LITTLE URANIA
The soft moonlight was now peeping through the screen of maple leaves
that arched the old stone bridge, as the shifting shadows of early
evening settled down to quiet nightfall. Dorothy and her cousin did not
at once turn their steps toward the Cedars; instead they sat there on the
bridge, enjoying the tranquil summer eve, and talking of what might
happen when all their schooldays would be over and the long “vacation” of
the grown-up world would be theirs to plan for, and theirs to shape into
the rolling ball of destiny.
Nat declared he would be a physician, as that particular profession had
ever been to him the greatest and noblest—to relieve human suffering.
Dorothy talked of staying home with her brothers and father. They would
need her, she said, and it would not be fair to let Aunt Winnie do so
much for them.
“But I say, Dorothy,” broke in Nat. “This moonlight is all right, isn’t
it?”
Dorothy laughed at his attempt at sentimentality. “It is delightful,” she
replied, “if that is what you mean.”
“Yes, that’s it—delightful. For real, home-made sentiment apply to Nat
White. By the pound or barrel. Accept no substitute. Good thing I did not
decide to be a writer, eh? The elements represent to me so many kinds of
chemical bodies, put where they belong and each one expected to do its
little part in keeping things going. Now, I know fellows who write about
the moon’s face and the sun’s effulgence, just as if the poor old sun or
moon had anything to do with the lighting-up process. I never speculate
on things beyond my reach. That sort of thing is too hazy for mine.”
“Now, Nat, you know very well you are just as sentimental as any one
else. Didn’t you write some verses—once?”
“Verses? Oh, yes. But I didn’t get mixed with the stars. You will
remember it was Ned who said:
“‘The stars were shining clear and bright
When it rained like time, that fearful night!’
“I was the only one who stood by Ned when he penned that stanza. It could
rain like time and be a fearful night while the stars were shining—in
China. Oh, yes, that was a great composition, but I didn’t happen to win
out.”
The school test of versification, to which both had reference, brought
back pleasant memories, and Dorothy and Nat enjoyed the retrospection.
“What is that?” asked Dorothy suddenly, as something stirred at the side
of the bridge on the slope that led to the water.
“Muskrat or a snake,” suggested Nat indifferently.
“No, listen! That sounded like someone falling down the path.”
“A nice soft fall to them then,” remarked Nat, without showing signs of
intending to make an investigation.
“Ask if anyone is there,” timidly suggested Dorothy.
At this Nat jumped up and looked over the culvert.
“There sure is some one sliding down,” he said. “Hi there! Want any
help?”
“A stone slipped under my foot,” came back the answer, and the voice was
unmistakably that of a young girl or a child.
“Wait a minute,” called Nat. “I’ll get down there and give you a hand.”
The path to the brook led directly around the bridge, and it took but a
moment for the boy to make his way to the spot whence the voice came.
Dorothy could scarcely distinguish the two figures that kept so close to
the bridge as to be in danger of sliding under the stone arch.
“There,” called Nat. “Get hold of my hand. I have a good grip on a strong
limb, and can pull you up.”
But it required a sturdy arm to hold on to the tree branch and pull the
girl up. Several times Nat lost his footing and slid some distance, but
the street level was finally gained, and the strange girl brought to the
road in safety.
The moonlight fell across her slim figure, and revealed the outlines of a
very queer little creature indeed. She was dark, with all the
characteristics of the Gypsy marked in her face.
Dorothy and Nat surveyed her critically. Whatever could a child of her
age be doing all alone there, in that deserted place after nightfall?
“Thanks,” said the girl to Nat, as she rubbed her bare feet on the damp
grass. “I almost fell.”
“Almost?” repeated Nat, “I thought you did fall—you must have hit that
big rock there. I know it for I used to fish from the same place, and
it’s not exactly a divan covered with sofa cushions.”
“Yes, I did hit my side on it,” admitted the girl, “but it doesn’t hurt
much.”
“What is your name?” asked Dorothy, stepping closer to the stranger.
“Urania. But I’m going to change it. I don’t believe in Urania any more.”
“Then you are a Gypsy girl,” spoke Nat. “I thought I’d seen you before.”
“Yes, they say I’m a Gypsy girl, but I’m tired of the business and I’m
going away.”
“Where?” asked Dorothy.
“Any place as long as it’s not back to camp. I left it to-night and I’m
never going back to it again—never! never!” and the girl shook her
disheveled head in very positive emphasis.
“Why?” asked Dorothy. “You’re too young to be out alone and at night. You
must be frightened; aren’t you?”
“Frightened?” and the girl laughed derisively. “What is there to be
afraid of? I know all the snakes and toads, besides the birds.”
“Aren’t there tramps?” inquired Nat.
“Perhaps. But it would take a slick tramp to catch me. Gypsy girls know
how to run, if they can’t read and write.”
It seemed to Dorothy that this remark was tinged with bitterness; as if
the girl evidently felt the loss of education.
“But you had better run back to the camp like a good girl,” pleaded Nat.
“Come, we’ll walk part of the way with you.”
“Back to the camp! You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve started
out in the world for myself, and could not go back now if I wanted to.
That woman would beat me.”
“What woman?” Nat asked.
“The one my father married. They call her Melea. She has her own little
girl and doesn’t care for Urania.”
“But where will you stay to-night?” inquired Dorothy, now anxious that
the little Gypsy would change her mind, and run back to the camp at the
foot of the hill before it would be too late—before she might be missed
from her usual place.
“I was going to sleep under the bridge,” replied Urania calmly, “but when
I heard you talking I came out. I love to hear pretty words.”
“Poor child,” thought Dorothy, “like a little human fawn. And she wants
to start out in the world for herself!”
“I heard what you said about going to Dalton,” Urania said to Nat, as she
tried to hide her embarrassment by fingering her tattered dress, “and I
was wondering if you could let me ride in the back of your automobile. I
want to go to the big city and it’s—it’s a far walk—isn’t it?”
“It would be a long walk to Dalton,” replied Nat in surprise, “but Dalton
isn’t a big city. Besides, I could never help you to run away,” he
finished.
“Some boys do,” Urania remarked with a pout. “I know people who run away.
They come to Melea to have their fortunes told.”
Nat and Dorothy laughed at this. It seemed queer that persons who would
run away would stop long enough to have their fortunes told by a Gypsy.
“And couldn’t I ride in the back of your automobile?” persisted the girl,
not willing to let so good a chance slip past her too easily.
“I’m afraid not,” declared Nat. “I wouldn’t help you to run away in the
first place, and, in the second, I never take any girls out riding,
except my cousin and her friend.”
“Oh, you don’t eh?” sneered Urania. “What about the one with the red
hair? Didn’t I see you out with her one day when we were camping in the
mountains—near that high-toned school, Glendale or Glenwood or something
like that. And didn’t she come to our camp next day to have her fortune
told? Oh, she wanted to start out in the world for herself. You would
help her, of course, but poor Urania—she must die,” and the girl threw
herself down upon the grass and buried her head in the long wet spears.
Dorothy and Nat were too surprised to answer. Surely the girl must refer
to Tavia, but Tavia had never ridden out alone with Nat, not even while
he was at the automobile assembly near Glenwood. And Tavia could scarcely
have gone to the fortune teller’s camp.
“I say I have never taken out any girl without my mother or my cousin
being along,” Nat said, sharply, recovering himself.
“Then it was your girl with another fellow,” declared the wily Gypsy, not
willing to be caught in an untruth. She arose from the grass and, seeing
the telling expression on the faces of her listeners, like all of her
cult, she knew she had hit upon a fact of some kind.
“My girl?” repeated Nat laughingly.
“Yes,” was the quick answer. “She had bright, pretty colored hair, brown
eyes and her initials are O. T. I heard her tell Melea so.”
The initials, O. T., must surely be those of Octavia Travers thought
Dorothy and Nat. But Nat knew better than to press the subject further.
This cunning girl, in spite of her youth, he was sure, would make answers
to suit the questions, and such freedom on the subject of Tavia
(especially, now, when there were enough rumors to investigate), would
simply be inviting trouble.
But Dorothy was not so wise in her eagerness to hear more. She wanted to
know if her chum had really gone to the Gypsy camp from Glenwood, but she
would not deign to ask if Tavia really went auto riding with some boys
who attended the meet. That would be too mean even to think about! And
besides, thought Dorothy suddenly, Tavia was sick during all the time of
the automobile assembly.
“I can tell you more if you’ll give me money,” boldly spoke Urania. “I
know all her fortune. I heard Melea tell her. I was outside the tent and
I heard every word.”
“I thought that was against the practice of the Gypsies,” said Nat
severely.
“Practice!” sneered the girl. “When a pretty girl comes to our camp I
always listen. I like to find out what that kind think about! To see if
they are different from Urania!”
“Come,” said Dorothy to Nat. “We must go. It is getting late.”
“And you don’t want to hear about the girl that is going to run away to a
circus?” called the Gypsy as Dorothy and Nat turned away.
“No, thank you, not to-night,” replied Nat. “You’d better run home before
the constable comes along. They put girls in jail for running away from
home.”
“Oh, do they? Then your red-headed friend must be there now,” called back
the Gypsy with unconcealed malice.
“What can she mean?” asked Dorothy, clinging to her cousin’s arm as they
hurried along.
“Oh, don’t mind that imp. She is just like all her kind, trying to play
on your sympathies first and then using threats. She was listening to us
talking and picked up all she told us. She got the initials at
Glenwood—likely followed Tavia and asked some other girl what her name
was. I remember now, there was a Gypsy settlement there. That part’s true
enough.”
“Perhaps,” admitted Dorothy with a sigh. “I know Mrs. Pangborn positively
forbade all the girls to go near the Gypsy camps, but some of the pupils
might have met Urania on the road.”
“That’s about it,” decided Nat. “But she ought to stick to the game.
She’d make a good player. The idea of waylaying us and pretending to have
fallen down.”
“It’s hard to understand that class,” admitted Dorothy. “But I hope
she’ll not stay out all night. I should be worried if I awoke, and heard
her walking about under the trees near my window.”
“No danger,” declared Nat. “I must go and see that the garage is locked.
She might take a notion to turn the Fire Bird into a Pullman sleeper.”
Then, leaving Dorothy on the veranda with his mother, Nat went around to
the little auto shed, fastened the door securely and put the key into his
pocket.