This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of thefile for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making anentire meal of them. D.W.]
By Gilbert Parker
A few hours afterwards Gaston sat on his horse, in a quiet corner of thegrounds, while his uncle sketched him. After a time he said that Saracenwould remain quiet no longer. His uncle held up the sketch. Gastoncould scarcely believe that so strong and life-like a thing were possiblein the time. It had force and imagination. He left his uncle with anod, rode quietly through the park, into the village, and on to the moor.At the top he turned and looked down. The perfectness of the landscapestruck him; it was as if the picture had all grown there—not a suburbanvilla, not a modern cottage, not one tall chimney of a manufactory, butjust the sweet common life. The noises of the village were soothing, thesoft smell of the woodland came over. He watched a cart go by idly,heavily clacking.
As he looked, it came to him: was his uncle right after all? Was he outof place here? He was not a part of this, though he had adapted himselfand had learned many fine social ways. He knew that he lived not exactlyas though born here and grown up with it all. But it was also true thathe had a native sense of courtesy which people called distinguished.There was ever a kind of mannered deliberation in his bearing—a part ofhis dramatic temper, and because his father had taught him dignity wherethere were no social functions for its use. His manner had, therefore,a carefulness which in him was elegant artifice.
It could not be complained that he did not act after the fashion ofgentle people when with them. But it was equally true that he did manythings which the friends of his family could not and would not have done.For instance, none would have pitched a tent in the grounds, slept in it,read in it, and lived in it—when it did not rain. Probably no one ofthem would have, at individual expense, sent the wife of the villagepoliceman to a hospital in London, to be cured—or to die—of cancer.None would have troubled to insist that a certain stagnant pool in thevillage be filled up. Nor would one have suddenly risen in court andhave acted as counsel for a gipsy! At the same time, all were too well-bred to think that Gaston did this because the gipsy had a daughter withhim, a girl of strong, wild beauty, with a look of superiority over herposition.
He thought of all the circumstances now.
It was very many months ago. The man had been accused of stealing andassault, but the evidence was unconvincing to Gaston. The feeling incourt was against the gipsy. Fearing a verdict against him, Gaston roseand cross-examined the witnesses, and so adroitly bewildered both themand the justices who sat with his grandfather on the case, that, at last,he secured the man's freedom. The girl was French, and knew Englishimperfectly. Gaston had her sworn, and made the most of her evidence.Then, learning that an assault had been made on the gipsy's van by somelads who worked at mills in a neighbouring town, he pushed