"This day week."
"This day week!" echoed the Squire, surprised: and Hyde, who seemed to have spoken incautiously, looked vexed.
"I did not intend to say as much; my thoughts were elsewhere," he observed. "Don"t mention it again, Mr. Todhetley. Even old Deborah has not been told."
"I"ll take care, lad. But it is known all over the place that the wedding is close at hand."
"Yes: but not the day."
"When do you go away for it?"
"On Sat.u.r.day."
"Well, good luck to you, lad! By the way, Hyde," continued the Squire, "what did they do about that drain in the yard? Put a new pipe?"
"Yes," said Hyde, "and they have made a very good job of it. Will you come and see it?"
Pipes and drains held no attraction for me. While the pater went through the house to the yard, I strolled outside the front-gate and across to the little coppice to wait for him. It was shady there: the hot midsummer sun was ablaze to-day.
And I declare that a feather might almost have knocked me down. There, amidst the trees of the coppice, like a picture framed round by green leaves, stood Ketira the gipsy. Or Ketira"s ghost.
Believing that she was dead and buried, I might have believed it to be the latter, but for the red cloth cloak: _that_ was real. She was staring at Hyde"s house with all the fire of her glittering eyes, looking as though she were consumed by some inward fever.
"Who lives there now?" she abruptly asked me without any other greeting, pointing her yellow forefinger at the house.
"The cottage was empty ever so long," I carelessly said, some instinct prompting me not to tell too much. "Lately the workmen have been making alterations in it. How is Kettie? Have you found her?"
She lifted her two hands aloft with a gesture of despair: but left me unanswered. "These alterations: by whom are they made?"
But the sight of the Squire, coming forth alone, served as an excuse for my making off. I gave her a parting nod, saying I was glad to see her again in the land of the living.
"Ketira the gipsy is here, sir."
"No!" cried the pater in amazement. "Why do you say that, Johnny?"
"She is here in the coppice."
"Nonsense, lad! Ketira"s dead, you know."
"But I have just seen her, and spoken to her."
"Then what did those gipsy-tramps mean by telling Abel Carew that she had died?" cried the Squire explosively, as he marched across the few yards of greensward towards the coppice.
"Abel did not feel quite sure at the time that he and they were not talking of two persons. That must have been the case, sir."
We were too late. Ketira was already half-way along the path that led to the common: no doubt on her road to pay a visit to Abel Carew. And I can only relate what pa.s.sed there at second hand. Between ourselves, Ketira was no favourite of his.
He was at his early dinner of bread-and-b.u.t.ter and salad when she walked in and astonished him. Abel, getting over his surprise, invited her to partake of the meal; but she just waved her hand in refusal, as much as to say that she was superior to dinner and dinner-eating.
"Have you found Kettie?" was his next question.
"It is the first time a search of mine ever failed," she replied, beginning to pace the little room in agitation, just as a tiger paces its confined cage. "I have given myself neither rest nor peace since I set out upon it; but it has not brought me tidings of my child."
"It must have been a weary task for you, Ketira. I wish you would break bread with me."
"I was helped."
"Helped!" repeated Abel. "Helped by what?"
"I know not yet, whether angel or devil. It has been one or the other:--according as he has, or has not, played me false."
"As who has played you false?"
"Of whom do you suppose I speak but _him_?" she retorted, standing to confront Abel with her deep eyes. "Hyde Stockhausen has in some subtle manner evaded me: but I shall find him yet."
"Hyde Stockhausen is back here," quietly observed Abel.
"Back here! Then it is no false instinct that has led _me_ here," she added in a low tone, apparently communing with herself. "Is Ketira with him?"
"No, no," said Abel, vexed at the question. "Kettie has never come back to the place since she left it."
"When did _he_ come?"
"It must be about two months ago."
"He is in the same dwelling-house as before! For what is he making it so grand?"
"It is said to be against his marriage."
"His marriage with Ketira?"
"With a Miss Peyton; some young lady he has met. Why do you bring up Ketira"s name in conjunction with this matter--or with him?"
She turned to the open cas.e.m.e.nt, and stood there, as if to inhale the sweet scent of Abel"s flowers, and listen to the hum of his bees. Her face was working, her strange eyes were gleaming, her hands were clasped to pain.
"I know what I know, Abel Carew. Let him look to it if he brings home any other wife than my Ketira."
"Nay," remonstrated peaceful old Abel. "Because a young man has whispered pretty words in a maiden"s ear, and given her, it may be, a moonlight kiss, that does not bind him to marry her."
"And would I have wished to bind him had it ended there?" flashed the gipsy. "No; I should have been thankful that it _had_ so ended. I hated him from the first."
"You have no proof that it did not so end, Ketira."
"No proof; none," she a.s.sented. "No tangible proof that I could give to you, her father"s brother, or to others. But the proof lies in the fatal signs that show themselves to me continually, and in the unerring instinct of my own heart. If the man puts another into the place that ought to be hers, let him look to it."
"You may be mistaken, Ketira. I know not what the signs you speak of can be: they may show themselves to you but to mislead; and nothing is more deceptive than the fancies of one"s imagination. Be it as it may, vengeance does not belong to us. Do not _you_ put yourself forward to work young Stockhausen ill."
"I work him ill!" retorted the gipsy. "You are mistaking me altogether.