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Updated: June 17, 2025
If I live long enough, I'll turn you, my mad wife, into my Romany queen and the blessing of my 'tan'." "Don't mistake what I mean," she urged. "I shall never be ruler of the Romanys. I shall never hear " "You'll hear the bosh played-fiddle, they call it in these heathen places at your second wedding with Jethro Fawe," he rejoined insolently, lighting his cigarette.
His instinct had been against his visitor, and he had been prepared to send him to another shop-besides, not every day could he talk to the greatest man in the West. "If you can play, there it is," he said after a slight pause, and handed the fiddle over. It was true that Jethro Fawe loved the fiddle. He had played it in many lands.
Something very like a sigh of relief came from Gabriel Druse's lips, but the anger in his face did not pass, and a rigid pride made the distance between them endless. He looked like a patriarch giving judgment as he raised his hand and pointed with a menacing finger at Jethro Fawe, his Romany subject and, according to the laws of the Romany tribes, his son-in-law.
Jethro Fawe the thought of the man revolted him; and yet there was something about the fellow, a temperamental power, the glamour and garishness of Nature's gifts, prostituted though they were, finding expression in a striking personality, in a body of athletic grace a man-beauty. "Have you seen Jethro Fawe lately?" he asked.
Indignation and a bitter pride looked out of her eyes, as she heard the preposterous claim as though she were some wild dweller of the jungle being called by her savage mate back to the lair she had forsaken. "Since when were you my husband?" she asked Jethro Fawe composedly.
Only one man would sing that song at her window, or anywhere in this Western world. This was no illusion of her overwrought senses. There, outside her window, was Jethro Fawe. She sat up and listened, leaning on one arm, and staring into the half- darkness beyond the window, the blind of which she had not drawn down.
Why was it that even as they talked together now, she felt the real, true distance between them of race, of origin, of history, of life, of circumstance? The hut in the wood where Gabriel Druse had carried Jethro Fawe was not three hundred yards away. She sighed, stirred, and a wild look came in her eyes a look of rebellion or of protest. Presently she recovered herself.
Berry was an institution even in this new Western town. He kept his place and he forced the white man, whoever he was, to keep his place. When he saw Jethro Fawe enter the shop he did not stop playing, but his eyes searched the newcomer. Following his glance, Ingolby turned round and saw the Romany. His first impression was one of admiration, but suspicion was quickly added.
She had set out to do a thing she dreaded, and it was easier now than it would have been if they had not met. She had been on her way to the Hut in the Wood, and now the dread of the visit to Jethro Fawe had diminished.
As Jethro Fawe had spoken, the misty, elusive visions had become living memories, and she knew that he had spoken the truth, and that these fleeting things were pictures of her sealing to Jethro Fawe and the death of Lemuel Fawe, and the burning of all that belonged to him in that last ritual of Romany farewell to the dead.
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