
chatting with Chaldea at the beginning of the path which led to his
cottage. Beside them, on the grass, squatted a queer figure.

It was that of a little man, very much under-sized, with a hunch back
and a large, dark, melancholy face covered profusely with black hair. He
wore corduroy trousers and clumsy boots--his feet and hands were
enormous--together with a green coat and a red handkerchief which was
carelessly twisted round his hairy throat. On his tangled
locks--distressingly shaggy and unkempt--he wore no hat, and he looked
like a brownie, grotesque, though somewhat sad. But even more did he
resemble an ape--or say the missing link--and only his eyes seemed
human. These were large, dark and brilliant, sparkling like jewels under
his elf-locks. He sat cross-legged on the sward and hugged a fiddle, as
though he were nursing a baby. And, no doubt, he was as attached to his
instrument as any mother could be to her child. It was not difficult for
Miss Greeby to guess that this weird, hairy dwarf was the Servian gypsy
Kara, of whom Lambert had spoken. She took advantage of the knowledge to
be disagreeable to the girl.

"Is this your husband?" asked Miss Greeby amiably.

Chaldea's eyes flashed and her cheeks grew crimson. "Not at all," she
said contemptuously. "I have no rom."

"Ah, your are not married?"

"No," declared Chaldea curtly, and shot a swift glance at Lambert.

"She is waiting for the fairy prince," said that young gentleman
smiling. "And he is coming to this camp almost immediately."

"Ishmael Hearne is coming," replied the gypsy. "But he is no rom of
mine, and never will be."

"Who is he, then?" asked Lambert carelessly.

"One of the great Romany."

Miss Greeby remembered that Mother Cockleshell had also spoken of the
expected arrival at the camp in these terms. "A kind of king?" she
asked.

Chaldea laughed satirically. "Yes; a kind of king," she assented; then
turned her back rudely on the speaker and addressed Lambert: "I can't
come, rye. Ishmael will want to see me. I must wait."

"What a nuisance," said Lambert, looking annoyed. "Fancy, Clara. I have
an idea of painting these two as Beauty and the Beast, or perhaps as
Esmeralda and Quasimodo. I want them to come to the cottage and sit now,
but they will wait for this confounded Ishmael."

"We can come to-morrow," put in Chaldea quickly. "This afternoon I must
dance for Ishmael, and Kara must play."

"Ishmael will meet with a fine reception," said Miss Greeby, and then,
anxious to have a private conversation with Chaldea so as to disabuse
her mind of any idea she may have entertained of marrying Lambert, she
added, "I think I shall stay and see him."

"In that case, I shall return to my cottage," replied Lambert,
sauntering up the pathway, which was strewn with withered leaves.

"When are you coming to The Manor?" called Miss Greeby after him.

"Never! I am too busy," he replied over his shoulder and disappeared
into the wood. This departure may seem discourteous, but then Miss
Greeby liked to be treated like a comrade and without ceremony. That
is, she liked it so far as other men were concerned, but not as regards
Lambert. She loved him too much to approve of his careless leave-taking,
and therefore she frowned darkly, as she turned her attention to
Chaldea.

The girl saw that Miss Greeby was annoyed, and guessed the cause of her
annoyance. The idea that this red-haired and gaunt woman should love the
handsome Gorgio was so ludicrous in Chaldea's eyes that she laughed in
an ironical fashion. Miss Greeby turned on her sharply, but before she
could speak there was a sound of many voices raised in welcome.
"Sarishan pal! Sarishan ba!" cried the voices, and Chaldea started.

"Ishmael!" she said, and ran toward the camp, followed leisurely by
Kara.

Anxious to see the great Romany, whose arrival caused all this
commotion, Miss Greeby plunged into the crowd of excited vagrants. These
surrounded a black horse, on which sat a slim, dark-faced man of the
true Romany breed. Miss Greeby stared at him and blinked her eyes, as
though she could not believe what they beheld, while the man waved his
hand and responded to the many greetings in gypsy language. His eyes
finally met her own as she stood on the outskirts of the crowd, and he
started. Then she knew. "Sir Hubert Pine," said Miss Greeby, still
staring. "Sir Hubert Pine!"

CHAPTER IV.

SECRETS.

The scouting crowd apparently did not catch the name, so busy were one
and all in welcoming the newcomer. But the man on the horse saw Miss
Greeby's startled look, and noticed that her lips were moving. In a
moment he threw himself off the animal and elbowed his way roughly
through the throng.

"Sir Hubert," began Miss Greeby, only to be cut short hastily.

"Don't give me away," interrupted Pine, who here was known as Ishmael
Hearne. "Wait till I settle things, and then we can converse privately."

"All right," answered the lady, nodding, and gripped her bludgeon
crosswise behind her back with two hands. She was so surprised at the
sight of the millionaire in the wood, that she could scarcely speak.

Satisfied that she grasped the situation, Pine turned to his friends and
spoke at length in fluent Romany. He informed them that he had some
business to transact with the Gentile lady who had come to the camp for
that purpose, and would leave them for half an hour. The man evidently
was such a favorite that black looks were cast on Miss Greeby for
depriving the Romany of his society. But Pine paid no attention to these
signs of discontent. He finished his speech, and then pushed his way
again toward the lady who, awkwardly for him, was acquainted with his
true position as a millionaire. In a hurried whisper he asked Miss
Greeby to follow him, and led the way into the heart of the wood.
Apparently he knew it very well, and knew also where to seek solitude
for the private conversation he desired, for he skirted the central
glade where Lambert's cottage was placed, and finally guided his
companion to a secluded dell, far removed from the camp of his brethren.
Here he sat down on a mossy stone, and stared with piercing black eyes
at Miss Greeby.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded imperiously.

"Just the question I was about to put to you," said Miss Greeby amiably.
She could afford to be amiable, for she felt that she was the mistress
of the situation. Pine evidently saw this, for he frowned.

"You must have guessed long ago that I was a gypsy," he snapped
restlessly.

"Indeed I didn't, nor, I should think, did any one else. I thought you
had nigger blood in you, and I have heard people say that you came from
the West Indies. But what does it matter if you are a gypsy? There is no
disgrace in being one."

"No disgrace, certainly," rejoined the millionaire, leaning forward and
linking his hands together, while he stared at the ground. "I am proud
of having the gentle Romany blood. All the same I prefer the West Indian
legend, for I don't want any of my civilized friends to know that I am
Ishmael Hearne, born and bred in a tent."

"Well, that's natural, Pine. What would Garvington say?"

"Oh, curse Garvington!"

"Curse the whole family by all means," retorted Miss Greeby coolly.

Pine looked up savagely, "I except my wife."

"Naturally. You always were uxorious."

"Perhaps," said Pine gloomily, "I'm a fool where Agnes is concerned."

Miss Greeby quite agreed with this statement, but did not think it worth
while to indorse so obvious a remark. She sat down in her turn, and
taking Lambert's cigarette case, which she had retained by accident, out
of her pocket, she prepared to smoke. The two were entirely alone in the
fairy dell, and the trees which girdled it were glorious with vivid
autumnal tints. A gentle breeze sighing through the wood, shook down
yew, crisp leaves on the woman's head, so that she looked like Danae in
a shower of gold. Pine gazed heavily at the ground and coughed
violently. Miss Greeby knew that cough, and a medical friend of hers
had told her several times that Sir Hubert was a very consumptive
individual. He certainly looked ill, and apparently had not long to
live. And if he died, Lady Agnes, inheriting his wealth, would be more
desirable as a wife than ever. And Miss Greeby, guessing whose wife she
would be, swore inwardly that the present husband should look so
delicate. But she showed no sign of her perturbations, but lighted her
cigarette with a steady hand and smoked quietly. She always prided
herself on her nerve.

The millionaire was tall and lean, with a sinewy frame, and an oval,
olive-complexioned face. It was clean-shaven, and with his aquiline
nose, his thin lips, and brilliant black eyes, which resembled those of
Kara, he looked like a long-descended Hindoo prince. The Eastern blood
of the Romany showed in his narrow feet and slim brown hands, and there
was a wild roving look about him, which Miss Greeby had not perceived in
London.

"I suppose it's the dress," she said aloud, and eyed Pine critically.

"What do you say, Miss Greeby?" he asked, looking up in a sharp,
startled manner, and again coughing in a markedly consumptive way.

"The cowl makes the monk in your case," replied the woman quietly. "Your
corduroy breeches and velveteen coat, with that colored shirt, and the
yellow handkerchief round your neck, seem to suit you better than did
the frock coats and evening dress I have seen you in. You did look like
a nigger of sorts when in those clothes; now I can tell you are a gypsy
with half an eye."

"That is because you heard me called Ishmael and saw me among my kith
and kin," said the man with a tired smile. "Don't tell Agnes."

"Why should I? It's none of my business if you chose to masquerade as a
gypsy."

"I masquerade as Sir Hubert Pine," retorted the millionaire, slipping
off the stone to sprawl full-length on the grass. "I am truly and really
one of the lot in the camp yonder."

"Do they know you by your Gentile name?"

Pine laughed. "You are picking up the gypsy lingo, Miss Greeby. No.
Every one on the road takes me for what I am, Ishmael Hearne, and my
friends in the civilized world think I am Sir Hubert Pine, a millionaire
with colored blood in his veins."

"How do you come to have a double personality and live a double life?"

"Oh, that is easily explained, and since you have found me out it is
just as well that I should explain, so that you may keep my secret, at
all events from my wife, as she would be horrified to think that she had
married a gypsy. You promise?"

"Of course. I shall say nothing. But perhaps she would prefer to know
that she had married a gypsy rather than a nigger."

"What polite things you say," said Pine sarcastically. "However, I can't
afford to quarrel with you. As you are rich, I can't even bribe you to
silence, so I must rely on your honor."

"Oh, I have some," Miss Greeby assured him lightly.

"When it suits you," he retorted doubtfully.

"It does on this occasion."

"Why?"

"I'll tell you that when you have related your story."

"There is really none to tell. I was born and brought up on the road,
and thinking I was wasting my life I left my people and entered
civilization. In London I worked as a clerk, and being clever I soon
made money. I got hold of a man who invented penny toys, and saw the
possibilities of making a fortune. I really didn't, but I collected
enough money to dabble in stocks and shares. The South African boom was
on, and I made a thousand. Other speculations created more than a
million out of my thousand, and now I have over two millions, honestly
made."

"Honestly?" queried Miss Greeby significantly.

"Yes; I assure you, honestly. We gypsies are cleverer than you Gentiles,
and we have the same money-making faculties as the Jews have. If my
people were not so fond of the vagrant life they would soon become a
power in the money markets of the world. But, save in the case of
myself, we leave all such grubbing to the Jews. I did grub, and my
reward is that I have accumulated a fortune in a remarkably short space
of time. I have land and houses, and excellent investments, and a title,
which," he added sarcastically, "a grateful Government bestowed on me
for using my money properly."

"You bought the title by helping the political party you belonged to,"
said Miss Greeby with a shrug. "There was quite a talk about it."

"So there was. As if I cared for talk. However, that is my story."

"Not all of it. You are supposed to be in Paris, and--"

"And you find me here," interrupted Pine with a faint smile. "Well you
see, being a gypsy, I can't always endure that under-the-roof life you
Gentiles live. I must have a spell of the open road occasionally. And,
moreover, as my doctor tells me that I have phthisis, and that I should
live as much as possible in the open air, I kill two birds with one
stone, as the saying is. My health benefits by my taking up the old
Romany wandering, and I gratify my nostalgia for the tent and the wild.
You understand, you und--" His speech was interrupted by a fresh fit of
coughing.

"It doesn't seem to do you much good this gypsying," said Miss Greeby
with a swift look, for his life was of importance to her plans. "You
look pretty rocky I can tell you, Pine. And if you die your wife will be
free to--" The man sat up and took away from his mouth a handkerchief
spotted with blood. His eyes glittered, and he showed his white teeth.
"My wife will be free to what?" he demanded viciously, and the same
devil that had lurked in Mother Cockleshell's eye, now showed
conspicuously in his.

Miss Greeby had no pity on his manifest distress and visible wrath, but
answered obliquely: "You know that she was almost engaged to her cousin
before you married her," she hinted pointedly.

"Yes, I know, d---- him," said Pine with a groan, and rolled over to
clutch at the grass in a vicious manner. "But he's not at The Manor now?"

"No."

"Agnes doesn't speak of him?"

"No."

Pine drew a deep breath and rose slowly to his feet, with a satisfied
nod.

"I'm glad of that. She's a good woman is Agnes, and would never
encourage him in any way. She knows what is due to me. I trust her."

"Do you? When your secretary is also stopping at The Manor?"

"Silver!" Pine laughed awkwardly, and kicked at a tuft of moss. "Well I
did ask him to keep an eye on her, although there is really no occasion.
Silver owes me a great deal, since I took him out of the gutter. If
Lambert worried my wife, Silver would let me know, and then--"

"And then?" asked Miss Greeby hastily.

The man clenched his fists and his face grew stormy, as his blood
untamed by civilization surged redly to the surface. "I'd twist his
neck, I'd smash his skull, I'd--I'd--I'd--oh, don't ask me what I'd do."

"I should keep my temper if I were you," Miss Greeby warned him, and
alarmed by the tempest she had provoked. She had no wish for the man she
loved to come into contact with this savage, veneered by civilization.
Yet Lambert was in the neighborhood, and almost within a stone's throw
of the husband who was so jealous of him. "Keep your temper," repeated
Miss Greeby.

"Is there anything else you would like me to do?" raged Pine fiercely.

"Yes. Leave this place if you wish to keep the secret of your birth from
your wife. Lady Garvington and Mrs. Belgrove, and a lot of people from
The Manor, are coming to the camp to get their fortunes told. You are
sure to be spotted."

"I shall keep myself out of sight," said Pine sullenly and suspiciously.

"Some of your gypsy friends may let the cat out of the bag."

"Not one of them knows there is a cat in the bag. I am Ishmael Hearne to
them, and nothing else. But I shan't stay here long."

"I wonder you came at all, seeing that your wife is with her brother."

"In the daring of my coming lies my safety," said Pine tartly. "I know
what I am doing. As to Lambert, if he thinks to marry my wife when I am
dead he is mistaken."

"Well, I hope you won't die, for my sake!"

"Why for your sake?" asked Pine sharply.

"Because I love Lambert and I want to marry him."

"Marry him," said the millionaire hoarsely, "and I'll give you thousands
of pounds. Oh! I forgot that you have a large income. But marry him,
marry him, Miss Greeby. I shall help you all I can."

"I can do without assistance," said the woman coolly. "All I ask you to
do is to refrain from fighting with Lambert."

"What?" Pine's face became lowering again. "Is he at The Manor? You
said--"

"I know what I said. He is not at The Manor, but he is stopping in the
cottage a stone's throw from here."

Pine breathed hard, and again had a spasm of coughing. "What's he doing?"

"Painting pictures."

"He has not been near The Manor?"

"No. And what is more, he told me to-day that he did not intend to go
near the house. I don't think you need be afraid, Pine. Lambert is a man
of honor, and I hope to get him to be my husband."

"He shall never be my wife's husband," said the millionaire between his
teeth and scowling heavily. "I know that I shan't live to anything like
three score and ten. Your infernal hot-house civilization has killed me.
But if Lambert thinks to marry my widow he shall do so in the face of
Garvington's opposition, and will find Agnes a pauper."

"What do you mean exactly?" Miss Greeby flung away the stump of her
cigarette and rose to her feet.

Pine wiped his brow and breathed heavily. "I mean that I have left Agnes
my money, only on condition that she does _not_ marry Lambert. She can
marry any one else she has a mind to. I except her cousin."

"Because she loves him?"

"Yes, and because he loves her, d--n him."

"He doesn't," cried Miss Greeby, lying fluently, and heartily wishing
that her lie could be a truth. "He loves me, and I intend to marry him.
Now you can understand what I meant when I declared that I had honor
enough to keep your secret. Lambert is my honor."

"Oh, then I believe in your honor," sneered Pine cynically. "It is a
selfish quality in this case, which can only be gratified by preserving
silence. If Agnes knew that I was a true Romany tramp, she might run
away with Lambert, and as you want him to be your husband, it is to your
interest to hold your tongue. Thank you for nothing, Miss Greeby."

"I tell you Lambert loves me," cried the woman doggedly, trying to
persuade her heart that she spoke truly. "And whether you leave your
money to your wife, or to any one else, makes no manner of difference."

"I think otherwise," he retorted. "And it is just as well to be on the
safe side. If my widow marries Lambert, she loses my millions, and they
go to--" He checked himself abruptly. "Never mind who gets them. It is a
person in whom you can take no manner of interest."

Miss Greeby pushed the point of her bludgeon into the spongy ground, and
looked thoughtful. "If Lambert loves Agnes still, which I don't
believe," she observed, after a pause, "he would marry her even if she
hadn't a shilling. Your will excluding him as her second husband is
merely the twisting of a rope of sand, Pine."

"You forget," said the man quickly, "that I declared also, he would have
to marry her in the face of Garvington's opposition."

"In what way?"

"Can't you guess? Garvington only allowed me to marry his sister because
I am a wealthy man. I absolutely bought my wife by helping him, and she
gave herself to me without love to save the family name from disgrace.
She is a good woman, is Agnes, and always places duty before
inclination. Marriage with her pauper cousin meant practically the
social extinction of the Lambert family, and nothing would have remained
but the title. Therefore she married me, and I felt mean at the time in
accepting the sacrifice. But I was so deeply in love with her that I did
so. I love her still, and I am mean enough still to be jealous of this
cousin. She shall never marry him, and I know that Garvington will
appeal to his sister's strong desire to save the family once more; so
that she may not be foolish enough to lose the money. And two millions,
more or less," ended Pine cynically, "is too large a sum to pay for a
second husband."

"Does Agnes know these conditions?"

"No. Nor do I intend that she should know. You hold your tongue."

Miss Greeby pulled on her heavy gloves and nodded. "I told you that I
had some notion of honor. Will you let Lambert know that you are in this
neighborhood?"

"No. There is no need. I am stopping here only for a time to see a
certain person. Silver will look after Agnes, and is coming to the camp
to report upon what he has observed."

"Silver then knows that you are Ishmael Hearne?"

"Yes. He knows all my secrets, and I can trust him thoroughly, since he
owes everything to me."

Miss Greeby laughed scornfully. "That a man of your age and experience
should believe in gratitude. Well, it's no business of mine. You may be
certain that for my own purpose I shall hold my tongue and shall keep
Lambert from seeking your wife. Not that he loves her," she added
hastily, as Pine's brows again drew together. "But she loves him, and
may use her arts--"

"Don't you dare to speak of arts in connection with my wife," broke in
the man roughly. "She is no coquette, and I trust her--"

"So long as Silver looks after her," finished Miss Greeby
contemptuously. "What chivalrous confidence. Well, I must be going. Any
message to your--"

"No! No! No!" broke in Pine once more. "She is not to know that I am
here, or anything about my true position and name. You promised, and you
will keep your promise. But there, I know that you will, as
self-interest will make you."

"Ah, now you talk common sense. It is a pity you don't bring it to bear
in the case of Silver, whom you trust because you have benefited him.
Good-day, you very unsophisticated person. I shall see you again--"

"In London as Hubert Pine," said the millionaire abruptly, and Miss
Greeby, with a good-humored shrug, marched away, swinging her stick and
whistling gayly. She was very well satisfied with the knowledge she had
obtained, as the chances were that it would prove useful should Lambert
still hanker after the unattainable woman. Miss Greeby had lulled Pine's
suspicions regarding the young man's love for Agnes, but she knew in her
heart that she had only done so by telling a pack of miserable lies.
Now, as she walked back to The Manor, she reflected that by using her
secret information dexterously, she might improve such falsehood into
tolerable truth.

Pine flung himself down again when she departed, and coughed in his
usual violent manner. His throat and lungs ached, and his brow was wet
with perspiration. With his elbows on his knees and his face between his
hands, he sat miserably thinking over his troubles. There was no chance
of his living more than a few years, as the best doctors in Europe and
England had given him up, and when he was placed below ground, the
chances were that Agnes would marry his rival. He had made things as
safe as was possible against such a contingency, but who knew if her
love for Lambert might not make her willing to surrender the millions.
"Unless Garvington can manage to arouse her family pride," groaned Pine
drearily. "She sacrificed herself before for that, and perhaps she will
do so again. But who knows?" And he could find no answer to this
question, since it is impossible for any man to say what a woman will do
where her deepest emotions are concerned.

A touch on Pine's shoulder made him leap to his feet with the alertness
of a wild animal on the lookout for danger. By his side stood Chaldea,
and her eyes glittered, as she came to the point of explanation without
any preamble. The girl was painfully direct. "I have heard every word,"
she said triumphantly. "And I know what you are, brother."

"Why did you come here?" demanded Pine sharply, and frowning.

"I wanted to hear what a Romany had to do with a Gorgio lady, brother.
And what do I hear. Why, that you dwell in the Gentile houses, and take
a Gentile name, and cheat in a Gentile manner, and have wed with a
Gentile romi. Speaking Romanly, brother, it is not well."

"It is as I choose, sister," replied Pine quietly, for since Chaldea had
got the better of him, it was useless to quarrel with her. "And from
what I do good will come to our people."

Chaldea laughed, and blew from her fingers a feather, carelessly picked
up while in the thicket which had concealed her eavesdropping. "For
that, I care that," said she, pointing to the floating feather slowly
settling. "I looks to myself and to my love, brother."

"Hey?" Pine raised his eyebrows.

"It's a Gorgio my heart is set on," pursued Chaldea steadfastly. "A
regular Romany Rye, brother. Do you think Lambert is a good name?"

"It's the name of the devil, sister," cried Pine hastily.

"The very devil I love. To me sweet, as to you sour. And speaking
Romanly, brother, I want him to be my rom in the Gentile fashion, as you
have a romi in your Gorgious lady."

"What will Kara say?" said Pine, and his eyes flashed, for the idea of
getting rid of Lambert in this way appealed to him. The girl was
beautiful, and with her added cleverness she might be able to gain her
ends, and these accomplished, would certainly place a barrier between
Agnes and her cousin, since the woman would never forgive the man for
preferring the girl.

"Kara plays on the fiddle, but not on my heart-strings," said Chaldea in
a cool manner, and watched Pine wickedly. "You'd better help me,
brother, if you don't want that Gorgious romi of yours to pad the hoof
with the rye."

The blood rushed to Pine's dark cheeks. "What's that?"

"No harm to my rye and I tell you, brother. Don't use the knife."

"That I will not do, if a wedding-ring from him to you will do as well."

"It will do, brother," said Chaldea calmly. "My rye doesn't love me yet,
but he will, when I get him away from the Gentile lady's spells. They
draw him, brother, they draw him."

"Where do they draw him to?" demanded Pine, his voice thick with
passion.

"To the Gorgious house of the baro rai, the brother of your romi. Like
an owl does he go after dusk to watch the nest."

"Owl," muttered Pine savagely. "Cuckoo, rather. Prove this, my sister,
and I help you to gain the love you desire."

"It's a bargain, brother"--she held out her hand inquiringly--"but no
knife."

Pine shook hands. "It's a bargain, sister. Your wedding-ring will part
them as surely as any knife. Tell me more!" And Chaldea in whispers told
him all.

CHAPTER V.

THE WOMAN AND THE MAN.

Quite unaware that Destiny, that tireless spinner, was weaving sinister
red threads of hate and love into the web of his life, Lambert continued
to live quietly in his woodland retreat. In a somewhat misanthropic
frame of mind he had retired to this hermitage, after the failure of his
love affair, since, lacking the society of Agnes, there was nothing left
for him to desire. From a garden of roses, the world became a sandy
desert, and denied the sole gift of fortune, which would have made him
completely happy, the disconsolate lover foreswore society for solitude.
As some seek religion, so Lambert hoped by seeking Nature's breast to
assuage the pains of his sore heart. But although the great Mother could
do so much, she could not do all, and the young man still felt restless
and weary. Hard work helped him more than a little, but he had his dark
hours during those intervals when hand and brain were too weary to
create pictures.

In one way he blamed Agnes, because she had married for money; in
another way he did not blame her, because that same money had been
necessary to support the falling fortunes of the noble family to which
Lambert belonged. An ordinary person would not have understood this, and
would have seen in the mercenary marriage simply a greedy grasping after
the loaves and fishes. But Lambert, coming at the end of a long line of
lordly ancestors, considered that both he and his cousin owed something
to those of the past who had built up the family. Thus his pride told
him that Agnes had acted rightly in taking Pine as her husband, while
his love cried aloud that the sacrifice was too hard upon their
individual selves. He was a Lambert, but he was also a human being, and
the two emotions of love and pride strove mightily against one another.
Although quite three years had elapsed since the victim had been offered
at the altar--and a willing victim to the family fetish--the struggle
was still going on. And because of its stress and strain, Lambert
withdrew from society, so that he might see as little as possible of the
woman he loved. They had met, they had talked, they had looked, in a
conventionally light-hearted way, but both were relieved when
circumstances parted them. The strain was too great.

Pine arranged the circumstances, for hearing here, there, and
everywhere, that his wife had been practically engaged to her cousin
before he became her husband, he looked with jealous eyes upon their
chance meetings. Neither to Agnes nor Lambert did he say a single word,
since he had no reason to utter it, so scrupulously correct was their
behavior, but his eyes were sufficiently eloquent to reveal his
jealousy. He took his wife for an American tour, and when he brought her
back to London, Lambert, knowing only too truly the reason for that
tour, had gone away in his turn to shoot big game in Africa. An attack
of malaria contracted in the Congo marshes had driven him back to
England, and it was then that he had begged Garvington to give him The
Abbot's Wood Cottage. For six months he had been shut up here,
occasionally going to London, or for a week's walking tour, and during
that time he had done his best to banish the image of Agnes from his
heart. Doubtless she was attempting the same conquest, for she never
even wrote to him. And now these two sorely-tried people were within
speaking distance of one another, and strange results might be looked
for unless honor held them sufficiently true. Seeing that the cottage
was near the family seat, and that Agnes sooner or later would arrive to
stay with her brother and sister-in-law, Lambert might have expected
that such a situation would come about in the natural course of things.
Perhaps he did, and perhaps--as some busybodies said--he took the
cottage for that purpose; but so far, he had refrained from seeking the
society of Pine's wife. He would not even dine at The Manor, nor would
he join the shooting-party, although Garvington, with a singular
blindness, urged him to do so. While daylight lasted, the artist painted
desperately hard, and after dark wandered round the lanes and roads and
across the fields, haunting almost unconsciously the Manor Park, if only
to see in moonlight and twilight the casket which held the rich jewel he
had lost. This was foolish, and Lambert acknowledged that it was
foolish, but at the same time he added inwardly that he was a man and
not an angel, a sinner and not a saint, so that there were limits, etc.,
etc., etc., using impossible arguments to quieten a lively conscience
that did not approve of this dangerous philandering.

The visit of Miss Greeby awoke him positively to a sense of danger, for
if she talked--and talk she did--other people would talk also. Lambert
asked himself if it would be better to visit The Manor and behave like
a man who has got over his passion, or to leave the cottage and betake
himself to London. While turning over this problem in his mind, he
painted feverishly, and for three days after Miss Greeby had come to
stir up muddy water, he remained as much as possible in his studio.
Chaldea visited him, as usual, to be painted, and brought Kara with his
green coat and beloved violin and hairy looks. The girl chatted, Kara
played, and Lambert painted, and all three pretended to be very happy
and careless. This was merely on the surface, however, for the artist
was desperately wretched, because the other half of himself was married
to another man, while Chaldea, getting neither love-look nor caress,
felt savagely discontented. As for Kara, he had long since loved
Chaldea, who treated him like a dog, and he could not help seeing that
she adored the Gentile artist--a knowledge which almost broke his heart.
But it was some satisfaction for him to note that Lambert would have
nothing to do with the siren, and that she could not charm him to her
feet, sang she ever so tenderly. It was an unhappy trio at the best.

The gypsies usually came in the morning, since the light was then better
for artistic purposes, but they always departed at one o'clock, so that
Lambert had the afternoon to himself. Chaldea would fain have lingered
in order to charm the man she loved into subjection; but he never gave
her the least encouragement, so she was obliged to stay away. All the
same, she often haunted the woods near the cottage, and when Lambert
came out for a stroll, which he usually did when it became too dark to
paint, he was bound to run across her. Since he had not the slightest
desire to make love to her, and did not fathom the depth of her passion,
he never suspected that she purposely contrived the meetings which he
looked upon as accidental.

Since Chaldea hung round the house, like a moth round a candle, she saw
every one who came and went from the woodland cottage. On the afternoon
of the third day since Pine's arrival at the camp in the character of
Ishmael Hearne, the gypsy saw Lady Agnes coming through the wood.
Chaldea knew her at once, having often seen her when she had come to
visit Mother Cockleshell a few months previously. With characteristic
cunning, the girl dived into the undergrowth, and there remained
concealed for the purpose of spying on the Gentile lady whom she
regarded as a rival. Immediately, Chaldea guessed that Lady Agnes was
on her way to the cottage, and, as Lambert was alone as usual for the
afternoon, the two would probably have a private conversation. The girl
swiftly determined to listen, so that she might learn exactly how
matters stood between them. It might be that she would discover
something which Pine--Chaldea now thought of him as Pine--might like to
know. So having arranged this in her own unscrupulous mind, the girl
behind a juniper bush jealously watched the unsuspecting lady. What she
saw did not please her overmuch, as Lady Agnes was rather too beautiful
for her unknown rival's peace of mind.

Sir Hubert's wife was not really the exquisitely lovely creature Chaldea
took her to be, but her fair skin and brown hair were such a contrast to
the gypsy's swarthy face and raven locks, that she really looked like an
angel of light compared with the dark child of Nature. Agnes was tall
and slender, and moved with a great air of dignity and calm
self-possession, and this to the uncontrolled Chaldea was also a matter
of offence. She inwardly tried to belittle her rival by thinking what a
milk-and-water useless person she was, but the steady and resolute look
in the lady's brown eyes gave the lie to this mental assertion. Lady
Agnes had an air of breeding and command, which, with all her beauty,
Chaldea lacked, and as she passed along like a cold, stately goddess,
the gypsy rolled on the grass in an ecstasy of rage. She could never be
what her rival was, and what her rival was, as she suspected, formed
Lambert's ideal of womanhood. When she again peered through the bush,
Lady Agnes had disappeared. But there was no need for Chaldea to ask her
jealous heart where she had gone. With the stealth and cunning of a Red
Indian, the gypsy took up the trail, and saw the woman she followed
enter the cottage. For a single moment she had it in her mind to run to
the camp and bring Pine, but reflecting that in a moment of rage the man
might kill Lambert, Chaldea checked her first impulse, and bent all her
energies towards getting sufficiently near to listen to a conversation
which was not meant for her ears.

Meanwhile, Agnes had been admitted by Mrs. Tribb, a dried-up little
woman with the rosy face of a winter apple, and a continual smile of
satisfaction with herself and with her limited world. This consisted of
the cottage, in the wood, and of the near villages, where she repaired
on occasions to buy food. Sometimes, indeed, she went to The Manor, for,
born and bred on the Garvington estates, Mrs. Tribb knew all the
servants at the big house. She had married a gamekeeper, who had died,
and unwilling to leave the country she knew best, had gladly accepted
the offer of Lord Garvington to look after the woodland cottage. In this
way Lambert became possessed of an exceedingly clean housekeeper, and a
wonderfully good cook. In fact so excellent a cook was Mrs. Tribb, that
Garvington had frequently suggested she should come to The Manor. But,
so far, Lambert had managed to keep the little woman to himself. Mrs.
Tribb adored him, since she had known him from babyhood, and declined to
leave him under any circumstances. She thought Lambert the best man in
the world, and challenged the universe to find another so handsome and
clever, and so considerate.

"Dear me, my lady, is it yourself?" said Mrs. Tribb, throwing up her dry
little hands and dropping a dignified curtsey. "Well, I do call it good
of you to come and see Master Noel. He don't go out enough, and don't
take enough interest in his stomach, if your ladyship will pardon my
mentioning that part of him. But you don't know, my lady, what it is to
be a cook, and to see the dishes get cold, while he as should eat them
goes on painting, not but what Master Noel don't paint like an angel, as
I've said dozens of times."

While Mrs. Tribb ran on in this manner her lively black eyes twinkled
anxiously. She knew that her master and Lady Agnes had been, as she said
herself, "next door to engaged," and knew also that Lambert was fretting
over the match which had been brought about for the glorification of the
family. The housekeeper, therefore, wondered why Lady Agnes had come,
and asked herself whether it would not be wise to say that Master
Noel--from old associations, she always called Lambert by this juvenile
title--was not at home. But she banished the thought as unworthy, the
moment it entered her active brain, and with another curtsey in response
to the visitor's greeting, she conducted her to the studio. "Them two
angels will never do no wrong, anyhow," was Mrs. Tribb's reflection, as
she closed the door and left the pair together. "But I do hope as that
black-faced husband won't ever learn. He's as jealous as Cain, and I
don't want Master Noel to be no Abel!"

If Mrs. Tribb, instead of going to the kitchen, which she did, had gone
out of the front door, she would have found Chaldea lying full length
amongst the flowers under the large window of the studio. This was
slightly open, and the girl could hear every word that was spoken, while
so swiftly and cleverly had she gained her point of vantage, that those
within never for one moment suspected her presence. If they had, they
would assuredly have kept better guard over their tongues, for the
conversation was of the most private nature, and did not tend to soothe
the eavesdropper's jealousy.

Lambert was so absorbed in his painting--he was working at the
Esmeralda-Quasimodo picture--that he scarcely heard the studio door
open, and it was only when Mrs. Tribb's shrill voice announced the name
of his visitor, that he woke to the surprising fact that the woman he
loved was within a few feet of him. The blood rushed to his face, and
then retired to leave him deadly pale, but Agnes was more composed, and
did not let her heart's tides mount to high-water mark. On seeing her
self-possession, the man became ashamed that he had lost his own, and
strove to conceal his momentary lapse into a natural emotion, by pushing
forward an arm-chair.

"This is a surprise, Agnes," he said in a voice which he strove vainly
to render steady. "Won't you sit down?"

"Thank you," and she took her seat like a queen on her throne, looking
fair and gracious as any white lily. What with her white dress, white
gloves and shoes, and straw hat tied under her chin with a broad white
ribbon in old Georgian fashion, she looked wonderfully cool, and pure,
and--as Lambert inwardly observed--holy. Her face was as faintly tinted
with color as is a tea-rose, and her calm, brown eyes, under her smooth
brown hair, added to the suggestive stillness of her looks. She seemed
in her placidity to be far removed from any earthly emotion, and
resembled a picture of the Madonna, serene, peaceful, and somewhat sad.
Yet who could tell what anguished feelings were masked by her womanly
pride?

"I hope you do not find the weather too warm for walking," said Lambert,
reining in his emotions with an iron hand, and speaking conventionally.

"Not at all. I enjoyed the walk. I am staying at The Manor."

"So I understand."

"And you are staying here?"

"There can be no doubt on that point."

"Do you think you are acting wisely?" she asked with great calmness.

"I might put the same question to you, Agnes, seeing that you have come
to live within three miles of my hermitage."

"It is because you are living in what you call your hermitage that I
have come," rejoined Agnes, with a slight color deepening her cheeks.
"Is it fair to me that you should shut yourself up and play the part of
the disappointed lover?"

Lambert, who had been touching up his picture here and there, laid down
his palette and brushes with ostentatious care, and faced her doggedly.
"I don't understand what you mean," he declared.

"Oh, I think you do; and in the hope that I may induce you, in justice
to me, to change your conduct, I have come over."

"I don't think you should have come," he observed in a low voice, and
threw himself on the couch with averted eyes.

Lady Agnes colored again. "You are talking nonsense," she said with some
sharpness. "There is no harm in my coming to see my cousin."

"We were more than cousins once."

"Exactly, and unfortunately people know that. But you needn't make
matters worse by so pointedly keeping away from me."

Lambert looked up quickly. "Do you wish me to see you often?" he asked,
and there was a new note in his voice which irritated her.

"Personally I don't, but--"

"But what?" He rose and stood up, very tall and very straight, looking
down on her with a hungry look in his blue eyes.

"People are talking," murmured the lady, and stared at the floor,
because she could not face that same look.

"Let them talk. What does it matter?"

"Nothing to you, perhaps, but to me a great deal. I have a husband."

"As I know to my cost," he interpolated.

"Then don't let me know it to _my_ cost," she said pointedly. "Sit down
and let us talk common sense."

Lambert did not obey at once. "I am only a human being, Agnes--"

"Quite so, and a man at that. Act like a man, then, and don't place the
burden on a woman's shoulders."

"What burden?"

"Oh, Noel, can't you understand?"

"I daresay I can if you will explain. I wish you hadn't come here
to-day. I have enough to bear without that."

"And have I nothing to bear?" she demanded, a flash of passion ruffling
her enforced calm. "Do you think that anything but the direst need
brought me here?"

"I don't know what brought you here. I am waiting for an explanation."

"What is the use of explaining what you already know?"

"I know nothing," he repeated doggedly. "Explain."

"Well," said Lady Agnes with some bitterness, "it seems to me that an
explanation is really necessary, as apparently I am talking to a child
instead of a man. Sit down and listen."

This time Lambert obeyed, and laughed as he did so. "Your taunts don't
hurt me in the least," he observed. "I love you too much."

"And I love in return. No! Don't rise again. I did not come here to
revive the embers of our dead passion."

"Embers!" cried Lambert with bitter scorn. "Embers, indeed! And a dead
passion; how well you put it. So far as I am concerned, Agnes, the
passion is not dead and never will be."

"I am aware of that, and so I have come to appeal to that passion. Love
means sacrifice. I want you to understand that."

"I do, by experience. Did I not surrender you for the sake of the family
name? Understand! I should think I did understand."

"I--think--not," said Lady Agnes slowly and gently. "It is necessary to
revive your recollections. We loved one another since we were boy and
girl, and we intended, as you know, to marry. There was no regular
engagement between us, but it was an understood family arrangement. My
father always approved of it; my brother did not."

"No. Because he saw in you an article of sale out of which he hoped to
make money," sneered Lambert, nursing his ankle.

Lady Agnes winced. "Don't make it too hard for me," she said
plaintively. "My life is uncomfortable enough as it is. Remember that
when my father died we were nearly ruined. Only by the greatest
cleverness did Garvington manage to keep interest on the mortgages paid
up, hoping that he would marry a rich wife--an American for choice--and
so could put things straight. But he married Jane, as you know--"

"Because he is a glutton, and she knows all about cooking."

"Well, gluttony may be as powerful a vice as drinking and gambling, and
all the rest of it. It is with Garvington, although I daresay that
seeing the position he was in, people would laugh to think he should
marry a poor woman, when he needed a rich wife. But at that time Hubert
wanted to marry me, and Garvington got his cook-wife, while I was
sacrificed."

"Seeing that I loved you and you loved me, I wonder--"

"Yes, I know you wondered, but you finally accepted my explanation that
I did it to save the family name."

"I did, and, much as I hated your sacrifice, it was necessary."

"More necessary than you think," said Lady Agnes, sinking her voice to
a whisper and glancing round, "In a moment of madness Garvington altered
a check which Hubert gave him, and was in danger of arrest. Hubert
declared that he would give up the check if I married him. I did so, to
save my brother and the family name."

"Oh, Agnes!" Lambert jumped up. "I never knew this."

"It was not necessary to tell you. I made the excuse of saving the
family name and property generally. You thought it was merely the
bankruptcy court, but I knew that it meant the criminal court. However,
I married Hubert, and he put the check in the fire in my presence and in
Garvington's. He has also fulfilled his share of the bargain which he
made when he bought me, and has paid off a great many of the mortgages.
However, Garvington became too outrageous in his demands, and lately
Hubert has refused to help him any more. I don't blame him; he has paid
enough for me."

"You are worth it," said Lambert emphatically.

"Well, you may think so, and perhaps he does also. But does it not
strike you, Noel, what a poor figure I and Garvington, and the whole
family, yourself included, cut in the eyes of the world? We were poor,
and I was sold to get money to save the land."

"Yes, but this changing of the check also--"

"The world doesn't know of that," said Agnes hurriedly. "Hubert has been
very loyal to me. I must be loyal to him."

"You are. Who dares to say that you are not?"

"No one--as yet," she replied pointedly.

"What do you mean by that?" he demanded, flushing through his fair skin.

"I mean that if you met me in the ordinary way, and behaved to me as an
ordinary man, people would not talk. But you shun my society, and even
when I am at The Manor, you do not come near because of my presence."

"It is so hard to be near you and yet, owing to your marriage, so far
from you," muttered the man savagely.

"If it is hard for you, think how hard it must be for me," said the
woman vehemently, her passion coming to the surface. "People talk of the
way in which you avoid me, and hint that we love one another still."

"It is true! Agnes, you know it is true!"

"Need the whole world know that it is true?" cried Agnes, rising, with
a gust of anger passing over her face. "If you would only come to The
Manor, and meet me in London, and accept Hubert's invitations to dinner,
people would think that our attachment was only a boy and girl
engagement, that we had outgrown. They would even give me credit for
loving Hubert--"

"But you don't?" cried Lambert with a jealous pang.

"Yes, I do. He is my chosen husband, and has carried out his part of the
bargain by freeing many of Garvington's estates. Surely the man ought to
have something for his money. I don't love him as a wife should love her
husband, not with heart-whole devotion, that is. But I give him loyalty,
and I respect him, and I try to make him happy in every way. I do my
part, Noel, as you do yours. Since I have been compelled to sacrifice
love for money, at least let us be true to the sacrifice."

"You didn't sacrifice yourself wholly for money."

"No, I did not. It was because of Garvington's crime. But no one knows
of that, and no one ever shall know. In fact, so happy am I and
Hubert--"

"Happy?" said Lambert wincing.

"Yes," she declared firmly. "He thinks so, and whatever unhappiness I
may feel, I conceal from him. But you must come to The Manor, and meet
me here, there, and everywhere, so that people shall not say, as they
are doing, that you are dying of love, and that, because I am a greedy
fortune-hunter, I ruined your life."

"They do not dare. I have not heard any--"

"What can you hear in this jungle?" interrupted Lady Agnes with scorn.
"You stop your ears with cotton wool, but I am in the world, hearing
everything. And the more unpleasant the thing is, the more readily do
I hear it. You can end this trouble by coming out of your lovesick
retirement, and by showing that you no longer care for me."

"That would be acting a lie."

"And do I not act a lie?" she cried fiercely. "Is not my whole marriage
a lie? I despise myself for my weakness in yielding, and yet, God help
me, what else could I do when Garvington's fair fame was in question?
Think of the disgrace, had he been prosecuted by Hubert. And Hubert
knows that you and I loved; that I could not give him the love he
desired. He was content to accept me on those terms. I don't say he was
right; but am I right, are you right, is Garvington right? Is any one of
us right? Not one, not one. The whole thing is horrible, but I make the
best of it, since I did what I did do, openly and for a serious purpose
of which the world knows nothing. Do your part, Noel, and come to The
Manor, if only to show that you no longer care for me. You
understand"--she clasped her hands in agony. "You surely understand."

"Yes," said Lambert in a low voice, and suddenly looked years older. "I
understand at last, Agnes. You shall no longer bear the burden alone. I
shall be a loyal friend to you, my dear," and he took her hand.

"Will you be a loyal friend to my husband?" she asked, withdrawing it.

"Yes," said Lambert, and he bit his lip. "God helping me, I will."

CHAPTER VI.

THE MAN AND THE WOMAN.

The interview between Lady Agnes and Lambert could scarcely be called a
love-scene, since it was dominated by a stern sense of duty. Chaldea,
lying at length amongst the crushed and fragrant flowers, herself in her
parti-colored attire scarcely distinguishable from the rainbow blossoms,
was puzzled by the way in which the two reined in their obvious
passions. To her simple, barbaric nature, the situation appeared
impossible. If he loved her and she loved him, why did they not run away
to enjoy life together? The husband who had paid money for the wife did
not count, nor did the brother, who had sold his sister to hide his
criminal folly. That Lady Agnes should have traded herself to save
Garvington from a well-deserved punishment, seemed inexcusable to the
gypsy. If he had been the man she loved, then indeed might she have
acted rightly. But having thrown over that very man in this silly
fashion, for the sake of what did not appear to be worth the sacrifice,
Chaldea felt that Agnes did not deserve Lambert, and she then and there
determined that the Gentile lady should never possess him.

Of course, on the face of it, there was no question of possession. The
man being weaker than the woman would have been only too glad to elope,
and thus cut the Gordian knot of the unhappy situation. But the woman,
having acted from a high sense of duty, which Chaldea could not rise to,
evidently was determined to continue to be a martyr. The question was,
could she keep up that pose in the face of the undeniable fact that she
loved her cousin? The listening girl thought not. Sooner or later the
artificial barrier would be broken through by the held-back flood of
passion, and then Lady Agnes would run away from the man who had bought
her. And quite right, too, thought Chaldea, although she had no notion
of permitting such an elopement to take place. That Agnes would hold to
her bargain all her life, because Hubert had fulfilled his part, never
occurred to the girl. She was not civilized enough to understand this
problem of a highly refined nature.

Since the situation was so difficult, Lambert was glad to see the back
of his cousin. He escorted her to the door, but did not attend her
through the wood. In fact, they parted rather abruptly, which was wise.
All had been said that could be said, and Lambert had given his promise
to share the burden with Agnes by acting the part of a lover who had
never really been serious. But it did not do to discuss details, as
these were too painful, so the woman hurried away without a backward
glance, and Lambert, holding his heart between his teeth, returned to
the studio. Neither one of the two noticed Chaldea crouching amongst the
flowers. Had they been less pre-occupied, they might have done so; as it
was she escaped observation.

As soon as the coast was clear, Chaldea stole like a snake along the
ground, through the high herbage of the garden, and beyond the circle of
the mysterious monoliths. Even across the lawns of the glade did she
crawl, so as not to be seen, although she need not have taken all this
trouble, since Lambert, with a set face and a trembling hand, was
working furiously at a minor picture he utilized to get rid of such
moods. But the gypsy did not know this, and so writhed into the woods
like the snake of Eden--and of that same she was a very fair
sample--until, hidden by the boles of ancient trees, she could stand
upright. When she did so, she drew a long breath, and wondered what was
best to be done.

The most obvious course was to seek Ishmael and make a lying report of
the conversation. That his wife should have been with Lambert would be
quite enough to awaken the civilized gypsy's jealousy, for after all his
civilization was but skin deep. Still, if she did this, Chaldea was
clever enough to see that she would precipitate a catastrophe, and
either throw Agnes into Lambert's arms, or make the man run the risk of
getting Pine's knife tickling his fifth rib. Either result did not
appeal to her. She wished to get Lambert to herself, and his safety was
of vital importance to her. After some consideration, she determined
that she would boldly face the lover, and confess that she had overheard
everything. Then she would have him in her power, since to save the
wife from the vengeance of the husband, although there was no reason for
such vengeance, he would do anything to keep the matter of the visit
quiet. Of course the interview had been innocent, and Chaldea knew that
such was the case. Nevertheless, by a little dexterous lying, and some
vivid word-painting, she could make things extremely unpleasant for the
couple. This being so, Lambert would have to subscribe to her terms. And
these were, that he should leave Agnes and marry her. That there was
such a difference in their rank mattered nothing to the girl. Love
levelled all ranks, in her opinion.

But while arranging what she should do, if Lambert proved obstinate,
Chaldea also arranged to fascinate him, if possible, into loving her.
She did not wish to use her power of knowledge until her power of
fascination failed. And this for two reasons. In the first place, it was
not her desire to drive the man into a corner lest he should defy her
and fight, which would mean--to her limited comprehension--that
everything being known to Pine, the couple would confess all and elope.
In the second place, Chaldea was piqued to think that Lambert should
prove to be so indifferent to her undeniable beauty, as to love this
pale shadow of a Gentile lady. She would make certain, she told herself,
if he really preferred the lily to the full-blown rose, and on his
choice depended her next step. Gliding back to the camp, she decided to
attend to one thing at a time, and the immediate necessity was to charm
the man into submission. For this reason Chaldea sought out the Servian
gypsy, who was her slave.

Her slave Kara certainly was, but not her rom. If he had been her
husband she would not have dared to propose to him what she did propose.
He was amiable enough as a slave, because he had no hold over her, but
if she married him according to the gypsy law, he would then be her
master, and should she indulge her fancy for a Gentile, he would
assuredly use a very nasty-looking knife, which he wore under the green
coat. Even as it was, Kara would not be pleased to fiddle to her
dancing, since he already was jealous of Lambert. But Chaldea knew how
to manage this part of the business, risky though it was. The hairy
little ape with the musician's soul had no claim on her, unless she
chose to give him that of a husband. Then, indeed, things would be
different, but the time had not come for marital slavery.

The schemer found Kara at the hour of sunset sitting at the door of the
tent he occupied, drawing sweet tones from his violin. This was the
little man's way of conversing, for he rarely talked to human beings. He
spoke to the fiddle and the fiddle spoke to him, probably about Chaldea,
since the girl was almost incessantly in his thoughts. She occupied them
now, and when he raised his shaggy head at the touch on his hump-back,
he murmured with joy at the sight of her flushed beauty. Had he known
that the flush came from jealousy of a rival, Kara might not have been
so pleased. The two conversed in Romany, since the Servian did not speak
English.

"Brother?" questioned Chaldea, standing in the glory of the rosy sunset
which slanted through the trees. "What of Ishmael?"

"He is with Gentilla in her tent, sister. Do you wish to see him?"

Chaldea shook her proud head. "What have I to do with the half Romany?
Truly, brother, his heart is Gentile, though his skin be of Egypt."

"Why should that be, sister, when his name signifies that he is of the
gentle breed?" asked Kara, laying down his violin.

"Gentile but not gentle," said Chaldea punning, then checked herself
lest she should say too much. She had sworn to keep Pine's secret, and
intended to do so, until she could make capital out of it. At present
she could not, so behaved honorably. "But he's Romany enough to split
words with the old witch by the hour, so let him stay where he is.
Brother, would you make money?" Kara nodded and looked up with diamond
eyes, which glittered and gloated on the beauty of her dark face. "Then,
brother," continued the girl, "the Gorgio who paints gives me gold to
dance for him."

The Servian's face--what could be seen of it for hair--grew sombre, and
he spat excessively. "Curses on the Gentile!" he growled low in his
throat.

"On him, but not on the money, brother," coaxed the girl, stooping to
pat his face. "It's fine work, cheating the rye. But jealous you must
not be, if the gold is to chink in our pockets."

Kara still frowned. "Were you my romi, sister--"

"Aye, if I were. Then indeed. But your romi I am not yet."

"Some day you will be. It would be a good fortune, sister. I am as ugly
as you are lovely, and we two together, you dancing to my playing, would
make pockets of red gold. White shows best when placed on black."

"What a mine of wisdom you are," jeered Chaldea, nodding. "Yes. It is
so, and my rom you may be, if you obey."

"But if you let the Gorgio make love to you--"

"Hey! Am I not a free Roman, brother? You have not yet caught the bird.
It still sings on the bough. If I kiss him I suck gold from his lips. If
I put fond arms around his neck I but gather wealth for us both. Can you
snare a mouse without cheese, brother?"

Kara looked at her steadily, and then lifted his green coat to show
the gleam of a butcher knife. "Should you go too far," he said
significantly; and touched the blade.

Chaldea bent swiftly, and snatching the weapon from his belt, flung it
into the coarse grass under the trees. "So I fling you away," said she,
and stamped with rage. "Truly, brother, speaking Romanly, you are a fool
of fools, and take cheating for honesty. I lure the Gorgio at my will,
and says you whimpering-like, 'She's my romi,' the which is a lie. Bless
your wisdom for a hairy toad, and good-bye, for I go to my own people
near Lundra, and never will he who doubted my honesty see me more."

She turned away, and Kara limped after her to implore forgiveness. He
assured her that he trusted her fully, and that whatever tricks she
played the Gentile would not be taken seriously by himself. "Poison him
I would," grumbled the little gnome in his beard. "For his golden talk
makes you smile sweetly upon him. But for the gold--"

"Yes, for the gold we must play the fox. Well, brother, now that you
talk so, wait until the moon is up, then hide in the woods round the
cottage dell with your violin to your chin. I lure the rabbit from its
hole, and then you play the dance that delights the Gorgios. But what I
do, with kisses or arm-loving, my brother," she added shaking her
finger, "is but the play of the wind to shake the leaves. Believe me
honest and my rom you shall be--some day!" and she went away laughing,
to eat and drink, for the long watching had tired her. As for Kara he
crawled again into the underwood to search for his knife. Apparently he
did not trust Chaldea as much as she wanted him to.

Thus it came about that when the moon rolled through a starry sky like a
golden wheel, Lambert, sighing at his studio window, saw a slim and
graceful figure glide into the clear space of lawn beyond the monoliths.
So searching was the thin moonlight that he recognized Chaldea at once,
as she wandered here and there restless as a butterfly, and apparently
as aimless. But, had he known it, she had her eyes on the cottage all
the time, and had he failed to come forth she would have come to inquire
if he was at home. But the artist did come forth, thinking to wile away
an hour with the fascinating gypsy girl. Always dressing for dinner,
even in solitude, for the habit of years was too strong to lay
aside--and, moreover, he was fastidious in his dress to preserve his
self-respect--he appeared at the door looking slender and well-set up in
his dark clothes. Although it was August the night was warm, and Lambert
did not trouble to put on cap or overcoat. With his hands in his pockets
and a cigar between his lips he strolled over to the girl, where she
swayed and swung in the fairy light.

"Hullo, Chaldea," he said leisurely, and leaning against one of the
moss-grown monoliths, "what are you doing here?"

"The rye," exclaimed Chaldea, with a well-feigned start of surprise.
"Avali the rye. Sarishan, my Gorgious gentleman, you, too, are a
nightbird. Have you come out mousing like an owl? Ha! ha! and you hear
the nightingale singing, speaking in the Gentile manner," and clapping
her hands she lifted up a full rich voice.

"Dyal o pani repedishis,
M'ro pirano hegedishis."

"What does that mean, Chaldea?"

"It is an Hungarian song, and means that while the stream flows I hear
the violin of my love. Kara taught me the ditty."

"And Kara is your love?"