Nan of the Gypsies

CHAPTER XVIII.

A GYPSY CAMP

Several moments Nan Barrington waited crouching behind the hedge, but the caravan did not come, nor did she hear the rattle and rumble of approaching wagons. Perhaps after all they had passed while she was indoors. Disappointed, the girl arose, and was about to return to the school when she heard voices that seemed to come from a small grove beyond the seminary grounds. Hurrying along in the shelter of the hedge, Nan reached a small side gate, and, hidden, she looked up the highway.

She saw that the gypsies had drawn to one side of the road and were preparing to make camp for the night. They were so near that she could plainly hear what they were saying and see the faces that were strange to her.

Muriel Metcalf and Daisy Wells were more puzzled than before.

“What do you suppose it is that Nan sees?” Muriel whispered. “She surely is much excited about something. Come, let’s run to the tree that’s nearest the hedge and then we will know.”

This they did, watching Nan intently, to be sure that they were not observed, but the gypsy girl looked only at the camp wondering what she should do. At last, assured that she had nothing to fear, and longing, if possible, to hear some word of Manna Lou, who had mothered her through the first fourteen years of her life, she drew her cloak more closely about her, and, opening the gate, she went over to the camp fire.

How familiar it all seemed. There were the same little fox-like children scampering about gathering wood, and tears rushed to Nan’s eyes as she remembered, how in the long ago, those other children had always run to meet her with arms outstretched when she returned to camp on her Binnie, but these children paid her little heed, for often fine young ladies come to have their fortunes told.

A kindly-faced gypsy woman, who was bending over the fire, looked up as she said, “Ah, pretty leicheen, have you come to cross my palm with silver? A wonderful future awaits you, dearie. I can tell that from your eyes.”

Then to the amazement of all within hearing, Nan replied in the Romany language. The gypsy woman held out her arms with evident joy as she said in her own tongue, “So, pretty leicheen, you are one of us! Tell me, dearie, how did it happen? Was your mother a gypsy and your father, perhaps a gorigo?”

“My mother was a gypsy,” the girl replied, “but she has long been dead and I have been adopted by a kind gorigo lady, two of them, and I am attending this school.”

Other gypsy women gathered about and they urged Nan to remain with them for the evening meal, but she said that she would be missed from the school if she were not there for dinner.

“But there is much that I want to ask you,” the girl said, “and if I possibly can, I will return after dark.”

“Come, come, dearie leicheen,” the gypsy women urged, “We will be glad to have you.”

Then, as it was late, Nan hurried away. The twilight was deepening and though she passed close to their hiding place, she did not see the two girls who had been spying upon her.

When she was gone, Muriel exclaimed, “Daisy Wells, did you hear her? She spoke the gypsy language.”

“Yes,” her friend replied. “I have always thought that there was something strange about Nan Barrington and now I know what it is. She is a gypsy.”

“If that is true, one of us will leave this school,” Muriel said haughtily, “for my mother would not permit me to associate with a common gypsy.”

CHAPTER XIX.

AN ENEMY

During the dinner hour Phyllis glanced often at her dearest friend wondering, almost troubled, at the change that had so recently come over her. Across the wide refectory, two other pairs of eyes were also watching Nan and in the proud face of Muriel Metcalf there was a sneering expression.

“How guilty Nan Barrington acts,” she said softly to the girl at her side.

“She dreads having the truth found out, I suppose,” Daisy Wells replied, “but probably we are the only ones who know it and of course we would not tell.”

Muriel’s pale blue eyes turned toward her friend and her brows were lifted questioningly, as she inquired: – “Indeed? Who said that we would not tell?”

“I will not,” Daisy replied quietly. “My mother has told me to ask myself two questions before repeating something that might hurt another. First, is it kind; second, is it necessary? So, Muriel, why tell, since it is neither kind nor necessary?”

Daisy’s natural impulses were always good, but she often seemed to be easily led by her less conscientious friend, Muriel Metcalf.

“Oh well, you may side with her if you prefer,” the other said with a shrug of her shoulders, “but I shall watch her closely tonight and see what she does. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if she went back to the gypsy camp, and, as for telling, I shall do as I think best about that.”

To herself Muriel added, “If Nan Barrington wins the gold medal at the recital contest next Saturday, it shall be known all over the school before night that she is only a gypsy.” Wisely, she said nothing of this to Daisy Wells, whose sense of justice, she knew, would scorn such an act of jealousy.

Nan was planning, as soon as she left the dining hall, to go at once to the office of Mrs. Dorsey and ask permission to go out of grounds, and, since she was an honor student, she knew the request would be granted without question. As the girls were sauntering through the corridors after dinner in groups of two and three, Phyllis exclaimed: —

“Well, Nan dear, the wonderful night has arrived at last,” and then when her friend’s dark eyes were turned toward her questioningly, she added merrily, “Nan Barrington, do you mean to tell me that you have forgotten what we are to do tonight? Why only this morning you said how glad you were that the day had at last arrived.”

Then it was that Nan recalled the long-planned and much-anticipated theatre party. Madame Reznor was to chaperone her class in dramatics that they might see a noted actor in a Shakespearian play which they were studying.

Since the appearance of the gypsy caravan, she had forgotten all else.

What should she do? Nan, who had never told a lie, could not say that she was ill or that she did not want to go.

“Come, dear,” Phyllis was saying, “I will help you dress as we are to start in half an hour. The rest of us dressed before dinner, but though I hunted everywhere, I could not find you.”

Nan permitted herself to be led to their room and mechanically she let down her long dark hair. Suddenly the thought came to her that she would awaken at dawn and slip out to the camp and then she could ask her gypsy friends if they knew aught of her Manna Lou.

Half an hour later, trying to assume a spirit of merriment that she might not mar the joyousness of the others, Nan climbed into the waiting car that was to take them to the city. Muriel watched her go, then turning to Daisy Wells, she said, “Now, you and I are going down to the gypsy camp and find out what it was that Nan Barrington said when she was talking in that queer language.”

The other girl looked up from the problem that she was trying to solve, as she replied, “No Muriel, I am not going. I promised little Janet that I would help her with her sums tonight. She has been ill and is eager to catch up with her class, and, moreover, I have no desire to spy upon actions of a schoolmate.”

“Oh, indeed!” Muriel said with a toss of her head and then she added sarcastically, “Aren’t you afraid that you will soon be sprouting wings? It seems to me that you have become a saint very suddenly.”

Daisy had arisen and was gathering up her books and papers as she quietly replied, “No, Muriel, I am not pretending to be better than anyone else, but I like Nan Barrington, no one could help liking her, she is so kind and generous, and I do not in the least care what her ancestry may be. Yes, Janet dear, I’m coming right away,” she added to the frail little girl who had appeared in the doorway.

Muriel, left alone, put on a long cloak, and, winding a scarf about her head, she went out. Well she knew that it was against the rules to go beyond the seminary grounds at night, but she did not care. Something was all wrong in the heart of Muriel Metcalf, and that something was jealousy which was rapidly becoming hatred. She had so wanted to win the medal of gold, but she knew that Nan Barrington had practiced far more conscientiously. Vaguely Muriel thought that, perhaps, if she could find out something against Nan, she might have her barred from the coming contest.

Having reached the gate in the hedge, Muriel peered through, and saw, in the light of the camp fire, the gypsies sitting close about it, for the night was cold. When the girl approached, one of the gypsy women rose and called in greeting, “Ha, pretty leicheen, I feared you were not coming.” Then, as the firelight fell on the face of the girl, she added truly disappointed, “but you are not the same. Could she not come, the other little girl?”

“No,” Muriel replied. “She wished me to say that she had to go into the city.” Then eager to obtain the information for which she had come, she added hurriedly, “Nan Barrington tells me that she too, is a gypsy.”

“Yes, the pretty leicheen is one of us.” Then, in a wheedling voice, the gypsy woman said, “Let me tell your fortune, dearie. Cross my palm with silver. I see much happiness for you, but it is far off. First there is trouble. You are trying to harm someone who is your friend, someone who is to do much to help you. You should not do this.”

Muriel’s eyes flashed as she said haughtily. “I did not come here to have my fortune told. Thanks to you I have learned what I wished to know.” Then, without another word, she walked rapidly toward the side gate, but her heart was indeed troubled; she could not understand why, or would not, and it was late before she fell asleep. Too, it was late when Phyllis and Nan Barrington returned to their room and Nan’s last conscious thought was that she wanted to waken before daybreak that she might visit the gypsy camp.

CHAPTER XX.

NAN DISAPPOINTED

In spite of her resolve to waken before dawn, Nan did not open her eyes until the sunlight was flooding in at the wide bow window. Springing up, she began at once to dress quietly, and then, with a last glance at Phyllis who seemed to be sleeping she left the room, but her friend had opened her eyes in time to see Nan stealing out so silently.

However, this was not unusual, for the gypsy girl, who in her childhood had always been up to greet the dawn, often went to the top of Little Pine Hill to watch the sunrise and to remember many things, and so since it was still too early to dress, Phyllis nestled back for another few moments of slumber.

Meanwhile Nan, with the dark cloak wrapped snugly about her, for the morning air was tinglingly cold, hurried across the wide grounds and down to the hedge near the highway, but she paused at the gate and gazed, not at the caravan as she had hoped, but at the charred remains of the camp fire.

Her gypsy friends were gone! Truly disappointed, she was about to return when she saw something white pinned to a great pine tree, and wondering what it could be, she slipped through the gate and looked at it more closely. It was a piece of folded wrapping paper addressed to “The Pretty Leicheen.” She was sure that it was intended for her. The kind gypsy woman had left some message. Opening it, she read: “We could not wait, dearie. We must be in the next town by noon. A girl from the school came to us last night. She tries to harm you. If you are not happy, come to us. We will be there until tomorrow, Queen Luella.”

Nan folded the paper again and placed it in her pocket. Then she stood looking down the highway, shining in the sun, and there were many emotions in her heart, but she was most conscious of a loneliness, for once more she had lost a possible opportunity of hearing about her dear Manna Lou. If only she had Binnie, she could gallop after the caravan and soon overtake it, but the pony, that had been her comrade in those other days, was still at San Seritos. Then, with a sigh, she turned back and slowly crossed the school grounds.

Happening to slip her hand into the pocket of her coat, she touched the folded paper and then she remembered the message that it contained. What could Queen Luella have meant? She, Nan Barrington, had an enemy? Nan wished harm to no one and she always tried to be kind, then why should there be someone wishing to harm her?

“Well, early bird,” Phyllis sang out as Nan entered their room, “what did you capture this morning? Wet feet, for one thing.”

“Right you are,” the gypsy girl gaily replied as she threw off the long wrap and sat on a low stool to change her shoes. The cloak fell over a chair and from the pocket a paper fluttered to the floor near Phyllis.

Nan hurriedly reached for it and tearing it into small bits, she tossed the pieces into a waste basket. Her friend was indeed puzzled. It was so unlike her room-mate to have secrets. What could it all mean? She wondered as she gazed into the mirror and brushed her long, sunlit hair.

Phyllis felt a desire to go to her friend and put her arms about her and beg to be allowed to help if anything had gone wrong, but she did not for she well knew that Nan would tell her if it were something that she wished to share.

The gypsy girl said suddenly after several moments of deep thought, “do you think that I have an enemy in this school?”

“An enemy? You, Nan? No indeed! Everyone loves you! How could they help it? You are always doing nice things for the girls and I never heard you say an unkind word about anyone, so how could you have an enemy?” Phyllis was amazed at the suggestion.

Nan rose and laughingly embraced her friend. “Well,” she merrily declared, “it is quite evident that you, at least, are not that enemy. Don’t think anything more about it. I was sure that I did not have one. Good! There’s the breakfast bell.” But, try as she might to forget, she could not, and during the morning meal, Nan’s glance roamed from one face to another as she wondered who among the pupils of Pine Crest Seminary had, the night before, visited the gypsy camp.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE POWER OF LOVING-KINDNESS

The next afternoon at four, Nan went down to the music room as it was her hour to practice on the harp, Muriel Metcalf having been there the hour preceding. Before opening the door, Nan listened to be sure that the other young harpist had finished, and, as she heard no sound within, she decided that Muriel had gone, but, upon opening the door, she saw the other girl seated by a table, her head on her arms and her shoulders shaken with sobs.

Muriel sprang up when she heard the door close and in her pale blue eyes there was an expression of hatred when she saw who had entered the room.

“Dear, what has happened?” Nan Barrington exclaimed with her ever-ready sympathy. Then, putting a loving arm about the girl, she added: “Is there something that I can do to help?”

“No, there isn’t!” Muriel flung out. “You’ll probably be glad when you hear what has happened. That horrid old Professor Bentz told me that if I did not have this week’s lesson perfect, he would no longer teach me on the harp. I suppose I am stupid, but I just can’t, can’t get it, and tomorrow is the day that he comes. I wouldn’t care for myself, but my father will be heart-broken. He had a little sister, who played on the harp, and she died. Dad just idolized her, the way he does me. He kept the harp and he is so eager to have me play upon it. I just can’t bear to disappoint him.” For the moment Muriel seemed to have forgotten to whom she was talking.

“Nor shall you,” Nan said quietly. “Is this your free hour, Muriel?”

“Yes,” was the reply. “Why?”

“I thought perhaps you would like to stay while I practice. Our lesson is hard this week, but I might be able to help you. Would you like to stay?”

Muriel hardly knew how to reply. Judging others by her own selfish standard, she had supposed that Nan would be glad if she were barred from the coming recital, but instead, the gypsy girl was offering to help her master that part which had seemed to her most difficult.

“Thank you, I will stay,” she heard herself saying, and then she sat quietly near while Nan played the lesson through from beginning to the end. “Now, Muriel,” the harpist said, with her friendly smile, “will you play it for me, and then I can better tell which part is your stumbling block?”

Patiently Nan showed the other girl how to correct her mistakes, until, at length, a gong rang in the corridor calling them to the study hall.

Springing up, the gypsy girl exclaimed: “You did splendidly, Muriel! If I could help you just once more before your lesson, I think that Professor Bentz would have no fault to find with you.” Then she added kindly, “You really have talent, dear, but you haven’t practiced very faithfully of late. If you wish, I will come with you to the music room this evening during our recreation hour and we can go over it once again.”

“Thank you! I would like to come,” Muriel replied, but oh, what a strangely troubled feeling there was in her heart as she remembered the words of the gypsy woman: “You are trying to harm someone, who will do much to help you.”

That evening at 7 o’clock the two girls were again in the music room and Muriel played the piece through so well that Nan exclaimed with real enthusiasm, “Dearie, you did that beautifully, especially the part where it seems as though a restless spirit is yearning to be forgiven for something. Really, Muriel, the tears came into my eyes, for you played it with true feeling.”

Then to the gypsy girl’s surprise the little harpist began to sob.

“Oh, Nan, I do want to be forgiven for something. You’ve been so kind to help me and I’ve been so horrid and mean to you.”

“Why, Muriel, you have never been horrid or mean to me.”

“Oh, yes, I have. Only yesterday I was planning to do something that I thought would turn the girls all against you. I was jealous, I suppose, because Professor Bentz always holds you up as a model. Then I overheard you talking to the gypsies and that night I visited their camp and found out that you were one of them, and so I decided that if you won the gold medal I would tell every one in the school about it. There now, don’t you call that being mean and horrid?”

Nan’s joyous laugh rang out, and she gaily exclaimed: – “Oho, so you are the enemy I have been looking for?” Then she added, with sudden seriousness: “My dear Muriel, I am not ashamed because I am a gypsy, and I would gladly have proclaimed it from the top of Little Pine Hill if I had not promised Miss Barrington that I would not.”

“And you’re going to forgive me?” Muriel asked, although she knew the answer before it was spoken.

“There is nothing to forgive. Hark! Someone is coming. Who do you suppose that it is?”

There was a merry rapping on the door, and then it was opened, revealing two maidens. There was an expression of surprise on the pretty face of the younger girl, but it was Phyllis who exclaimed, “Well, Nan, here you are. I have hunted for you high and low. I just met Daisy in the corridor and she was searching for Muriel.” Then, glancing from one expressive face to the other, she added: “What has happened? You girls look as though you had a secret.”

“So we have,” Nan laughingly replied. “I was just going to tell Muriel a story and if you girls will come in and be seated, you too, may hear it.”

Phyllis, wondering what it all might mean, listened with increasing interest as Nan told about the caravan of Queen Mizella and about the loving kindness of Manna Lou to the little crippled boy, Tirol, and to the little orphan girl whose mother had died so long ago.

“I didn’t know that there were such good, unselfish women among the gypsies,” Phyllis declared, “but, Nan, why are you telling us this story?”

“Because I am the orphaned girl,” was the quiet reply.

“You!” Phyllis exclaimed. “Now I know why you are so wonderful and why you seem to understand the songs of the birds and feel such a comradeship for the trees and sky and all out-of-doors.”

“Then you don’t love me any the less?” the question was asked in half seriousness.

“Nan, what do I care who your ancestors are?” Phyllis declared. “It is you whom I love.”

“Hark!” the gypsy girl said with lifted finger. “The chapel bell is calling us to evening prayer.” And then, as she and Muriel were the last to leave the room, she kissed the younger girl as she whispered, “Good night, dear little friend.”

CHAPTER XXII.

THE CONTEST RECITAL

The day of the contest dawned gloriously. During the night pink and golden crocuses had blossomed on the seminary grounds and each bush and tree was a haze of silvery green.

In the mid-afternoon two girls stood at an open library window. They were Muriel and Nan and they were waiting their turn at the recital. In the study hall beyond many parents and friends were gathered and with the teachers and pupils of the seminary, they were listening with pride and pleasure to the rendering of solos on violin and piano, while at one side of the platform, a golden harp stood waiting.

“Daisy Wells is playing now,” Muriel said, “Are you nervous Nan?”

“No dearie.” Then the older girl exclaimed joyfully, “Do look in the lilac bush! The first robin has come, and now he is going to sing for us. He surely would win the medal if he were to enter the contest.”

Muriel looked up at the other maiden and slipping an arm about her, she said impulsively, “I love you.”

Then, before the gypsy girl could reply, the younger harpist was called. “Oh Nan,” she said in a sudden panic of fear.

“Think of your father, dearie and just play for him.” How calming that suggestion had been, and, while she played, Muriel was thinking of the twilight hours when her father had lifted her to his knee, and, holding her close, had told her of that other little girl whom he had so loved, and how lonely his boyhood had been when that little sister had died, and, how like her, Muriel was. “It will be a happy day for me, little daughter, when I hear you play as she did on the harp,” he had often said.

When the last sweet notes were stilled, there were tears in many eyes, for Muriel, forgetting all others, had played alone for her father.