NO PLACE LIKE HOME
No one came to the room. After a while the front door opened and shut, and
she saw, from the window, that her aunt and Joy were going out. She then
remembered that she had heard them say they had some calls to make at that
hour. Her uncle was at the store, and no one was now in the house besides
herself, but the servants.
"All right," she said, half aloud; "I couldn't have fixed it better."
For half an hour she stayed in her room with the door locked, and any one
listening outside could have heard her moving briskly about, opening
drawers and shutting closet doors. Then she came down stairs and went out.
She was gone just about long enough to have been to the nearest hack-stand
and back again. A few minutes after she returned, the door-bell rang.
"I'll go," she called to Kate; "it's a man I sent here on an errand, and I
shall have to see him."
"Very well, miss," said Kate, and went singing down the back-stairs with
her broom.
"This way," said Gypsy, opening the door. She led the way to her room, and
the man who followed her shouldered her trunk with one hand, and carried
it out to a carriage which stood at the door. Gypsy went into her aunt's
room and left a little note on the table where it would be easily seen,
threw her veil over her face, felt of her purse to be sure it was safe in
her pocket, and ran hastily down stairs after him, and into the carriage.
The man strapped on her trunk, slammed the door upon her, and, mounting
his box, drove rapidly away. Kate, who happened to be looking out of one
of the basement windows, saw the carriage, but did not notice the trunk.
She supposed Gypsy was riding somewhere to meet her aunt or uncle, and
went on with her dusting.
The carriage stopped at the Fitchburg depot, and Gypsy paid her fare and
went into the ladies' room. The coachman, who seemed to be an
accommodating man, though a little curious, brought her a check, and hoped
she'd get along comfortable; it was a pretty long journey for such a young
creetur to take alone.
Gypsy thanked him, and going up to the ticket-master, asked him something
in a low tone.
"In just an hour!" said the ticket-master, in a loud, business-like voice.
"_An hour!_ So long as that?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Gypsy drew her veil very closely about her face, and sat down in the
darkest corner she could find. She seemed to be very much afraid of being
recognized; for she shrank from every new-comer, and started every time
the door opened.
"Train for Fitchburg, Rutland, Burlington!" shouted a voice, at last, and
the words were drowned in the noise of hurrying feet.
Gypsy took a seat in the rear car, by the door, which was open, so that
she was partially concealed from the view of the passengers. Just before
the train started, a tall, whiskered gentleman walked slowly through the
car, scanning the faces on each side of him.
"You haven't seen a little girl here, dressed in drab, with black eyes and
red cheeks, have you?" he asked, stopping just in front of Gypsy.
Several of the passengers shook their heads, and one old lady piped out on
a very high key,--
"No, sir, I hain't!"
The gentleman passed out, and shut the door. Gypsy held her breath. It was
her uncle.
He looked troubled and anxious. Gypsy's cheeks flushed,--a sudden impulse
came over her to call him back,--she started and threw open the window,
but the engine-bell rang, the train puffed slowly off, and her uncle
disappeared in the crowd.
As she was whirled rapidly along through wharves and shipping and lumber,
away from the roar of the city, and out where woods and green fields lined
the way, she began, for the first time, to think what she was doing, and
to wonder if she were doing right. Her anger at her aunt, and the utter
disappointment and homesickness of her Boston visit, had swept away, for a
few moments, all her power of reasoning. To get home, to see her
mother,--to hide her head on her shoulder and cry,--this was the one
thought that had turned itself over and over in her mind, on that quick
ride from Beacon Street, and in that hour spent in the dark corner of the
depot. Here she was, running like a thief from her uncle's house, without
a word of good-by or thanks for his hospitality, with no message to tell
him where she had gone but that note, hastily written in the first flush
of her hurt and angry feelings. And the hurrying train was whirling her
over hill and valley faster and farther. To go back was impossible, go on
she must. What had she done?
She began now, too, to wonder where she should spend the night. The train
went only as far as Rutland, and it would be late and dark when she
reached the town--far too late for a little girl to be travelling alone,
and to spend a night in a strange hotel, in a strange place. What should
she do?
As the afternoon passed, and the twilight fell, and the lamps were
lighted, and people hurried out at way-stations to safe and waiting homes,
her loneliness and anxiety increased. Just before entering Rutland, a
young man, dressed in a dandyish manner, and partially intoxicated,
entered the car, and took the empty seat by Gypsy. She did not like his
looks, and moved away slightly, turning to look out of the window.
"No offense, I hope?" said the man, with a foolish smile; "the car was
full."
Gypsy made no reply.
"Travelling far?" he said, a moment after.
"To Rutland, sir," said Gypsy, feeling very uneasy, as she perceived the
odor of rum, and wishing he would not talk to her.
"Friends there?" said the man again.
"N--no, sir," said Gypsy, reluctantly. "I am going to the hotel."
"Stranger in town? What hotel do you go to?"
"I don't know," said Gypsy, hurriedly. The car was just stopping, and she
rose and tried to pass him.
"I will show you the way," he said, standing up, and reeling slightly as
he tried to walk. Gypsy, in despair, looked for the conductor. He was
nowhere to be seen. The crowd passed out, quite careless of the frightened
child, or regarding her only with a curious stare.
"It's only a little way," said the man, with an oath.
"Why, sakes a massy, if this ain't Gypsy Breynton!"
Gypsy turned, with a cry of joy, at hearing her name, and fairly sprang
into Mrs. Surly's arms.
"Why, where on airth did you come from, Gypsy Breynton?"
"I came from Boston, and that man is drunk, and,--oh, dear! I'm so glad to
see you, and I've got to go to a hotel, and I didn't know what mother
would say, and where did you come from?" said Gypsy, talking very fast.
"I come from my sister Lucindy's, down to Bellows Falls, and I'm going to
Cousin Mary Ann Jacobs to spend the night."
"Oh!" said Gypsy, wistfully.
"I don't see how a little gal like you ever come to be on a night train
alone," said Mrs. Surly, with a keen, curious look at Gypsy's face; "but I
know your ma'd never let you go to a hotel this time o' night, and Mary
Ann she'd be delighted to see you; so you'd better come along."
Gypsy was so happy and so thankful, she could fairly have kissed
her,--even her, Mrs. Surly. Cousin Mary Ann received her hospitably, and
the evening and the night passed quickly away. Mrs. Surly was very
curious, and somewhat suspicious on the subject of Gypsy's return to
Yorkbury, under such peculiar circumstances. Gypsy said that she left
Boston quite suddenly, that they were not expecting her at home, and that
she took so late a train for several reasons, but had not thought that it
went no further than Rutland, till she was fairly started; which was true.
More than this, Mrs. Surly could not cross-question out of her, and she
soon gave up trying.
Cousin Mary Ann wanted Mrs. Surly's company another day; so Gypsy took an
early train for Yorkbury alone.
Gypsy never took any trouble very deeply to heart, and the morning
sunlight, and the sight of the dear, familiar mountains, drove away, to a
great extent, the repentant and anxious thoughts of the night.
As the train shrieked into Yorkbury, she forgot everything but that she
was at home,--miles away from Boston, her mother near, and Tom, and the
dear old days of paddling about on rafts, and having no dinner-parties to
disgrace herself at, and no aunt to be afraid of.
It seemed as if every one she knew were at the station. Mr. Surly was
there, under strict orders from his wife, to watch for her every train
till she came; and Mr. Fisher was there, just down on an errand from the
mountains; and Mrs. Rowe and Sarah were walking up the street; and Agnes
Gaylord was over at the grocer's, nodding and smiling as Gypsy stepped
upon the platform; and there, too, was Mr. Simms, who had been somewhere
in the cars, and who stepped into the coach just after she did.
"Why, Miss Gypsy!--why, really! You home again, my dear? Why, your father
didn't expect you!"
"I know it," said Gypsy. "Are they all well?"
"Oh, yes, yes, all well,--but to give them such a surprise! It is so
exactly like you, my dear."
"I don't like Boston," said Gypsy, coloring. "I had a horrid time, and I
came home very suddenly."
"Don't like Boston? Well, you _are_ a remarkable young lady!" exclaimed
Mr. Simms, and relapsed into silence, watching Gypsy's flushed and eager
face, as people watch a light coming back into a dark room.
"We have missed you up at the store, my dear," he said, after a while.
"Have you? I'm glad. Oh! who's that with Miss Melville out walking under
the elm-trees?"
"I guess it's Mr. Hallam."
"Oh, to be sure," interrupted Gypsy, looking very bright. "I see,--Mr. Guy
Hallam. Now I guess I know why she wouldn't teach school!"
"They are to be married in the spring," said Mr. Simms.
"Just think!" said Gypsy. "How funny! Now she'll have to stay at home and
keep house all day,--I think she's real silly, don't you?"
Of all the many remarkable things that Miss Gypsy had ever said, Mr. Simms
thought this capped the climax.
Now the coach had rattled up the hill, and lumbered round the corner, and
there was the old house, looking quiet and pleasant and dear, in the
morning sunlight. Gypsy was so excited that she could not sit still, and
kept Mr. Simms in a fever of anxiety, for fear she would tumble out of the
coach windows. It seemed to her as if she had been gone a year, instead of
just one week.
She sprang down the carriage-steps at a bound, and ran into the house. Her
mother was out in the kitchen helping Patty about the dinner. She heard
such a singing and shouting as no one had made in the house since Gypsy
went away, and hurried out into the front entry to see what had happened.
Tom ran in from the garden, and Winnie slid down on the banisters, and Mr.
Breynton was just coming up the yard, and Patty put her head in at the
entry door, wiping her hands on her apron, and everybody must be kissed
all round, and for a few minutes there was such a bustle, that Gypsy could
hardly hear herself speak.
"What has brought you home so soon?" asked her mother, then. "We didn't
look for you for a week yet."
"Oh, I hate Boston!" cried Gypsy, pulling off her things. "I didn't like
anything but the Museum and Bunker Hill; and Joy wore silk dresses, and
wouldn't let me look in the shop-windows, 'n I took a poor, little
beggar-girl home, and you can't run round any, and Aunt Miranda told me
she'd tell you, and I hate it, and she's just as cross as a bear!"
"Your aunt cross!" said her mother, who could make neither beginning nor
end of Gypsy's excited story.
"I guess she is," said Gypsy, with an emphasis. "Oh, I _am_ so glad to get
home. Where's the kitty, and how's Peace Maythorne and everybody, and
Winnie has a new jacket, hasn't he?"
Mr. and Mrs. Breynton exchanged glances. They saw that something was
wrong; but wisely considered that that time was not the one for making any
inquiries into the matter. Mrs. Breynton thought, also, that if Gypsy had
been guilty of ill-temper or rudeness, she would confess it herself. She
was right; for as soon as dinner was over, Gypsy called her away alone,
and told her all the story. They were shut up together a long time, and
when Gypsy came out her eyes were red with crying.
All that Mrs. Breynton said does not matter here; but Gypsy is not likely
soon to forget it. A few words spoken, just as the conversation ended,
became golden mottoes that helped her over many rough places in her life.
"It is all the old trouble, Gypsy,--you 'didn't think.' A little
self-control, a moment's quiet thought, would have saved all this."
"Oh, I know it!" sobbed Gypsy. "That's what always ails me. I'm always
doing things, and always sorry for them. I mean to do right, and I cannot
remember. What shall I do with myself, mother?"
"Gypsy," said her mother, very soberly, "this will never do. You _can_
think. And Gypsy, my child, in every one of these little thoughtless words
and acts God sees a _sin_."
"A sin when you didn't think?" exclaimed Gypsy.
"You must learn to think, Gypsy; and He will teach you."
Her mother kissed her many times, and Gypsy clung to her neck, and was
very still. Whatever thoughts she had just then, she never told them to
any one.
The afternoon passed away like a merry dream. Gypsy was so happy that she
had had the talk with her mother; so glad to be kissed and forgiven and
loved and helped; to find every one so pleased to see her back, and home
so dear, and the mountains so blue and beautiful, and the sunlight so
bright, that she scarcely knew whether she were asleep or awake. She must
hunt up the kitten, and feed the chickens, and take a peep at the cow, and
stroke old Billy in his stall; she must see how many sweet peas were left
on the vines, and climb out on the shed-roof that had been freshly
shingled since she was gone, and run down to the Kleiner Berg, and over to
see Sarah Rowe. She must know just what Tom had been doing this
interminable week, just how many buttons Winnie had lost off from his
jacket, and what kind of pies Patty had baked for dinner. She must kiss
her mother twenty times an hour, and pull her father's whiskers, and ride
Winnie on her shoulder. Best of all, perhaps, it was to run down to Peace
Maythorne's, and find the sunlight golden in the quiet room, and the pale
face smiling on the pillow; to hear the gentle voice, when the door
opened, say, "Oh, Gypsy!" in such a way,--as no other voice ever said it;
and then to sit down and lay her head upon the pillow by Peace, and tell
her all that had happened.
"Well," said Peace, smiling, "I think you have learned a good deal for one
week, and I guess you will never _un_learn it."
"I guess you'll be very sorry you went to Bosting," remarked Winnie, in an
oracular manner, that night, when they were all together in their old
places in the sitting-room. "The Meddlesome Quinine Club had a concert
here last Wednesday, and we had preserved seats. What do you think of
that?"
This is a copy of the letter that found its way to Beacon Street a few
days after:--
"My dear Uncle and Aunt Miranda:
"I am so sorry I don't know what to do. I was so tired sitting still, and
going to dinner-parties, and then auntie was displeased about the
beggar-girl (I took her home, and her mother was just as glad as she could
be, and so poor!) and so I felt angry and homesick, and I know I oughtn't
to have gone to such a place without asking; but I didn't think; and then
I came home in the afternoon train, but I didn't think when I did that
either. Mother says that was no excuse, and I know it was very wicked in
me to do such a thing. Mrs. Surly met me in the cars at Rutland, and took
me to spend the night with her cousin, Mrs. Mary Ann Jacobs; so I got
along safely, and nothing happened to me, but one drunken man that kept
talking.
"Mother says I have done a _very_ rude and unkind thing, to leave you all
so, when you had invited me there, and been so good to me. I know it. I
had a real nice time when I went to see Bunker Hill and the Museum with
uncle; and, of course, it was my own fault that I didn't like to wear
gloves, and choked so at dinner.
"Mother says you will never want to see me there again; and I shouldn't
think you would. Seems to me I never did such a thing in all my life, and
you haven't any idea how badly I feel about it. But I know that doesn't
help it any.
"I've made up my mind never to do anything again till I've thought it all
over as many as twelve times. Mother says two or three would do, but I
think twelve would be safer.
"I wish you'd let Joy come up here. I'd take her boating and riding, and
up to Ripton, and down to the swamp, and everything, and try to make up.
"I don't suppose you will ever care anything more about me; but I wish
you'd please to excuse me and forgive me.
"Your affectionate niece,
"Gypsy.
"P. S.--Winnie's cat has the _cun_ningest little set of kittens you ever
saw. They're all blind, and they have such funny paws."
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
1. Punctuation has been normalized to contemporary standards.
2. Frontispiece relocated to after title page.
3. Typographic errors corrected in original:
p. 48 an to on ("Winnie jumped on board")
p. 58 mits to mitts ("pair of black mitts")
p. 119 friend' to friend's ("in her friend's eyes")
End of Project Gutenberg's Gypsy Breynton, by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps