Chapter 12

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.