Gypsy Breynton Part 21

"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 gra.s.s, 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 n.o.body 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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed, 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, wis.h.i.+ng 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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! n.o.body 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.