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-cocks, 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 trimmings 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 passed 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 passengers 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?"
"She's up-stairs, sir, dressing," said the servant, who had opened the
door.
"Tell her Miss Gypsy has come; sit down, child, and make yourself at
home."
Gypsy sat down, and Mr. Breynton, not satisfied with sending a message to
his wife, went to the foot of the stairs, and called,--
"Miranda!--Joy!"
A voice from somewhere above answered, a little sharply, that she was
coming as fast as she could, and she told Joyce to go down long ago, but
she hadn't stirred.
Gypsy heard every word, and she began to wonder if her aunt were very glad
to see her, and what sort of a girl her cousin must be, if she didn't obey
her mother unless she chose to. Just then Joy came down stairs, walking
very slowly and properly, and came into the parlor with the manners of a
young lady of eighteen. She might have been a pretty child, if she had
been dressed more plainly and becomingly; but her face was pale and thin,
and there was a fretful look about her mouth, that almost spoiled it.
Gypsy went up warmly, and kissed her. Joy had extended the tips of her
fingers to shake hands, and she looked a little surprised, but kissed her
politely, and asked if she were tired with the journey. Just then Mrs.
Breynton came in, with many apologies for her delay, met Gypsy kindly
enough, and sent her up-stairs to take off her things.
"Who trimmed your hat?" asked Joy, suddenly.
"Miss Jones. She's our milliner."
"Oh," said Joy, "mine is a pheasant. Nobody thinks of wearing velvet
now--most everybody has a pheasant."
"I shouldn't like to wear just what everybody else did," Gypsy could not
help saying. She hung the turban up in the closet, with a little
uncomfortable feeling. It was a fine drab straw, trimmed and bound with
velvet a shade darker. It was pretty, and she knew it; it just matched her
casaque, and her mother had thought it all the more lady-like for its
simplicity. Nevertheless, it was not going to be very pleasant to have her
cousin Joy ashamed of her.
"Oh, oh, how short they wear dresses in Yorkbury!" remarked Joy, as Gypsy
walked across the room. "Mine are nearly to the tops of my boots, now I'm
thirteen years old."
"Are they?--where did I put my bag?" said Gypsy, carelessly. Joy looked a
little piqued that she did not seem more impressed.
"There's dinner," she said, after a silence, in which she had been
secretly inspecting and commenting upon every article of Gypsy's attire.
"Come, let's go down. Mother scolds if we're late."
"Scolds!" said Gypsy. "How funny! my mother never scolds."
"Doesn't she?" asked Joy, a little wonder in her eyes.
"It seems so queer to have dinner at six o'clock," said Gypsy,
confidentially, as they went down stairs. "At home they are just sitting
down to supper."
Joy laughed patronizingly.
"Oh, yes; I suppose you're used to country hours."
For the second time, Gypsy felt uncomfortable. She would very much have
liked to ask her cousin what there was to be ashamed of in being used to
country hours, when you lived in the country. But they had reached the
dining-room door, and her aunt was calling out somewhat fretfully to Joy
to hurry, so she said nothing.
After supper, her uncle said she looked very much like her father, hoped
she would make herself at home, thought her a little taller than Joyce,
and then was lost to view, for the evening, behind his newspaper. Her aunt
inquired if she could play on the piano, was surprised to find she knew
nothing more classical than chants and Scotch airs; told Joy to let her
hear that last air of Von Weber's; and then she took up a novel which was
lying partially read upon the table. When Joy was through playing, she
proposed a game of solitaire. Gypsy would much rather have examined the
beautiful and costly ornaments with which the rooms were filled, but she
was a little too polite and a little too proud to do so, unasked.
"What do you play most?" she asked, as they began to move the figures on
the solitaire board.
"Oh," said Joy, "I practise three hours, and that takes all the time when
I'm in school. In vacations, I don't know,--I like to walk in Commonwealth
Avenue pretty well; then mother has a good deal of company, and I always
come down."
"Only go to walk, and sit still in the parlor!" exclaimed Gypsy; "dear
me!"
"Why, what do you do?"
"Me? Oh, I jump on the hay and run down hills and poke about in the
swamp."
_"What?"_
"Push myself round on a raft in the orchard-swamp; it's real fun."
"Why, I never heard of such a thing!" said Joy, looking shocked.
"Well, it's splendid; you ought to come up to Yorkbury, and go out with
me. Tom would make you a raft."
"What _do_ the people say?" said Joy, looking at her mother.
"Oh, there aren't any people there to see. If there were, they wouldn't
say anything. I have just the nicest times. Winnie and I tipped over last
spring,--clear over, splash!"
"You will ruin your complexion," remarked her aunt, laying down her novel.
"I suppose you never wear a veil."
"A veil? Dear me, no! I can't bear the feeling of a veil. I wore one in
the cars through, to keep the cinders off. Then, besides that, I row and
coast, and,--oh, I forgot, walking on the fences; it's real fun if you
don't tumble off."
_"Walking on the fences!"_
"Oh, yes. I always go in the fields where there's nobody round. Then I
like to climb the old walls, where you have to jump when the stones roll
off from under you."
Mrs. Breynton elevated her eyebrows with a peculiar expression, and
returned to her novel.
Gypsy was one of those happy people who are gifted with the faculty of
always having a pleasant time, and the solitaire game was good enough, if
it hadn't been so quiet; but when she went up to bed, she looked somewhat
sober. She bade Joy good-night, shut herself into the handsomely-furnished
room which had been given her, sat down on the floor, and winked hard
several times. She would not have objected at that moment to seeing her
mother, or Tom, or pulling her father's whiskers, or squeezing Winnie a
little, or looking into the dear, familiar sitting-room where they were
all gathered just then to have prayers. She began to have a vague idea
that there was no place like home. She also came to the conclusion, very
faintly, and feeling like a traitor all the time, that her Aunt Miranda
was very fashionable and very fretful, and did not treat Joy at all as her
mother treated her; that Joy thought her countrified, and had never walked
on a fence in all her life; that her uncle was very good, but very busy,
and that a fortnight was a rather long time to stay there.
However, her uncle's house was not the whole of Boston. All the delights
of the great, wonderful city remained unexplored, and who could tell what
undreamed-of joys to-morrow would bring forth?
So Gypsy's smiles came back after their usual punctual fashion, and she
fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow, to dream that she was
sitting in Tom's lap, reading an Arabic novel aloud to Winnie.
It might have been about half an hour after, that she woke suddenly with a
terrible feeling in her lungs and throat, and sat up in bed gasping, to
see the door burst open, and her aunt come rushing in.
"Is the house on fire?" asked Gypsy, sleepily.
"House on fire! It might have been. It's a wonder you're alive!"
"Alive," repeated Gypsy, bewildered.
"Why, child, you blew out the gas!" said her aunt, sharply, throwing open
the windows. "Didn't you know any better than that?"
"I'm so used to blowing out our lamps," said Gypsy, feeling very much
frightened and ashamed.
"Country ways!" exclaimed her aunt. "Well, thank fortune, there's no harm
done,--go to sleep, like a good girl."
Gypsy did not relish being told to go to sleep like a good girl, when she
had done nothing wrong; nor did her aunt's one chilly kiss, at leaving
her, serve to make her forget those few sharp words.
The next morning, after breakfast, Joy proposed to go out to walk, and
Gypsy ran up to put on her things in great glee. One little circumstance
dashed damply on it, like water on glowing coals.
"How large your casaque is about the neck," said Joy, carelessly. "I like
mine small and high, with a binding."
Gypsy remembered what her mother said: and, because her casaque happened
to be cut after Miss Jones's patterns instead of Madame Demorest's, she
did not feel that her character was seriously affected; but it was not
pleasant to have such things said. Her cousin did not mean to be unkind.
On the contrary, she had taken rather a fancy to Gypsy. She was simply a
little thoughtless and a little vain. Joy is not the only girl in Boston,
I am afraid, who has hurt the feelings of her country visitors in that
careless way.
"You've never seen the Common, I suppose, nor the Public Gardens?" said
Joy, as they started off. "We'll walk across to Boylston Street,--dear me!
you haven't any gloves on!"
"Oh, must I put them on?" said Gypsy, with a sigh; "I'm afraid I sha'n't
like Boston if I have to wear gloves week-days. I can't bear the feeling
of them."
"I suppose that's what makes your hands so red and brown," replied Joy,
astonished, casting a glance at her own sickly, white fingers, which she
was pinching into a pair of very tight kid gloves.
"Here are the Gardens," she said, proudly, as they entered the inclosure.
"Aren't they beautiful? I don't suppose you have anything like this in
Yorkbury. We'll go up to the Common in a minute."
Gypsy looked carelessly around, and did not seem to be very much impressed
or interested.
"I'd rather go over into that street where the people and the carriages
are," she said.
"Why!" exclaimed Joy; "don't you like it? See the fountains, and the deer
and the grass, and all."
"I like the deer," said Gypsy; "only I feel so sorry for them."
"Sorry for them!"
"Why, they look so as if they wanted to be off in the woods with nobody
round. I like the rabbits better, jumping round at home under the
pine-trees. Then I think the trout-brook, at Ripton, is a great deal
prettier than these fountains. But then I guess I should like the stores,"
she said, apologetically, a little afraid she had hurt or provoked Joy.
"I never saw anybody like you," said Joy, looking puzzled. When they came
to Tremont, and then to Washington Street, Gypsy was in an ecstasy. She
kept calling to Joy to see that poor little beggar girl, or that funny old
woman, or that negro boy who was trying to stand on his head, or the
handsome feather on that lady's bonnet, and stopped every other minute to
see some beautiful toy or picture in a shop-window, till Joy lost all
patience.
"Gypsy Breynton! don't keep staring in the windows so; people will think
we are a couple of servant girls just from down East, who never saw
Washington Street before!"
"I never did," said Gypsy, coolly.
But she looked a little sober. What was the use of Boston, and all its
beautiful sights and busy sounds, if you must walk right along as if you
were going to church, and not seem to see nor hear any of the wonders, for
fear of being called countrified? Gypsy began to hate the word.
"You must take your cousin to the Aquarial Gardens," said Mr. Breynton to
Joy, at dinner.
"Oh, I'm tired to death of the Aquarial Gardens," answered Joy; "none of
the girls I go with ever go now, and I've seen it all so many times."
"But Gypsy hasn't. Try the Museum, then."
"I can't bear the Museum. The white snakes in bottles make me so nervous,"
said Joy.
"A white snake in a bottle! Why, I never saw one," said Gypsy, with
sparkling eyes.
"Well, I'll go with you, child, if Joy hasn't the politeness to do it,"
said her uncle, patting her eager face.
"Mr. Breynton," said his wife, petulantly, "you are _always_ blaming that
child for something."
Yet, in the very next breath, she scolded Joy, for delaying her practising
ten minutes, more severely than her father would have done if she had told
a falsehood.
Mr. Breynton was very busy the next day, and forgot all about Gypsy; but
the day after he left his store at an early hour, and took her to the
Museum, and out to Bunker Hill. That was the happiest day Gypsy spent in
Boston.
The day after her aunt had a large dinner company. No one would have
imagined that Gypsy dreaded it in the least; but, in her secret heart, she
did. Joy seemed to be perfectly happy when she was dressed in her
brilliant Stuart plaid silk, with its long sash and valenciennes lace
ruffles, and spent a full half hour exhibiting her jewelry-box to Gypsy's
wondering eyes, and trying to decide whether she would wear her coral
brooch and ear-rings, which matched the scarlet of the plaid, or a
handsome malachite set, which were the newer.
Gypsy looked on admiringly, for she liked pretty things as well as other
girls; but dressed herself in the simple blue-and-white checked foulard,
with blue ribbons around her net and at her throat to match,--the best
suit, over which her mother had taken so much pains, and which had seemed
so grand in Yorkbury,--hoped her aunt's guests would not laugh at her, and
decided to think no more about the matter.
The first half hour of dinner passed off pleasantly enough. Gypsy was
hungry; for she had just come home from a long walk to Williams &
Everett's picture gallery, and the dinner was very nice; the only trouble
with it being that, there were so many courses, she could not decide what
to eat and what to refuse. But after a while a deaf old gentleman, who sat
next her, felt conscientiously impelled to ask her where she lived and how
old she was, and she had to scream so loud to answer him, that it
attracted the attention of all the guests. Then the dessert came and the
wine, and an hour and a half had passed, and still no one showed any signs
of leaving the table, and the old gentleman made spasmodic attempts at
conversation, at intervals of ten minutes. The hour and a half became two
hours, and Gypsy was so thoroughly tired out sitting still, it seemed as
if she should scream, or upset her finger-bowl, or knock over her chair,
or do some terrible thing.
"You said you were twelve years old, I believe?" said the old gentleman,
suddenly. This was the fifth time he had asked that very same question.
Joy trod on Gypsy's toes under the table, and Gypsy laughed, coughed,
seized her goblet, and began to drink violently to conceal her rudeness.
"Twelve years? and you live in Vermont?" remarked the old gentleman
placidly. This was a drop too much. Gypsy swallowed her water the wrong
way, strangled and choked, and ran out of the room with crimson face,
mortified and gasping.
She knew, by a little flash of her aunt's eyes, that she was ashamed of
her, and much displeased. She locked herself into her own room, feeling
very miserable, and would not have gone down stairs again if she had not
been sent for, after the company had returned to the parlors.
She did not dare to disobey, so she went, and sat down in a corner by the
piano, where she hoped she should be out of sight.
A pleasant-faced lady, sitting near, turned, and said,--
"Don't you play, my dear?"
"A little," said Gypsy, wishing she could have truthfully said no.
"I wish you would play for me," said the lady.
"Oh, I shouldn't like to," said Gypsy, shrinking; "I don't know anything
but Scotch airs."
"That is just what I like," said the lady. "Mrs. Breynton, can't you
persuade your niece to play a little for me?"
"Certainly, Gypsy," said her aunt, with a look which plainly said, "Don't
think of it."
Gypsy's mother had taught her that it was both disobliging and affected to
refuse to play when she was asked, no matter how simple her music might
be. So, not knowing how to refuse, and wishing the floor would open and
swallow her up, she went to the piano, and played two sweet Scotch airs.
She played them well for a girl of her age, and the lady thanked her, and
seemed to enjoy them. But that night, just as she was going to bed, she
accidentally overheard her aunt saying to Joy,--
"It was very stupid and forward in her. I tried to make her understand,
but I couldn't--those little songs, too! Why, with all your practice, and
such teachers as you have had, I wouldn't think of letting you play before
anybody at your age."
Gypsy cried herself to sleep that night.
Just a week from the day that she came to Boston, Gypsy and Joy were out
shopping in Summer Street. They had just come out of Hovey's, when they
met a ragged child, not more than three years old, crying as if its heart
were broken.
"Oh, dear!" cried Gypsy; "see that poor little girl! I'm going to see
what's the matter."
"Don't!" said Joy, horrified; "come along! Nobody stops to speak to
beggars in Boston; what _are_ you doing?"
For Gypsy had stopped and taken the child's two dirty little fists down
from her eyes, and looked down into the tear-stained and mud-stained face
to see what was the matter.
"I--I don't know where nobody is," sobbed the child.
"Have you lost your way? Where do you live?" asked Gypsy, with great,
pitying eyes. Gypsy could never bear to see anybody cry; and then the
little creature was so ragged and thin.
"I live there," said the child, pointing vaguely down the street.
"Mother's to home there somewhars."
"I'll go with you and find your mother," said Gypsy; and taking the
child's hand, she started off in her usual impulsive fashion, without a
thought beyond her pity.
"Gypsy! Gypsy Breynton!" called Joy. "The police will take her home--you
mustn't!"
But Gypsy did not hear, and Joy, shocked and indignant, went home and left
her.
In about an hour Gypsy came back, flushed and panting with her haste. Joy,
in speechless amazement, had looked from the window and seen her _running_
across the Common.
Her aunt met her on the stairs with a face like a thunder-cloud.
"Why, Gypsy Breynton, I am ashamed of you! How _could_ you do such a thing
as to go off with a beggar, and _take hold of her hand_ right there in
Summer Street, and go nobody knows where, alone, into those terrible Irish
streets! It was a _dreadful_ thing to do, and I should think you would
have known better, and I really think I must write to your mother about it
immediately!"
Gypsy stood for a moment, motionless with astonishment. Then, without
saying a word, she passed her aunt quickly on the stairs, and ran up to
her room. Her face was very white. If she had been at home she would have
broken forth in a torrent of angry words.
Kate, the house-maid, was sweeping the entry.
"Did you know there was going to be another great dinner to-day, miss?"
she said, as Gypsy passed her.
Gypsy went into her room, and locked her door. Another of those terrible
dinner-companies, and her aunt so angry at her! It was too much--she could
not bear it! She looked about the room twice, passed her hand over her
forehead, and her face flushed quickly.
One of Gypsy's sudden and often perilous resolutions was made.