ONE EVENING
So it was settled, and Joy came. There was no especial day appointed for
the journey. Her father was to come up with her as soon as he had
arranged his affairs so that he could do so, and then to go directly
back to Boston and sail at once.
Gypsy found plenty to do, in getting ready for her cousin. This having a
roommate for the first time in her life was by no means an unimportant
event to her. Her room had always been her own especial private
property. Here in a quiet nook on the broad window-sill she had curled
herself up for hours with her new story-books; here she had locked
herself in to learn her lessons, and keep her doll's dressmaking out of
Winnie's way; here she had gone away alone to have all her "good cries;"
here she sometimes spent a part of her Sabbath evenings with her most
earnest and sober thoughts.
Here was the mantel-shelf, covered with her little knick-knacks that no
one was ever allowed to touch but herself--pictures framed in pine
cones, boxes of shell-work, baskets of wafer-work, cologne-bottles,
watchcases, ivy-shoots and minerals, on which the dust accumulated at
its own sweet will, and the characteristic variety and arrangement
whereof none ever disputed with her. What if Joy should bring a trunkful
of ornaments?
There in the wardrobe were her treasures covering six shelves--her
kites and balls of twine, fishlines and doll's bonnets, scraps of gay
silk and jackknives, old compositions and portfolios, colored paper and
dried moss, pieces of chalk and horse-chestnuts, broken jewelry and
marbles. It was a curious collection. One would suppose it to be a sort
of co-partnership between the property of a boy and girl, in which the
boy decidedly predominated.
[Illustration]
Into this wardrobe Gypsy looked regretfully. Three of those
shelves--those precious shelves--must be Joy's now. And what _should_
be done with the things?
Then there were the bureau drawers. What sorcerer's charms, to say
nothing of the somewhat unwilling fingers of a not very enthusiastic
little girl, could cram the contents of four (and those so full that
they were overflowing through the cracks) into two?
Moreover, as any one acquainted with certain chapters in Gypsy's past
history will remember, her premises were not always celebrated for the
utmost tidiness. And here was Joy, used to her elegant carpets and
marble-covered bureaus, and gas-fixtures and Cochituate, with servants
to pick up her things for her ever since she was a baby! How shocked she
would be at the dust, and the ubiquitous slippers, and the slips and
shreds on the carpet; and how should she have the least idea what it was
to have to do things yourself?
However, Gypsy put a brave face on it, and emptied the bureau drawers,
and squeezed away the treasures into three shelves, and did her best to
make the room look pleasant and inviting to the little stranger. In
fact, before she was through with the work she became really very much
interested in it. She had put a clean white quilt upon the bed, and
looped up the curtain with a handsome crimson ribbon, taken from the
stock in the wardrobe. She had swept and dusted every corner and
crevice; she had displayed all her ornaments to the best advantage, and
put fresh cologne in the bottles. She had even brought from some
sanctum, where it was folded away in the dark, a very choice silk flag
about four inches long, that she had made when the war began, and was
keeping very tenderly to wear when Richmond was taken, and pinned it up
over her looking-glass.
On the table, too, stood her Parian vase filled with golden and
blood-red maple-leaves, and the flaming berries of the burning-bush.
Very prettily the room looked, when everything was finished, and Gypsy
was quite proud of it.
Joy came Thursday night. They were all in the parlor when the coach
stopped, and Gypsy ran out to meet her.
A pale, sickly, tired-looking child, draped from head to foot in black,
came up the steps clinging to her father's hand, and fretting over
something or other about the baggage.
Gypsy was springing forward to meet her, but stopped short. The last
time she had seen Joy, she was in gay Stuart-plaid silk and corals. She
had forgotten all about the mourning. How thin and tall it made Joy
look!
Gypsy remembered herself in a minute and threw her arms warmly around
Joy's neck. But Joy did not return the embrace, and gave her only one
cold kiss. She had inferred from Gypsy's momentary hesitation that she
was not glad to see her.
Gypsy, on her part, thought Joy was proud and disagreeable. Thus the two
girls misunderstood each other at the very beginning.
"I'm real glad to see you," said Gypsy.
"I thought we never should get here!" said Joy, petulantly. "The cars
were so dusty, and your coach jolts terribly. I shouldn't think the town
would use such an old thing."
Gypsy's face fell, and her welcome grew faint.
Joy had but little to say at supper. She sat by her father and ate her
muffins like a very hungry, tired child--like a very cross child, Gypsy
thought. Joy's face was always pale and fretful; in the bright lamplight
now, after the exhaustion of the long journey, it had a pinched,
unpleasant look.
"Hem," coughed Tom, over his teacup. Gypsy looked up and their eyes met.
That look said unutterable things.
[Illustration]
If it had not been for Mrs. Breynton, that supper would have been a
dismal affair. But she had such a cozy, comfortable way about her, that
nobody could help being cozy and comfortable if they tried hard for it.
After a while, when Mr. Breynton and his brother had gone away into the
library for a talk by themselves, and Joy began to feel somewhat rested,
she brightened up wonderfully, and became really quite entertaining in
her account of her journey. She thought Vermont looked cold and stupid,
however, and didn't remember having noticed much about the mountains,
for which Gypsy thought she should never forgive her.
But there was at least one thing Gypsy found out that evening to like
about Joy. She loved her father dearly. One could not help noticing how
restless she was while he was out of the room, and how she watched the
door for him to come back; how, when he did come, she stole away from
her aunt and sat down by him, slipping her hand softly into his. As he
had been all her life the most indulgent and patient of fathers, and was
going, early to-morrow morning, thousands of miles away from her into
thousands of unknown dangers, it was no wonder.
While it was still quite early, Joy proposed going to bed. She was
tired, and besides, she wanted to unpack a few of her things. So Gypsy
lighted the lamp and went up with her.
"So I am to sleep with you," said Joy, as they opened the door, in by no
means the happiest of tones, though they were polite enough.
"Yes. Mother thought it was better. See, isn't my room pretty?" said
Gypsy, eagerly, thinking how pleased Joy would be with the little
welcome of its fresh adornments.
"Oh, is _this_ it?"
Gypsy stopped short, the hot color rushing all over her face.
"Of course, it isn't like yours. We can't afford marble bureaus and
Brussels carpets, but I thought you'd like the maple-leaves, and I
brought out the flag on purpose because you were coming."
"Flag! Where? Oh, yes. I have one ten times as big as that at home,"
said Joy, and then she too stopped short, for she saw the expression of
Gypsy's face. Astonished and puzzled, wondering what she had done, Joy
turned away to unpack, when her eye fell on the vase with its gorgeous
leaves and berries, and she cried out in real delight: "O--oh, how
_pretty_! Why, we don't have anything like this in Boston."
But Gypsy was only half comforted.
Joy unlocked her trunk then, and for a few minutes they chatted merrily
over the unpacking. Where is the girl that doesn't like to look at
pretty clothes? and where is the girl that doesn't like to show them if
they happen to be her own? Joy's linen was all of the prettiest pattern,
with wonderful trimmings and embroideries such as Gypsy had seldom seen:
her collars and undersleeves were of the latest fashion, and fluted with
choice laces; her tiny slippers were tufted with velvet bows, and of her
nets and hair-ribbons there was no end. Gypsy looked on without a single
pang of envy, contrasting them with her own plain, neat things, of
course, but glad, in Gypsy's own generous fashion, that Joy had them.
"I had pretty enough things when you were in Boston," said Joy,
unfolding her heavy black dresses with their plain folds of bombazine
and crape. "Now I can't wear anything but this ugly black. Then there
are all my corals and malachites just good for nothing. Madame St.
Denis--she's the dressmaker--said I couldn't wear a single thing but
jet, and jet makes me look dreadfully brown."
Gypsy hung up the dress that was in her hand and walked over to the
window. She felt very much as if somebody had been drawing a file across
her front teeth.
She could not have explained what was the matter. Somehow she seemed to
see a quick picture of her own mother dying and dead, and herself in the
sad, dark dresses. And how Joy could speak so--how she _could_!
"Oh--only two bureau drawers! Why didn't you give me the two upper
ones?" said Joy, presently, when she was ready to put away her collars
and boxes.
"Because my things were in there," said Gypsy.
"But your things were in the lower ones just as much."
"I like the upper drawers best," said Gypsy, shortly.
"So do I," retorted Joy.
The hot color rushed over Gypsy's face for the second time, but now it
was a somewhat angry color.
"It wasn't very pleasant to have to give up any, and there are all those
wardrobe shelves I had to take my things off from too, and I don't think
you've any right to make a fuss."
"That's polite!" said Joy, with a laugh. Gypsy knew it wasn't, but for
that very reason she wouldn't say so.
One more subject of dispute came up almost before this was forgotten.
When they were all ready to go to bed, Joy wanted the front side.
"But that's where I always sleep," said Gypsy.
"There isn't any air over the back side and I can't breathe," said Joy.
"Neither can I," said Gypsy.
"I never can get to sleep if I don't have the place I'm used to," said
Joy.
"You can just as well as I can," said Gypsy. "Besides, it's my bed."
This last argument appeared to be unanswerable, and Gypsy had it her
way.
She thought it over before she went to sleep, which was not very soon;
for Joy was restless, and tossed on her pillow, and talked in her
dreams. Of course the front side and the upper drawers belonged to
her--yes, of course. She had only taken her rights. She would be
obliged to anybody to show her where she was to blame.
Joy went to sleep without any thoughts, and therein lay just the
difference.