Red Money by Fergus Hume (read dune .txt) 📕

Chapter 3 (An Unexpected Recognition) Pg 22

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

Chapter 3 (An Unexpected Recognition) Pg 23

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

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

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

Chapter 3 (An Unexpected Recognition) Pg 24