but if not, I claim her; and if she consents, will resist your interference.”
“Japhet,” replied Melchior after a pause, “we must not quarrel now that we are about to part. I will give you an answer in half an hour.”
Melchior returned to Nattée, and recommenced a conversation with her, while I hastened to Fleta.
“Fleta, do you know that the camp is to be broken up, and Melchior and Nattée leave it together?”
“Indeed!” replied she with surprise. “Then what is to become of you and Timothy?”
“We must of course seek our fortunes where we can.”
“And of me?” continued she, looking me earnestly in the face with her large blue eyes. “Am I to stay here?” continued she—with alarm in her countenance.
“Not if you do not wish it, Fleta: as long as I can support you I will—that is, if you would like to live with me in preference to Melchior.”
“If I would like, Japhet! you must know I would like,—who has been so kind to me as you? Don’t leave me, Japhet.”
“I will not, Fleta; but on condition that you promise to be guided by me, and to do all I wish.”
“To do what you wish is the greatest pleasure that I have, Japhet—so I may safely promise that. What has happened?”
“That I do not know more than yourself: but Melchior tells me that he and Nattée quit the gipsy tents for ever.”
Fleta looked round to ascertain if anyone was near us, and then in a low tone said, “I understand their language, Japhet, that is, a great deal of it, although they do not think so, and I overheard what the gipsy said in part, although he was at some distance. He asked for Melchior; and when Nattée wanted to know what he wanted, he answered that he was dead; then Nattée covered up her face. I could not hear all the rest, but there was something about a horse.”
He was dead. Had then Melchior committed murder, and was obliged to fly the country? This appeared to me to be the most probable, when I collected the facts in my possession; and yet I could not believe it: for except that system of deceit necessary to carry on his various professions, I never found anything in Melchior’s conduct which could be considered as criminal. On the contrary, he was kind, generous, and upright in his private dealings, and in many points proved that he had a good heart. He was a riddle of inconsistency, it was certain; professionally he would cheat anybody, and disregard all truth and honesty but in his private character he was scrupulously honest, and with the exception of the assertion relative to Fleta’s birth and parentage, he had never told me a lie, that I could discover. I was summing up all these reflections in my mind, when Melchior again came up to me, and desiring the little girl to go away, he said, “Japhet, I have resolved to grant your request with respect to Fleta, but it must be on conditions.”
“Let me hear them.”
“First, then, Japhet, as you always have been honest and confiding with me, tell me now what are your intentions. Do you mean to follow up the profession which you learnt under me, or what do you intend to do?”
“Honestly, then, Melchior, I do not intend to follow up that profession, unless driven to it by necessity. I intend to seek my father.”
“And if driven to it by necessity, do you intend that Fleta shall aid you by her acquirements? In short, do you mean to take her with you as a speculation, to make the most of her, to let her sink, when she arrives at the age of woman, into vice and misery?”
“I wonder at your asking me that question, Melchior; it is the first act of injustice I have received at your hands. No; if obliged to follow up the profession, I will not allow Fleta so to do. I would sooner that she were in her grave. It is to rescue her from that very vice and misery, to take her out of a society in which she never ought to have been placed, that I take her with me.”
“And this upon your honour?”
“Yes, upon my honour. I love her as my sister, and cannot help indulging in the hope that in seeking my father I may chance to stumble upon hers.”
Melchior bit his lips. “There is another promise I must exact from you, Japhet, which is, that to a direction which I will give you, every six months you will enclose an address where you may be heard of, and also intelligence as to Fleta’s welfare and health.”
“To that I give my cheerful promise; but, Melchior, you appear to have taken, all at once, a strange interest in this little girl.”
“I wish you now to think that I do take an interest in her, provided you seek not to inquire the why and the wherefore. Will you accept of funds for her maintenance?”
“Not without necessity compels me; and then I should be glad to find, when I can no longer help her, that you are still her friend.”
“Recollect, that you will always find what is requisite by writing to the address which I shall give you before we part. That point is now settled, and on the whole I think the arrangement is good.”
Timothy had been absent during the events of the morning—when he returned, I communicated to him what had passed, and was about to take place.
“Well, Japhet, I don’t know—I do not dislike our present life, yet I am not sorry to change it; but what are we to do?”
“That remains to be considered: we have a good stock of money, fortunately, and we must husband it till we find what can be done.”
We took our suppers all together for the last time, Melchior telling us that he had determined to set off the next day. Nattée looked very melancholy, but resigned; on the contrary, little Fleta was so overjoyed, that her face, generally so mournful, was illuminated with smiles whenever our eyes met. It was delightful to see her so happy. The whole of the people in the camp had retired, and Melchior was busy making his arrangements in the tent. I did not feel inclined to sleep; I was thinking and revolving in my mind my prospects for the future; sitting, or rather lying down, for I was leaning on my elbow, at a short distance from the tents. The night was dark but clear, and the stars were brilliant. I had been watching them, and I thought upon Melchior’s ideas of destiny, and dwelling on the futile wish that I could read mine, when I perceived the approach of Nattée.
“Japhet,” said she, “you are to take the little girl with you, I find—will you be careful of her? for it would be on my conscience if she were left to the mercy of the world. She departs rejoicing, let not her joy end in tears. I depart sorrowing. I leave my people, my kin, my habits, and customs, my influence, all—but it must be so, it is my destiny. She is a good child, Japhet—promise me that you will be a friend to her—and give her this to wear in remembrance of me, but—not yet—not till we are gone—” She hesitated. “Japhet, do not let Melchior see it in your possession; he may not like me having given it away.” I took the piece of paper containing the present, and having promised all she required, “This is the last—yes—the very last time that I may behold this scene,” continued Nattée, surveying the common, the tents, and the animals browsing. “Be it so; Japhet, good night, may you prosper!” She then turned away and entered her tent; and soon afterwards I followed her example.
The next day, Melchior was all ready. What he had packed up was contained in two small bundles. He addressed the people belonging to the gang, in their own language. Nattée did the same, and the whole of them kissed her hand. The tents, furniture, and the greatest part of his other property, were distributed among them. Jumbo and Num were made over to two of the principal
