Gypsy Breynton Part 19

Gypsy said nothing; in her secret heart, she hoped it would.

"What about sending the girls to Mrs. Fisher's?" asked Tom, when they were washing the dishes.

"Oh, no, no, it won't rain, I know--let us stay, Mr. Hallam, please. Why, I should feel like a deserter if I went off!" pleaded Gypsy.

The dark cloud seemed to have pa.s.sed away, and the wind was still. After thinking a while, Mr. Hallam decided to let them stay.

In the middle of the night, Gypsy was awakened by a great noise. The wind was blowing a miniature hurricane through the trees, and the rain was falling in torrents. She could hear it spatter on the canvas roof, and drop from the poles, and gurgle in a stream through the ditch. She could hear, too, the loud, angry murmur of the trout brook and the splashing of hundreds of rivulets that dashed down the slope and over the gorge into it.

She gave Sarah a little pinch, and woke her up.

"Oh, Sarah, it's come! It's raining like everything, and here we are, and we can't get to Mr. Fisher's--isn't it splendid?"

"Ye-es," said Sarah; "it's very splendid, only isn't it a little--wet?

It's dropping right on my cheek."

"Oh, that's nothing--why, here I can put my hand right down into a puddle of water. It's just like being at sea."

"I know it. Are people at sea always so--cold?"

"Why, I'm not cold. Only we might as well wear our water-proofs. The leaves _are_ a little damp."

So they put on their tweed cloaks, and Gypsy listened to the wind, and thought it was very poetic and romantic, and that she was perfectly happy.

And just as she had lain down again there came a great gust of rain, and one of the rivulets that were sweeping down the mountain splashed in under the canvas, and ran right through the middle of the tent like a brook.

Sarah jumped up with energy.

"O--oh, it's gone right over my feet!"

"My shoes are sailing away, as true as you live!" cried Gypsy, and sprang just in time to save them.

The dinner-basket and a tin pail were fast following, when Tom appeared upon the scene, and called through the wall of shawls,--

"Girls, you'll have to go to Mrs. Fisher's. Be quick as you can!"

"I don't want to a bit," said Gypsy, who was sitting in a pool of water.

"Well, I'm going," announced Sarah, with unheard-of decision. "Camping out is very nice, but drowning is another thing."

"Well--I--suppose it _would_ be a--little--dryer," said Gypsy, slowly.

The girls were soon dressed, and Tom lighted a lantern and went with them.

A few peals of thunder growled sullenly down the valley, and one bright flash of lightning glared far through the forest. Sarah was afraid she should be struck. Gypsy was thinking how grand it was, and wished she could be out in a midnight storm every week.

It was after midnight, and every one at Mr. Fisher's was asleep; but Tom knocked them up, and Mr. Fisher was very much amused, and Mrs. Fisher was very kind and hospitable, and built up a fire, and said they should be perfectly dry and warm before they went to bed.

So the girls bade Tom good-night, and he went back to Mr. Hallam, and they, feeling very cold and sleepy and drenched, were glad enough to be taken care of, and put to bed like babies, after Mrs. Fisher's good, motherly fashion.

"Sarah," said Gypsy, sleepily, just as Sarah was beginning to dream. "A feather-bed, and--and _pil_lows! (with a little jump to keep awake long enough to finish her sentence) are a little better--on the whole--than a mud--pud----"

Just there she went to sleep. The next day it poured from morning till night. That was just what Mr. Hallam and Tom liked, so they fished all day, and the girls amused themselves as best they might in Mr. Fisher's barn. The day after it rained in s.n.a.t.c.hes, and the sun shone in little spasms between. A council of exigencies met in Mr. Hallam's tent, and it was unanimously decided to go home. Even Gypsy began to long for civilized life, though she declared that she had never in all her life had such a good time as she had had that week.

So Mr. Fisher harnessed and drove them briskly down the mountain, and "from afar off" Gypsy saw her mother's face, watching for her at the door--a little anxious; very glad to see her back.

CHAPTER XI

GYPSY'S OPINION OF BOSTON

Just at the end of the vacation, it was suddenly announced that Miss Melville was not going to teach any more.

"How funny!" said Gypsy. "Last term she expected to, just as much as anything. I don't see what's the reason. Now I shall have to go to the high school."

It chanced that they were remodelling some of the rooms at the high school, and the winter term, which would otherwise have commenced in September, was delayed till the first of October.

Gypsy had jumped on all the hay-c.o.c.ks, and picked all the huckleberries, and eaten all the early Davises, and gone on all the picnics that she could, and was just ready to settle down contentedly to school and study; so the news from Miss Melville was not, on the whole, very agreeable. What to do with herself, for another long month of vacation, was more than she knew.

She wandered about the house and sat out among the clovers and swung on the gate, in a vague, indefinite sort of way, for two weeks; then one morning Mrs. Breynton read her a letter which set her eyes on fire with delight. It was an invitation from her aunt to spend a fortnight in Boston. It so happened that Gypsy had never been to Boston. It was a long day's journey from Yorkbury, and Mr. Breynton was not much in favor of expensive travelling for the children while they were very young; arguing that the enjoyment and usefulness would be doubled to them when they were older. Besides, Gypsy's uncle, though he was her father's brother, had seldom visited Yorkbury. His business kept him closely at home, and his wife and daughter always went to the seaside in summer; so the two families had seen very little of each other for years.

Mrs. Breynton, however, thought it best Gypsy should make this visit; and Gypsy, who had lived twelve years in a State which contained but one city, considered going to Boston very much as she would have considered going to Paradise.

It took a few days of delightful hurry and bustle to get ready. There was much washing and mending and altering, sewing on of tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs and letting down of tucks, to be done for her; for Mrs. Breynton desired to spare her the discomfort of feeling "countrified," and Yorkbury style was not distinctively _a la Paris_. She told Gypsy, frankly, that she must expect to find her cousin Joy better dressed than herself; but that her wardrobe should be neat and tasteful, and in as much accordance with the prevailing mode as was practicable; so she hoped she would have too much self-respect to be troubled by the difference.

"I hope I have," said Gypsy, with an emphasis.

The days pa.s.sed so quickly that it seemed like a dream when she had at last bidden them all good-by, kissed her mother just ten times, and was fairly seated alone in the cars, holding on very tightly to her ticket, and wondering if the men put her trunk in. Although she was so little used to travelling, having never been farther than to Burlington or Vergennes in her life, yet she was not in the least afraid to take the journey alone. Her mother felt sure she could take care of herself, and her father had given her so many directions, and written such careful memoranda for her, of changes of cars, refreshment stations, what to do with her check, and how to look after her baggage, that she felt sure she could not make a mistake. Being a bright, observing child, fearless as a boy, and not in the least inclined to worry, she had no trouble at all. The conductor was very kind; an old gentleman, who was pleased with her twinkling eyes and red cheeks, gave her an orange, and helped look after her baggage; two old ladies gave her fennel and peppermints; and before she reached Boston she was on terms of intimacy with six babies, a lapdog, and a canary-bird.

Altogether, it had been a most charming journey, and she was almost sorry when they reached the city, and the train rolled slowly into the dark depot.

The pa.s.sengers were crowding rapidly out, the lamps were lighted in the car, and she felt a little lonely sitting still there, and waiting for her uncle. She had not waited but a moment, however, when a pleasant, whiskered face appeared at the car-door, and one of those genial, "off-hand" voices, that sound at once so kindly and so careless, called out,--

"O--ho! So here's the girl! Glad to see you, child. This way; the hack's all ready."

She was hurried into a carriage, her trunk was tossed on behind, and then the door was shut, and they were driven rapidly away through a maze of crooked streets, glare of gaslights, and brilliant shop-windows, that bewildered Gypsy. She had a notion that was the way fairy-land must look.

Her uncle laughed, good-naturedly, at her wide-open eyes.

"Boston is a somewhat bigger village than Yorkbury, I suppose! How's your father? Why didn't he come with you? Is your mother well? And that boy--Linnie--Silly--what do call him?"

"Winnie, sir; and then there's Tom."

"Winnie--oh, yes! Tom well, too?"

Before the ride was over, Gypsy had come to the conclusion that she liked her uncle very much, only he had such a funny way of asking questions, and then forgetting all about them.

The driver reined up at a house on Beacon Street, and Gypsy was led up a long flight of steps through a bright hall, and into a room that dazzled her. A bright coal-fire was glowing in the grate, for it was a chilly evening, and bright jets of gas were burning in chandeliers. Bright carpets, and curtains, furniture, pictures, and ornaments covered the length of two parlors separated only by folding-doors, and mirrors, that reached from the floor to the ceiling, reflected her figure full length, as she stood in the midst of the magnificence, in her Yorkbury hat and homemade casaque.

"Sit down, sit down," said her uncle; "I'll call your aunt. I don't see where they are; I told them to be on hand,--Kate, where's Mrs. Breynton?"