Gypsy Breynton Part 10

To Mr. Simms, who had no children of his own, and only a deaf wife and a lame dog at home for company, Gypsy was always pretty, always "such a wonderful development for a young person," and always just about right in whatever she did.

"Why, good afternoon, Miss Gypsy," said Mr. Simms; "I'm surprised to see you such a warm day--very much surprised. But you always were a remarkable young lady."

"Yes," panted Gypsy; "where's father, Mr. Simms?"

"He's up in the printing-room just now, talking with the foreman. Can I carry any message for you, Miss Gypsy?"

"Oh, Mr. Simms," said Gypsy, confidentially, "I've done the most dreadful thing!"

"Dear me! I don't see how that is possible," said Mr. Simms, taking his spectacles off nervously, and putting them on again.

"I have," said Gypsy; "I've broken the water-nymph!"

"Is that all?" asked Mr. Simms, looking relieved; "why, how did it happen?"

"I jumped on it."

_"Jumped on it!"_

"Yes; I'm sure I don't know what father'll say."

"Well, I _must_ say you are a wonderful young person," said Mr. Simms, proudly. "I'm sure I'm glad that's all. Don't you fret, my dear. Your father won't care much about water-nymphs, when he has such a daughter."

"But he will," said Gypsy, who regarded Mr. Simm's compliments only as a tiresome interruption to conversation, and by no means as ent.i.tled to any attention; "he will be very sorry, and I am going to tell him right off.

Please, Mr. Simms, will you speak to him?"

"Remarkable development of veracity!" said Mr. Simms, as he bowed himself away in his polite, old-fas.h.i.+oned way, and disappeared up the stairway that led to the printing-rooms. It seemed to Gypsy, waiting there so impatiently, as if her father would never come down. But come he did at last, looking very much surprised to see her, and anxious to know if the house were on fire, or if Winnie were drowned.

"No," said Gypsy, "nothing has happened,--I mean nothing of that sort.

It's only about me. I have something to tell you."

"I think I will walk home with you," said her father. "There isn't much going on Sat.u.r.day afternoons. Simms, you can lock up when you go home to supper. I hope you haven't been giving your mother any trouble, or thrown your ball into Mrs. Surly's windows again," he added, nervously, as they pa.s.sed out of the door and up the street together.

"No, sir," said Gypsy, faintly; "it's worse than that."

Mr. Breynton heaved a sigh, but said nothing.

"I know you think I'm always up to mischief, and I don't suppose I'll ever learn to be a lady and know how not to break things, and I'm so sorry, but I didn't suppose there was any harm in jumping off an apple-tree, and the water-nymph went over and perhaps if you sent me to school or something I'd learn better where they tie you down to a great board," said Gypsy, talking very fast, and quite forgetting her punctuation.

"The water-nymph!" echoed Mr. Breynton.

"Yes," said Gypsy, dolefully; "right over, head-first--into the pond--broken to smas.h.!.+"

"Oh, Gypsy! that is too bad."

"I know it," interrupted Gypsy; "I know it was terribly careless--terribly. Did you ever know anything so exactly like me? The worst of it is, being sorry doesn't help the matter. I wish I could buy you another. Won't you please to take my five dollars, and I'll earn some more picking berries."

"I don't want your money, my child," said Mr. Breynton, looking troubled and puzzled. "I'm sorry the nymph is gone; but somehow you do seem to be different from other girls. I didn't know young ladies ever jumped."

Gypsy was silent. Her father and mother seemed to think differently about these things. To her view, and she felt sure, to her mother's, the fault lay in the carelessness of not finding out whether the image was in her way. She could not see that she was doing anything wrong in going out alone into an apple-tree, and springing from a low bough, upon the soft gra.s.s. Very likely, when she was a grown-up young lady, with long dresses and hair done up behind, she shouldn't care anything about climbing trees.

But that was another question. However, she had too much respect for her father to say this. So she hung her head, feeling very humble and sorry, and wondering if Mr. Simms couldn't plaster the nymph together somehow, he was always so ready to do things for her.

"Well," said her father, after a moment's thought, in which he had been struggling with a sense of disappointment at the destruction of his statue, that would have made a less kind-hearted man scold.

"Well, it can't be helped; and as to the climbing trees, I suppose your mother knows best. I am glad you came and told me, anyway--very glad. You are a truthful child, Gypsy, in spite of your faults."

"I couldn't bear to tell lies," said Gypsy, brightening a little.

It is possible this was another one of the reasons why people had such a habit of loving Gypsy. What do you think?

CHAPTER VII

JUST LIKE GYPSY

One afternoon Gypsy was coming home from the post-office. It was a rare June day. The great soft shadows fell and faded on the mountains, and the air was sweet with the breath of a hundred fields where crimson clovers nodded in the sleepy wind. It seemed to Gypsy that she had never seen such mellow sunlight, or skies so pure and blue; that no birds ever sung such songs in the elm-trees, and never were b.u.t.terflies so golden and brown and beautiful as those which fluttered drowsily over the tiny roadside clovers. The thought came to her like a little sudden heart-throb, that thrilled her through and through, that this world was a very great world, and very beautiful,--it seemed so alive and happy, from the arch of the blazing sky down to the blossoms of the purple weeds that hid in the gra.s.s. She wondered that she had never thought of it before. How many millions of people were enjoying this wonderful day! What a great thing it was to live in such a world, where everything was so beautiful and useful and happy! The very fact that she was alive in it made her so glad. She felt as if she would like to go off on the rocks somewhere, and shout and jump and sing.

As she walked slowly along past the stores and the crowded tenement-houses, swinging her little letter-basket on her arm, and dreaming away with her great brown eyes, as such young eyes will always dream upon a summer's day, there suddenly struck upon that happy thought of hers a mournful sound.

It was a human groan.

It grated on Gypsy's musing, as a file grates upon smooth marble; she started, and looked up. The sound came from an open window directly over her head. What could anybody be groaning about such a day as this? Gypsy felt a momentary impatience with the mournful sound; then a sudden curiosity to know what it meant. A door happened to be open near her, and she walked right in, without a second thought, as was the fas.h.i.+on in which Gypsy usually did things. A pair of steep stairs led up from the bit of an entry, and a quant.i.ty of children, whose faces and hands were decidedly the worse for wear, were playing on them.

"How do you do?" said Gypsy. The children stared.

"Who lives here?" asked Gypsy, again. The children put their fingers in their mouths.

"Who is that groaning so?" persisted Gypsy, repressing a strong desire to box their ears. The children crawled a little further up-stairs, and peered at her from between their locks of s.h.a.ggy hair, as if they considered her a species of burglar. At this moment a side door opened, and a red-faced woman, who was wiping her hands on her ap.r.o.n, put her head out into the entry, and asked, in rather a surly tone, what was wanted.

"Who is that groaning?" repeated Gypsy.

"Oh, that's n.o.body but Grandmother Littlejohn," said the woman, with a laugh, "she's always groanin'clock."

"But what does she groan for?" insisted Gypsy, her curiosity nowise diminished to see a person who could be "always groanin'clock," through not only one, but many, of such golden summer days.

"Oh, I s'pose she's got reason enough, for the matter of that," said the woman, carelessly; "she's broke a bone,--though she do make a terrible fuss over it, and very on.o.bligin'clock it is to the neighbors as has the lookin'clock after of her."

"Broken a bone! Poor thing, I'm going right up to see her!" said Gypsy, whose compa.s.sion was rising fast.

"Good luck to you!" said the woman, with a laugh Gypsy did not like very much. It only strengthened her resolution, however, and she ran up the narrow stairs scattering the children right and left.

Several other untidy-looking women opened doors and peered out at her as she went by; but no one else spoke to her. Guided by the sound of the groans, which came at regular intervals like long breaths, she went up a second flight of stairs, more narrow and more dark than the first, and turned into a little low room, the door of which stood open.

"Who's there!" called a fretful voice from inside.

"I," said Gypsy; "may I come in?"