Gipsy grows Anxious
GIPSY spent the Christmas holidays at Briarcroft. Miss Poppleton went
away to Switzerland, to refresh her tired mind with the winter sports;
but Miss Edith stayed behind, to count linen, and superintend workmen
who were making some alterations in the bathrooms. She and Gipsy managed
to enjoy themselves in a quiet manner, but the latter hailed the return
of her schoolfellows with considerable relief. The house seemed so big
and silent and lonely without its usual lively crew of boarders, and the
dormitory with its empty beds oppressed her. Miss Poppleton came back
more brisk and bustling than ever, and was at once immersed in the
business of interviewing parents and rearranging school affairs, and in
the thousand and one cares that always occupied her at the beginning of
term.
When about ten days had gone by, and Briarcroft had settled down into
its ordinary routine, she sent a message to Gipsy to report herself in
the study. Gipsy obeyed with a feeling of considerable apprehension.
Miss Poppleton's manner towards her, never very gracious, had been
markedly cold since the Christmas holidays. For some reason she was
evidently much out of favour. She tapped more deferentially at the study
door, and entered less confidently than she had done on the morning
after her arrival. A term at Briarcroft had taught her many lessons. The
Principal was seated at her desk, studying an account book, and to judge
from the jerking movements of her mouth, she was in a state of mind
quite the reverse of amiable.
"Gipsy Latimer," she began uncompromisingly, "I've sent for you to
enquire if you've heard anything at all from your father?"
Gipsy shook her head silently. It was such a sore subject that she could
hardly bear to speak about it.
"It's a most extraordinary thing!" commented Miss Poppleton. "Since the
day he left you here, he has never written a line either to me or to
you. I don't like the look of it at all. Did he tell you where he was
going?"
"Back to Cape Town," replied Gipsy briefly.
"Did he leave you any address?"
"No; he said he would be going up-country into a very wild place, but he
would write when he got to the Cape."
"Has he any friends at Cape Town who would know of his whereabouts?"
"Not that I know of."
The barometer of Miss Poppleton's face seemed to fall still lower.
"This won't do at all!" she said, frowning. "When your father brought
you, he paid for you up to Christmas, but no more. Now, the rule of
this school is that fees must be paid in advance at the beginning of
each term. I don't make an exception for anybody. Where are your fees
for this term, I should like to know?--to say nothing of the holidays
you spent here!"
It was such an utterly unanswerable question that Gipsy did not attempt
a reply.
"I had a girl left on my hands like this once before," continued Miss
Poppleton, "and I said then it should never happen again. Have you any
relations in England?"
"Not one!"
"Or friends who could take charge of you?"
"I know absolutely nobody in England."
"Who are your relations, then? Surely you must have some in some portion
of the globe?"
"Not any near ones. We have some cousins in New Zealand, at a farm right
up in the bush."
"Where did your father come from? Hadn't your mother any relations?"
"Father was born in New Zealand, but his grandfather came out from
England. Mother was an American, from Texas, I believe. Her mother was
Spanish. I never heard about her relations. She died when I was a baby,
and we've always been travelling about ever since I can remember."
"Humph! That doesn't look well. Had your father no permanent address,
then, where letters would always be forwarded to him?"
"I never heard him say so."
Gipsy stood with her little brown hands pressed hard together, and her
mouth set tightly while she answered this unwelcome catechism. Miss
Poppleton might have pitied the sad look in the dark eyes, but she went
on bluntly:
"I'm afraid it's only too evident he wants to get rid of the burden of
your education. We've got to trace him somehow. It's all very fine for
him to leave you here and desert you!"
Gipsy's face turned crimson, and the big sob that had been gathering in
her throat nearly choked her for a moment.
"Father would never desert me!" she gasped at last. "He promised
faithfully he'd come back and fetch me. Oh! you don't know Dad, to say
that. I'm afraid something's happened to him--out there!"
She did not tell Miss Poppleton how she had hoped against hope, and lain
awake at night wondering, and searching her mind for any possible
solution of his silence, but she looked such a forlorn little figure
that in spite of herself the Principal slightly relented.
"Well, Gipsy," she said more kindly, "I'm afraid it looks a bad
business. I'm sure you understand that it would be impossible for me to
keep on my school if pupils did not pay their fees. I can't afford to be
kept waiting. In your case, however, we'll let matters stand for awhile,
and see if we hear from your father. In the meantime I might write to
your cousins in New Zealand. It will take three months, though, before I
can get a letter back."
"More," sighed Gipsy. "They only go down to the town once a month for
letters, and not then if the river's in flood. They live in such a wild
place--right up in the bush."
"At any rate they're your relations, and ought to be responsible for
you," snapped Miss Poppleton. "If the worst comes to the worst, I could
send you out to them through the Emigration Society. It's a very awkward
position to be placed in--very awkward indeed. You're absolutely sure
you know of nobody, either in England or at the Cape, who could give
information about your father?"
"No one at all. I didn't know anything about Dad's business. I was at
school, and he used just to come and fetch me for the holidays,"
confessed Gipsy sadly.
Miss Poppleton shut her account book with an annoyed slam.
"Well, there's no further help for it at present. We must see what turns
up. Of course, I can't pretend to keep you here indefinitely. Give me
the address of your cousins in New Zealand, and I will write to them
to-day. That seems the best we can do. The whole thing is most
unfortunate."
Gipsy dictated the address as steadily as she could, then taking
advantage of Miss Poppleton's brief "That will do; you may go now!" she
fled to the most remote corner of her dormitory and sobbed her heart
out. There she was found later on by Miss Edith, who came to put away
clean clothes. Poor Miss Edith was generally torn in two between strict
loyalty to her sister and the promptings of her own kind heart. She knew
the cause of Gipsy's trouble well enough. She sat down beside the
forlorn child, and comforted her as best she could.
"I wish Dad would write! Oh, he can't have forgotten me! I wish I'd
anybody to go to; I haven't a soul nearer than New Zealand!" wailed
Gipsy.
"You mustn't make yourself so miserable, Gipsy dear!" said Miss Edith
nervously. "I'm sure Miss Poppleton will keep you here for a while, and
perhaps your father will write after all. My sister will do everything
that's right--she always does. Oh, don't sob so, child! She'll see that
you're taken care of. Do try to cheer up, that's a dear! You must trust
Miss Poppleton, Gipsy. There, there! You'll feel better now you've had a
good cry. Wash your face in cold water, and take a run round the garden.
It's a good thing it's Saturday!"
Gipsy didn't feel equally confident of Miss Poppleton's benevolence, but
she gave Miss Edith a hug, and took her advice. She had not lost faith
in her father, only his silence made her fear for his welfare. She was
aware of the many dangers of life in the rough mining camps where his
work lay, and shuddered as she remembered his tales of attacks by
desperadoes, skirmishes with natives, or perils of wild beasts. Almost
directly, however, her naturally cheerful and hopeful disposition
reasserted itself. She knew letters sometimes miscarried or were lost,
or perhaps her father might have been ill and unable to write.
"He'll let me hear about him somehow," she said to herself. "I must just
try and be very patient. Dad desert me! Why, the idea's ridiculous. And
I've a feeling I'd know if he was dead. No! He's alive somewhere and
thinking of me, and it will all come right in the end. His very last
words were: 'I'll soon be back to fetch you!' I mustn't let folks at the
school think I don't believe in Dad. That would never do! I'll show them
how I can trust him!"
True to her intention of vindicating her faith in her father, Gipsy,
after the first outburst of tears, took a pride in concealing her
feelings, and preserving at least an outward appearance of calm
confidence. It certainly needed all her courage to face the situation,
for there were several circumstances which rendered it peculiarly
trying. Miss Poppleton, with whom she had never been a favourite,
snapped at her more frequently than before, and was harder to please as
regarded both lessons and conduct. Gipsy often felt she was treated
unfairly, and received more than her due share of blame for any little
occurrence that cropped up.
A great many small things contributed to make her feel her position. Her
morning glass of milk, which all the boarders and some of the day girls
took in the pantry at eleven o'clock, was knocked off, as were all
concerts and lectures where there was a charge for admission. It was not
pleasant, when the other boarders were taken into Greyfield, to have to
stay behind for the sake of the price of a ticket and a tram fare. She
had long ago spent all her pocket-money, and there was no more
forthcoming. Not only was she denied such luxuries as chocolates, but
she was not even able to pay her subscription to the Guild, which, by
the new arrangement, was due at the beginning of each term. The
Committee, who knew the reason and sympathized with her, ignored the
matter; but poor Gipsy, as Secretary, felt her deficiency very keenly
when she made up the accounts. She was a proud, sensitive girl, and the
knowledge that she alone, of the whole Guild, had not rendered her dues
to the Treasurer was a bitter humiliation.
It was not in regard to the Guild alone that she was hampered by lack of
money. During the spring term the girls at Briarcroft were accustomed to
get up a small bazaar in aid of a home for waifs and strays. They were
already beginning to work for it, and Gipsy, who would gladly have
helped, made the unpleasant discovery that it is impossible to make
bricks without straw, or in other words that she had no materials. Each
Form generally took a stall, so one afternoon there was a little
informal meeting of the Upper Fourth, to discuss what contributions
could be relied upon.
"I vote that each girl undertakes to make a certain number of articles;
that would be far the easiest, and then we should know how we stand,"
suggested Alice O'Connor. "We'll draw up a list, and write it down."
"Need we do it quite that way?" said Hetty Hancock. "Wouldn't it be
enough if each promises to do what she can?"
"Why? It's much better to nail people."
"Well, you see, it mightn't suit everybody. There's one girl I know who
perhaps really couldn't undertake to make several things. We don't want
her to feel uncomfortable."
Gipsy was not in the room at that moment, so Hetty was free to give her
hint.
"If you mean Gipsy Latimer, I don't see why we should spoil the bazaar
to spare her feelings!" returned Alice bluntly.
"I don't want to spoil the bazaar. I only thought we might do it some
other way that wouldn't hurt her pride."
"What nonsense! People oughtn't to have such ridiculous pride!"
expostulated Gladys Merriman. "I think Alice's idea is a good one. I'll
vote for it if she proposes it properly."
"But surely you wouldn't like it yourself--" began Hetty.
"Hush! Here's Gipsy!" said Dilys hastily.
Neither Alice nor Gladys bore any special love for Gipsy, and they were
not particularly desirous to spare her the unpleasantness of an open
confession of her inability to make her contribution. Perhaps it was
with a spice of malice that Alice rose immediately and offered her
suggestion.
"Each girl could surely undertake at least three articles--that ought to
be the minimum--and as many more as she's capable of doing," she said in
conclusion.
There was a moment's pause in the room. On the face of it, Alice's
proposal was excellent. Everybody felt it ought to be carried out, but
many shared Hetty's motive in objecting to it. It was Lennie Chapman who
saved the situation.
"I beg to propose an amendment," she put in quickly, "that, instead of
each girl promising things separately, we may be allowed to form
ourselves into working trios. Three of us could promise a dozen articles
between us, to be made just as we like, all stitching at the same piece
of embroidery if the fancy took us--just joint work, in fact. We'd spur
each other on in that way, and get far more finished than if we did it
singly."
"Excellent!" commented Dilys. "Who votes for the amendment?"
It was carried by half the Form, much to Lennie's relief. She and Hetty
promptly proposed to form a trio with Gipsy, and were thus able to
rescue her from rather a difficult position.
"But I haven't even a skein of embroidery silk!" sighed Gipsy afterwards
to them in private.
"Never mind! Hetty and I can get the silks, and you shall do some extra
work to make it square. We shall be exactly quits in that way. You can
do all the painting part, too, on those blotters; you paint far better
than either of us. My flowers are always scrawny, and yours are lovely.
There's an enormous advantage in working threesomes!"
"Yes, for me!" said Gipsy gratefully.
There are some unworthy natures who cannot resist the temptation of
kicking anyone who is down. It was very quickly realized at Briarcroft
that Gipsy was in ill favour at headquarters; and though most of the
girls were sorry for her, with a certain number her changed fortunes
undoubtedly lessened her popularity. Maude Helm never lost an
opportunity of a sneer or a slight, and could sometimes raise a laugh
at Gipsy's expense among the more thoughtless section of the Form. Gipsy
generally responded with spirit, but the gibes hurt all the same.
[Illustration: "GIPSY GENERALLY RESPONDED WITH SPIRIT"]
"When are you going to get some new hair ribbons, Yankee Doodle?" asked
Gladys Merriman one day. "Those red flags of yours are looking rather
dejected."
"The American turkey's losing its top-knot," sniggered Maude tauntingly.
"It doesn't soar up aloft like it used to do! Been a little tamed by the
British lion!"
"If you imagine a turkey to be the crest of the United States, you're a
trifle out," said Gipsy scornfully.
"I'd take to a pigtail if I were you," tittered Maude. "It only needs
one ribbon!"
"If you were me, then I suppose I'd be you--and, yes, it might be
necessary to change my style of hair-dressing," retorted Gipsy, with a
glance at Maude's not too plentiful locks.
Some of the girls giggled, and Cassie Bertram murmured: "Rats' tails,
not pigtails! Or even mouse tails!"
Maude scowled. She had not intended the laugh to be turned against
herself.
"I wouldn't wear limp, faded red bows at any price," she commented,
banging her desk to close the conversation, and stalking from the room.
"That Gipsy Latimer's too conceited altogether! I should like to take
her down a peg," she confided to Gladys, as the pair walked arm-in-arm
round the playground.
"Well, so you do, continually!" said Gladys.
"That's only by the way. She deserves something more for her American
cheek. I'm going to play a trick on her, Gladys. It'll be ever such fun!
Listen!"
The two girls put their heads together, and laughed as Maude whispered
her plan; then they both scuttled up to the empty classroom, and
abstracting Gipsy's atlas from her desk, carried it downstairs to the
lost-property cupboard, and hid it carefully under a pile of books.
"She won't find that in a hurry!" chuckled Maude.
"There'll be a fine to-do when she misses it," said Gladys.
"People who suffer from 'swelled head' just deserve a little wholesome
medicine, to cure them of thinking too much of themselves. Now she's
editor of the Magazine, Yankee Doodle's unbearable, to my mind. There
are others in the Form who can write stories as well as herself."
"Yours about the brigands was lovely!" gushed Gladys obediently.
"Well, I don't boast, but I flatter myself it wasn't the worst in the
Mag. I don't call it fair that everything should be in the hands of one
girl, and she a foreigner, as one might say! I'll talk to you again
about this, Gladys, for I've got an idea I mean to exploit later on.
Come along now, there's the bell!"
That afternoon the Upper Fourth had a lesson with Miss Poppleton on "The
Work of our Great Explorers". The class was held in the lecture hall,
and each girl was required to bring with her an atlas, a blank book for
drawing charts, a notebook, a pencil, and indiarubber. Gipsy's desk was
not always a miracle of neatness, but she understood its apparent
confusion, and could generally lay her hand in a moment upon anything
she wanted. This afternoon, however, she rummaged for her atlas in vain.
She turned books and papers over and over in her futile search, till the
desk was in a chaotic muddle.
"Where's my atlas? Who's had my atlas? It was here yesterday!" she asked
agitatedly.
"Really, Gipsy Latimer, I don't wonder you can't find your things in
such an untidy desk!" remarked Miss White. "You must stay after four
o'clock and put your books in order. Be quick, girls! Ada is waiting.
Are you ready? Then take your places and march!"
Miss White hurried off to give a botany demonstration to the Lower
Fourth, and the Upper Fourth filed downstairs to the lecture hall under
the superintendence of Ada Dawkins, monitress for the time in place of
Doreen Tristram, who was absent with influenza.
As the Form stood waiting for a moment or two in the corridor before
entering the lecture hall, Maude Helm began ostentatiously to count her
belongings.
"Pencil--indiarubber--map book--notebook--and atlas. I've not forgotten
anything!" she said in a particularly audible whisper.
Ada Dawkins heard, and it reminded her of her duties. She was anxious to
show herself a zealous monitress.
"Have you all brought your things?" she enquired authoritatively. "Face
about into line, and hold them out so that I can see."
The single file of girls wheeled round into a row, each exhibiting what
she carried. Ada passed along like a commanding officer inspecting a
regiment, and immediately pounced upon Gipsy.
"Where's your atlas, Gipsy Latimer? How is it you're the only one to
forget? Been taken from your desk? What nonsense! Things don't lose
themselves. If you were tidy, you'd be able to find your books. No, I'm
not going to accept any excuses. You all know what you want for the
lesson, and it's your own fault if you come without it. Lose two order
marks for leaving your atlas behind, and a third for arguing! Will you
never learn that the monitresses have some authority here?"
Very much snubbed, poor Gipsy went into the lecture hall, to be further
rebuked by Miss Poppleton later on for the lack of her atlas. It was
only after a long hunt that she discovered her missing book in the
lost-property cupboard.
"I've a very shrewd guess who put it there, too!" she remarked to Hetty
Hancock. "Maude and Gladys were giggling something to Alice O'Connor,
and they all looked at me and simply screamed."
"You don't mean to say they've played a low, stingy trick like that upon
you?"
"I'm almost sure."
"Then they're mean sneaks! If ever I catch them at such a thing again,
I'll spiflicate them!"