The Black Diamond

by Francis Brett Young

A strange cart pulled up opposite to them, drawn by a spiritless pony and bearing a black tin plate with the words: Hughes, Brecon, painted on it in a scrawl of white. A gipsy drove it, and behind, on the tilted cart-tail sat a withered, dirty woman and a girl of fifteen with a beautiful dark face and long, black hair, which the old woman was carefully and necessarily combing. To the tail of the cart a cowed and mangy mongrel of the greyhound breed was tied with a strand of rope. The eyes of the girl were dark and wild as those of an animal, and she stared insolently at Abner, half-smiling, attracted, no doubt, by the contrast of his fair strength. For some strange reason Mary felt that the girl’s glance hurt her. ‘She’s smiling at you. Don’t look at her, Abner!’ she whispered. ‘How dirty she is!’ The whisper disturbed the old woman, who ceased her hairdressing, wiped the comb on her apron and smiled across at Mary. She had no teeth but a single yellow tusk in the middle of her lower jaw. She leaned over the edge of the cart and held out her hand toward them.

‘Shall the old woman tell your fortune, my pretty dear?’ she whined. ‘You and your lovely children and your husband? A fine upstanding man, my dear, if ever there was one. Cross the old woman’s hand with a bit of silver and she’ll tell you the future as it’s written!’

Mary looked away. The gipsy girl continued to stare at Abner.

‘Ah, don’t you want to know the happiness that’s coming?’ the old woman went on, with her hand outstretched. ‘I tell you that’s worth more to you than a piece of silver. All that lays before you, my pretty dear. . .’

Mary clutched at Abner’s arm. ‘Don’t look at her! She’s staring at you! I think we’d better go on,’ she whispered. But a cart had pulled in to the side in front of them, and they could not move. The old woman continued to pester them with her whinings. When she saw that no silver would cross her palm she changed her tone. She leaned further out of her cart, speaking now of ill-fortune rather than good, gratuitously prophesying evil, and a near evil at that. Abner bandied words with her and laughed, but Mary felt her heart sinking within her. From more maledictions they were saved by a sudden forward movement of the block. The cart started with a jerk which pulled the mongrel who had been biting at fleas on its belly, to its feet. The girl gave Abner a final, dark smile; the old woman spat in Mary’s direction.

‘Come on,’ said Abner, ‘now’s your chance!’

But Mary could not move. In some way the encounter had destroyed her nerve. ‘Let’s wait till it’s clearer!’ she pleaded.

A drove of mountain ponies that the gipsies had driven down to the fair from some heathery upland of Montgomery or Clun, followed them. They were small, shaggy, and very wild. They stamped and snorted, then huddled together anxiously in a bunch, sniffing the air with distended nostrils. The sense of being herded together between the hedge and the iron railings made them tremble with fright, and Mary was no less frightened than they. Her anxiety spread to the children, and for the first time since they had left Redlake Morgan forgot his cakes. He began to whimper.

‘They’re all right,’ said Abner. ‘Don’t you take no notice of them.’

A little black stallion, the last of the herd, suddenly took fright. He made a dash for the hedge on the opposite side, but the blackthorn was too high for him and he stood quivering half-way up the bank. A heavy loutish man, of Atwell’s build, who seemed a giant beside the little animal, climbed up and took hold of it by the ear. It gave a sudden convulsive movement, and in a moment the man and the horse were fighting together. The animal pulled him to the ground and for a moment they struggled in the dust. Then another man sat on its head and put a snitch on its muzzle. They jumped aside and the pony leapt to its feet. It stood trembling and screamed with pain. The big man, panting and dusty, held the rope of which the snitch was made. A bitter fight followed, the pony rushing wildly from side to side with fierce, terrible screams, the man holding on grimly yet barely keeping his feet. The other gipsies drove on the rest of the herd, and those who came behind ran forward to watch the duel, with cries of encouragement now to the man, now to the beast. It was a horrible sight, at which Mary did not dare to look, though Abner enjoyed it. To and fro the panting animal plunged. It rolled on the ground, leapt in the air, with fierce snortings and shrill cries. Its eyes were bright with rage. At last it stood stock still in the middle of the road and would not move. The man who had sat on its head approached it with a halter. Still it stood its ground, trembling violently, shaken with angry snorts, foaming. It seemed that the fight was over and the wild spirit conquered, but before he could slip the halter on its head the animal had taken another violent leap. Abner saw its body hurling through the air and threw himself in front of Mary and the children. He went over with the stallion on the top of him, hearing Mary’s cry. The iron railings were bent back, and Mary was holding Gladys in her arms. The shouts of the crowd rang in Abner’s ears: ‘Her’s dead! They’ve no business to drive ’em on a public road! Savage they are! Poor little thing! These bloody gipsies! That chap did his best . . .’