Brenda's Summer at Rockley/Chapter 13
XIII
GYPSIES AND AN ACCIDENT
A day or two after the journey to Marblehead Brenda one afternoon started off on her bicycle.
“Don’t go very far, Brenda,” said her mother. “It’s rather warm, and I don’t like to have you start off alone so late in the day.”
“Oh, Nora’s coming, too,” and Nora wheeled into sight as she spoke, “and we ’re only going a little beyond the cross-roads. We ’ll not be gone an hour.”
“Very well,” replied Mrs. Barlow, “I don’t want Nora to run the risk of getting overheated, or anything of that kind while she is here visiting,”
Now Nora and Brenda, as they started off on their bicycles, seemed to be in high spirits. It was easy to read this in their faces, and had any one met them before they turned into the main road, they might have been heard singing a lively duet. Perhaps, however, if any one had met them, the girls would have stopped their singing. Yet I think that the echo would have reached the ears of even an absent-minded fellow-traveller.
“Do you think that we really ought to do it?” asked Nora, when they had gone half a mile.
“Why not? There’s no real harm in it. It is n’t one of the things we ’ve ever been forbidden to do.”
“Of course not, because no one would ever think of our wanting to do such a thing. I noticed that you did not divulge your plans to Julia, and you did n’t say a word to your mother.”
“Neither did you.”
“Well, Brenda Barlow, you are unfair. I could n’t say a word, because you made me promise not to. But honestly I felt just like talking to Julia about it. She always gives such good advice.”
“Oh, well, if you feel so particular, you’d better not come with me. I do hate such squeamish people.”
“Oh, I would n’t turn back on any account. If anything is going to happen to you, it might as well happen to me, too. ‘United we stand, divided we fall;’ so let’s not really quarrel until this expedition is over—unless you will give it up now.”
“No, I can’t now. I’m devoured with curiosity about those people. Their tents are close to the road, so that I don’t think that there is the least danger.”
“Well, I hope not.”
“There’s one reason why I wish that we were not going. The day is so warm. I wish that it were a little cooler It’s strange how heated one grows on a bicycle. We ’re not riding so very fast.”
The expedition on which the two friends had started was one of which Mrs. Barlow would have disapproved very strongly. Indeed, had she known that they intended to visit a gypsy encampment she would have forbidden their going. But Brenda, during the early part of the week, had noticed, when driving, beyond the cross-roads, two small tents and two or three vehicles drawn up beside them. There were horses tethered near, and some strange-looking men and women sitting on the grass in front of the tents.
Brenda’s curiosity was stirred by what she had seen, and a glimpse of a young girl in a scarlet dress, with bare feet and long, dark hair hanging down her back, completed the work. She felt that she must know more about the gypsies, for the answers which her father gave to her questions only increased her curiosity. To think that there were people who passed all the year in this roving fashion! Who had no homes of their own! For, of course, you can hardly call a tent and a cart a home. Brenda made up her mind that she must know more about these people, and, as she rather feared a refusal if she should ask permission, she decided to interest Nora in her scheme of visiting.
The little that Mr. Barlow had been able to tell Brenda about the gypsies had only increased her interest. “They come every summer,” he had said, “and, in my opinion, they are very good people to keep away from.”
“But where are they in the winter, papa; do they live in tents?”
“I’m sure I hope not, unless they go to some warmer climate than ours. ”
“I wonder why nobody knows more about gypsies! I don’t suppose it would be so very hard to find out.”
“Perhaps not, if any one thought it worth while to try. But I rather imagine that the gypsies themselves prefer to be let alone. They can carry on their horse-trading and their fortune-telling better if they keep themselves to themselves.”
Fortune-telling! Brenda reflected for a moment. She remembered that a year or two before, one summer afternoon, the cook and the housemaid had seemed much excited by the appearance of an old gypsy woman with a basket on her arm. They had welcomed her as if expecting her, and Brenda had seen her seated in a corner of the laundry when, a little later, she followed the gypsy to see what was happening. But although on her entrance the girls and the gypsy seemed to be merely engaged in bargaining about the baskets, Brenda knew that the whispering and laughing meant something more. Mary, the cook, after the gypsy’s departure, would grant her no more satisfaction than to say that they had been having their fortunes told, and that in consequence she expected a pot of money soon, and a trip to the old country.
Her interest had not been lessened by the fact that she had not heard of Mary’s receiving any large sum of money. It is true, that she had taken a trip to the old country, permission for which Mrs. Barlow had given rather grudgingly. It is also true that at the end of her vacation she had announced that she was engaged to a fine lad who was coming out to be married in a year or two. But as he had not yet appeared, Brenda did not know whether or not Mary had still kept her faith in the power of the fortune-teller.
Of one thing, however, Brenda was certain, and that was that if ever she had the chance she would have her fortune told—and here was the very chance, she thought, as she saw the gypsy camp.
“I am very glad that you are here, Nora,” she had said to her friend, “for I should n’t exactly care to go alone, and Julia would be sure to disapprove, if I should ask her to go; and even Amy probably would n’t like to go on an adventure. She always has that kind of a stand-off air, as if she wouldn’t for the world do anything out of the ordinary.”
But now that they had really embarked on the adventure, both Nora and Brenda felt some qualms, and by singing, and indulging in more or less badinage, they were doing what is generally called, “Whistling to keep their courage up.”
As they drew near the encampment, they dismounted from their wheels, and approached the tents on foot. A little yellow dog ran out and barked at them, and a large Newfoundland rose from the grass where he had been lying, shook himself, and stared at them. The little dog, finding that he made no impression on the girls, turned from them to chase two or three hens that were standing under one of the carts. Hearing the noise, and realizing that something unusual was going on, an old woman pushed aside the curtains of the tent, and looked at them. Then she turned, and evidently spoke to some one inside, for almost immediately a young girl stepped out with a half-dozen baskets on her arm. She was the same girl whom Brenda had noticed when she drove past with her father. Her feet were bare, her scarlet calico skirt reached halfway to her ankles, she wore no collar, and the button at the neck was hanging by a thread, and her long dark hair, was tied so loosely as to look like an unkempt mane. As she drew near, she held the baskets toward them.
“Only a quarter for any of them,” she said, “only a quarter.”
Brenda drew out her little purse, “I ’ll take one,” she said, picking out a small one which she immediately hung on her arm. The stout old woman at the opening of the tent continued to smile at them. Then she beckoned to the girl.
“I wish we had asked her if we could see the inside of the tent, that is what I really want,” said Brenda.
Just then the old woman came forward.
“The young lady has a pretty hand,” she said, pointing to Brenda’s right hand, from which she had removed her glove. Brenda received the compliment a little awkwardly. She did not know just what to say.
“A little silver, ladies,” said the old gypsy, “and your fortunes—”
“There,” said Brenda, “that’s what we’d like, our fortunes told.”
“This way, then,” said the old woman, smiling with satisfaction, and she led them toward the largest of the two wagons standing there. Going ahead, she mounted the steps, and the girls were on the point of following, when they thought of their bicycles.
“Perfectly safe to leave them right there. Nobody touch them,” said the old woman; but Nora felt that it was wise to watch the wheels, and so she signalled to Brenda that she would stay with them.
Once inside the large van, Brenda was so much entertained by what she saw, that she almost forgot to have her fortune told. Although it was only about four or five feet wide, it was arranged as a living-room. There was a long, broad seat—bunk perhaps it should be called—running across the end. Blankets, pillows, and high-colored coverlid were arranged on it, showing that it was used at times for a bed. Little doors under the bunk indicated a closet; “probably for clothes,” thought Brenda.
Around the sides of the wagon was a long seat, and the space under it was stuffed with all kinds of odds and ends. The old woman raised the blind from one of the windows at the side, and motioned Brenda to sit down. In the mean time, Nora, left outside, was looking about her to take in all the features of the gypsy camp. First of all, she saw that the large van which Brenda had entered was gayly painted, with gilded letters, which she decided to be the initials of the owner, on the sides. There was a baggage rack behind on which she supposed they must carry their trunks when they travelled. One shabby old trunk, and a wooden chest were on the ground beside the tent. The tents themselves were rather dingy and grimy-looking, and a hole had been cut in one for a stove-pipe, from which a column of smoke was issuing. There was another wagon near-by and an exceedingly good-looking buggy. At some distance, where two horses were tethered by a long rope to a fence, Nora noticed a tall youth lying on the grass.
“It’s your turn now, Nora,” cried Brenda, coming to the door of the van, and beckoning to her friend. Nora shook her head. She had no desire to have her fortune told.
“It’s getting late, and we ought to be turning home.”
“Nonsense!” cried Brenda, coming close to her, “you must go in; the gypsy expects it.”
“But I did n’t come out to-day just to please gypsies,” responded Nora. “I came to please you, because you wanted to have your fortune told. I’m not going to waste my money in that way, I can assure you.”
“Oh, that’s all right; I ’ve paid for you. You ’re my guest,” said Brenda, pushing Nora in the direction of the van.
“Was it really worth while?” she asked, as she stood half undecided what to do.
“Well, that’s one reason I want you to go. I’m anxious to hear what you think of her. She really told me a fine fortune.”
“Do you think it can come true?”
“Oh, I don’t see why not. Some things that she said were very interesting. Part of it can’t come true for ten years, and in ten years almost anything might happen. But do hurry, Nora, you are keeping her waiting.”
Nora’s stay in the van was shorter than that of Brenda’s, and she came out looking very much amused. “The most of my fortune is not to happen for twenty years, and I don’t see how in the world I am ever to wait. She said one thing, however, that may come true. She said that within six months, I was likely to have a handsome present from a tall, sandy-haired man.
“As I calculate that will bring me near Christmas, and as the description fits papa, I shall hope that I am to have the ring that he has promised me. So you see that fortune-tellers are not all frauds.”
“Hush,” whispered Brenda, “or she ’ll hear you.”
The gypsy was now standing close to them. “I could come to the young ladies’ house some time,” she said, “and if they have any dresses they can’t wear any more, I should be glad to buy them,—and I could tell more fortunes; there is more to be told, much more,” she added.
“No, thank you,” said Nora; “I don’t care to know any more about the future, and I have n’t any clothes to sell. Come, Brenda.”
But Brenda still lingered.
“Could we see the inside of the tent? Have you a gypsy kettle there?”
“No, no,” said the old woman, “no kettle, a cook-stove like other peoples. You can come.” She spoke in a rather ungracious tone, and then turning to the young girl gave some kind of a command in a strange language,—“gibberish” Brenda called it, and indeed it was little better. But the girl understood, and, hastening to the tent, evidently told its occupant that they were coming. For soon a tall, thin woman stood in the opening, raising her hand as if in welcome, and the fortune-teller told the two girls to follow her to the tent.
A glance inside was enough for the girls. There was nothing particularly romantic or entertaining to be seen, and there was a decidedly disagreeable odor in the air. For on the little cook-stove there was a pan of onions and fish frying, and the ventilation of the place was not such as to make it, even when nothing was cooking, agreeable to linger in. As to the furnishing, there was little unusual. A fur rug, such as was spread at the entrance to the tent, would probably not be found in most kitchens; nor a cot-bed piled high with blankets and pillows. But the long wooden unpainted dining-table, with an assortment of heavy crockery, and a few tin plates, was similar to dining-tables that Nora has seen in one or two North End houses that she had visited. There was a little child of two asleep on a cushion near the stove, and Nora thought that he must find the room very uncomfortable; but the mother only shook her head when Nora expressed herself, adding, “He likes it hot.” This woman not only spoke good English, but she seemed more willing than the fortune-teller to tell the girls about the life and habits of their tribe.
She explained that they had come from New Jersey, where they usually spent the winter, that they never lived in houses when they could help it, and that the large van had cost Henry, the head of the tribe, more than three hundred dollars. Three women besides herself and the fortune-teller were part of this tribe, and there were two other children besides the young girl and the baby whom the girls had seen.
“The other women are out selling baskets, and the children are with them, I suppose. But the men, oh, they go down to Lynn on the train, or anywhere, where they think they can buy or sell a horse. That’s their trade, horse-selling.”
“Oh,” Nora was now becoming interested, and inclined to ask questions. The old woman had seated herself on the ground, although there were several chairs in the tent, and Brenda leaned against a packing-case, the inside of which had been fitted up like a dresser, with some rough shelves to hold odds and ends of dishes and food.
“Come, Nora,” cried Brenda, “I thought that you were in a hurry.”
“Why, yes, I am,” and Nora left the tent reluctantly, for she was just beginning to get the information that she wanted about gypsy modes of living.
“Are n’t they picturesque?” said Brenda, looking back, as they mounted their wheels, to the little encampment, with the two women and the girl standing in front of the kitchen tent, with the large van in the background, and the tethered horses and the chickens adding another element of life to the scene.
“We ’re not going to get home any too soon,” said Nora; “it seems to me that those clouds mean rain. We must go as fast as we can.”
“Yes, we must,” responded Brenda, putting all the speed that she could into her wheel, regardless of the fact that they were at a turn of the road, and near the top of an incline.
“Be careful, be careful,” cried Nora, whose speed had increased hut little. “There’s a slope ahead!”
But it was too late for Brenda to do anything. To apply her brake just then, would have meant to overturn herself, probably. The coast ahead seemed clear, and as she had a pretty cool head in an emergency, she felt that she could get to the bottom safely. But, unluckily, at the bottom of the road was a stone wall on which she had not reckoned, and she found herself suddenly going so fast that she saw that she could not avoid it in time to turn into the narrow foot-path, as she had intended. Nora gave a scream, for she had now jumped off her own wheel, and Brenda, seeing certain disaster for herself at the bottom of the hill applied her brake. It did not work, and she felt that the only way to prevent her being dashed against the stone wall, was to jump, and at the rate she was going that might mean something pretty serious for her. Suddenly a figure seemed to rise from the side of the road, and in some mysterious way, the man—for it was a man—stopped the bicycle, caught Brenda as she fell from it, all within a few feet of the stone wall.
The descent of the hill, the stopping of the wheel, had all taken much less time than has been occupied in telling it, but the minutes, or minute, whichever it was, had worn greatly on Brenda’s nerves, and she found herself on the point of crying.
“There would have been a bad smash,” said the man, “if you’d gone to the bottom.”
“Oh, Brenda!” cried Nora, who had now come up to her, “how you frightened me! I thought surely you’d break your ankle, if nothing worse. How do you feel?’’
“Oh, I’m all right,” said Brenda, shaking out her skirts. “If my brake had worked I—”
Then she stopped in the middle of her sentence. For the first time she had a chance to see the face of the man who had prevented the accident.
“I can’t tell you how much obliged I am,” she continued, still looking at him with much curiosity.
“You ought to take his name and address,” whispered Nora, “so that your father could reward him in some way. It’s really like saving your life. You might have had a dreadful time if you’d struck against that stone wall.”
In the pocket of her skirt Brenda found a little notebook, and, detaching a leaf, she wrote her father’s name and address on it.
“Oh, no, Miss, no reward at all, nothing like it,” the man spoke English, although with an accent; “but if Miss would give me one of those pictures, the one with my little boy in it. He die last week, and we have no picture of him.”
The man looked very sad indeed as he spoke.
“There,” said Brenda, “that’s where I saw you, on the Fourth; you remember,” turning to Nora, “that I took some pictures of a man with his boy. I have been wondering where I had seen him. Now it all comes back to me.”
“Why, how strange!” said Nora, “I remember him, too. Of course you ’ll send him the pictures.”
“Now I ’ll take your name and address.”
The man seemed to hesitate. “It’s only so that I can send the pictures,” explained Brenda. “I will try to send them as soon as they are printed.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you,” replied the man. “We live on Derby Street in Salem, down near the water. My wife and the baby is there all the time; but I go peddling.”
The man was good-looking, and strong-appearing, and in some way peddling seemed an incongruous occupation for him. Or, as Nora put it, after they had wheeled away from him, “Peddling seems lazy work for a strong, decent-looking man like that.”
“He certainly is strong,” responded Brenda. “If it had n’t been for him, I should probably have a broken ankle and a broken wheel at this very minute. I must tell papa all about him. Perhaps he can get something better for him to do.”
“Shall you tell him about the fortune-tellers, too?” asked Nora, mischievously.
“I cannot see that that is necessary,” said Brenda, crossly.