Gipsy grows Anxious

GIPSY spent the Christmas holidays at Briarcroft. Miss Poppleton went away to Switzerland, to refresh her tired mind with the winter sports; but Miss Edith stayed behind, to count linen, and superintend workmen who were making some alterations in the bathrooms. She and Gipsy managed to enjoy themselves in a quiet manner, but the latter hailed the return of her schoolfellows with considerable relief. The house seemed so big and silent and lonely without its usual lively crew of boarders, and the dormitory with its empty beds oppressed her. Miss Poppleton came back more brisk and bustling than ever, and was at once immersed in the business of interviewing parents and rearranging school affairs, and in the thousand and one cares that always occupied her at the beginning of term.

When about ten days had gone by, and Briarcroft had settled down into its ordinary routine, she sent a message to Gipsy to report herself in the study. Gipsy obeyed with a feeling of considerable apprehension.

Miss Poppleton's manner towards her, never very gracious, had been markedly cold since the Christmas holidays. For some reason she was evidently much out of favour. She tapped more deferentially at the study door, and entered less confidently than she had done on the morning after her arrival. A term at Briarcroft had taught her many lessons. The Princ.i.p.al was seated at her desk, studying an account book, and to judge from the jerking movements of her mouth, she was in a state of mind quite the reverse of amiable.

"Gipsy Latimer," she began uncompromisingly, "I've sent for you to enquire if you've heard anything at all from your father?"

Gipsy shook her head silently. It was such a sore subject that she could hardly bear to speak about it.

"It's a most extraordinary thing!" commented Miss Poppleton. "Since the day he left you here, he has never written a line either to me or to you. I don't like the look of it at all. Did he tell you where he was going?"

"Back to Cape Town," replied Gipsy briefly.

"Did he leave you any address?"

"No; he said he would be going up-country into a very wild place, but he would write when he got to the Cape."

"Has he any friends at Cape Town who would know of his whereabouts?"

"Not that I know of."

The barometer of Miss Poppleton's face seemed to fall still lower.

"This won't do at all!" she said, frowning. "When your father brought you, he paid for you up to Christmas, but no more. Now, the rule of this school is that fees must be paid in advance at the beginning of each term. I don't make an exception for anybody. Where are your fees for this term, I should like to know?--to say nothing of the holidays you spent here!"

It was such an utterly unanswerable question that Gipsy did not attempt a reply.

"I had a girl left on my hands like this once before," continued Miss Poppleton, "and I said then it should never happen again. Have you any relations in England?"

"Not one!"

"Or friends who could take charge of you?"

"I know absolutely n.o.body in England."

"Who are your relations, then? Surely you must have some in some portion of the globe?"

"Not any near ones. We have some cousins in New Zealand, at a farm right up in the bush."

"Where did your father come from? Hadn't your mother any relations?"

"Father was born in New Zealand, but his grandfather came out from England. Mother was an American, from Texas, I believe. Her mother was Spanish. I never heard about her relations. She died when I was a baby, and we've always been travelling about ever since I can remember."

"Humph! That doesn't look well. Had your father no permanent address, then, where letters would always be forwarded to him?"

"I never heard him say so."

Gipsy stood with her little brown hands pressed hard together, and her mouth set tightly while she answered this unwelcome catechism. Miss Poppleton might have pitied the sad look in the dark eyes, but she went on bluntly:

"I'm afraid it's only too evident he wants to get rid of the burden of your education. We've got to trace him somehow. It's all very fine for him to leave you here and desert you!"

Gipsy's face turned crimson, and the big sob that had been gathering in her throat nearly choked her for a moment.

"Father would never desert me!" she gasped at last. "He promised faithfully he'd come back and fetch me. Oh! you don't know Dad, to say that. I'm afraid something's happened to him--out there!"

She did not tell Miss Poppleton how she had hoped against hope, and lain awake at night wondering, and searching her mind for any possible solution of his silence, but she looked such a forlorn little figure that in spite of herself the Princ.i.p.al slightly relented.

"Well, Gipsy," she said more kindly, "I'm afraid it looks a bad business. I'm sure you understand that it would be impossible for me to keep on my school if pupils did not pay their fees. I can't afford to be kept waiting. In your case, however, we'll let matters stand for awhile, and see if we hear from your father. In the meantime I might write to your cousins in New Zealand. It will take three months, though, before I can get a letter back."

"More," sighed Gipsy. "They only go down to the town once a month for letters, and not then if the river's in flood. They live in such a wild place--right up in the bush."

"At any rate they're your relations, and ought to be responsible for you," snapped Miss Poppleton. "If the worst comes to the worst, I could send you out to them through the Emigration Society. It's a very awkward position to be placed in--very awkward indeed. You're absolutely sure you know of n.o.body, either in England or at the Cape, who could give information about your father?"

"No one at all. I didn't know anything about Dad's business. I was at school, and he used just to come and fetch me for the holidays,"

confessed Gipsy sadly.

Miss Poppleton shut her account book with an annoyed slam.

"Well, there's no further help for it at present. We must see what turns up. Of course, I can't pretend to keep you here indefinitely. Give me the address of your cousins in New Zealand, and I will write to them to-day. That seems the best we can do. The whole thing is most unfortunate."

Gipsy dictated the address as steadily as she could, then taking advantage of Miss Poppleton's brief "That will do; you may go now!" she fled to the most remote corner of her dormitory and sobbed her heart out. There she was found later on by Miss Edith, who came to put away clean clothes. Poor Miss Edith was generally torn in two between strict loyalty to her sister and the promptings of her own kind heart. She knew the cause of Gipsy's trouble well enough. She sat down beside the forlorn child, and comforted her as best she could.

"I wish Dad would write! Oh, he can't have forgotten me! I wish I'd anybody to go to; I haven't a soul nearer than New Zealand!" wailed Gipsy.

"You mustn't make yourself so miserable, Gipsy dear!" said Miss Edith nervously. "I'm sure Miss Poppleton will keep you here for a while, and perhaps your father will write after all. My sister will do everything that's right--she always does. Oh, don't sob so, child! She'll see that you're taken care of. Do try to cheer up, that's a dear! You must trust Miss Poppleton, Gipsy. There, there! You'll feel better now you've had a good cry. Wash your face in cold water, and take a run round the garden.

It's a good thing it's Sat.u.r.day!"

Gipsy didn't feel equally confident of Miss Poppleton's benevolence, but she gave Miss Edith a hug, and took her advice. She had not lost faith in her father, only his silence made her fear for his welfare. She was aware of the many dangers of life in the rough mining camps where his work lay, and shuddered as she remembered his tales of attacks by desperadoes, skirmishes with natives, or perils of wild beasts. Almost directly, however, her naturally cheerful and hopeful disposition rea.s.serted itself. She knew letters sometimes miscarried or were lost, or perhaps her father might have been ill and unable to write.

"He'll let me hear about him somehow," she said to herself. "I must just try and be very patient. Dad desert me! Why, the idea's ridiculous. And I've a feeling I'd know if he was dead. No! He's alive somewhere and thinking of me, and it will all come right in the end. His very last words were: 'I'll soon be back to fetch you!' I mustn't let folks at the school think I don't believe in Dad. That would never do! I'll show them how I can trust him!"

True to her intention of vindicating her faith in her father, Gipsy, after the first outburst of tears, took a pride in concealing her feelings, and preserving at least an outward appearance of calm confidence. It certainly needed all her courage to face the situation, for there were several circ.u.mstances which rendered it peculiarly trying. Miss Poppleton, with whom she had never been a favourite, snapped at her more frequently than before, and was harder to please as regarded both lessons and conduct. Gipsy often felt she was treated unfairly, and received more than her due share of blame for any little occurrence that cropped up.

A great many small things contributed to make her feel her position. Her morning gla.s.s of milk, which all the boarders and some of the day girls took in the pantry at eleven o'clock, was knocked off, as were all concerts and lectures where there was a charge for admission. It was not pleasant, when the other boarders were taken into Greyfield, to have to stay behind for the sake of the price of a ticket and a tram fare. She had long ago spent all her pocket-money, and there was no more forthcoming. Not only was she denied such luxuries as chocolates, but she was not even able to pay her subscription to the Guild, which, by the new arrangement, was due at the beginning of each term. The Committee, who knew the reason and sympathized with her, ignored the matter; but poor Gipsy, as Secretary, felt her deficiency very keenly when she made up the accounts. She was a proud, sensitive girl, and the knowledge that she alone, of the whole Guild, had not rendered her dues to the Treasurer was a bitter humiliation.

It was not in regard to the Guild alone that she was hampered by lack of money. During the spring term the girls at Briarcroft were accustomed to get up a small bazaar in aid of a home for waifs and strays. They were already beginning to work for it, and Gipsy, who would gladly have helped, made the unpleasant discovery that it is impossible to make bricks without straw, or in other words that she had no materials. Each Form generally took a stall, so one afternoon there was a little informal meeting of the Upper Fourth, to discuss what contributions could be relied upon.

"I vote that each girl undertakes to make a certain number of articles; that would be far the easiest, and then we should know how we stand,"

suggested Alice O'Connor. "We'll draw up a list, and write it down."

"Need we do it quite that way?" said Hetty Hanc.o.c.k. "Wouldn't it be enough if each promises to do what she can?"

"Why? It's much better to nail people."

"Well, you see, it mightn't suit everybody. There's one girl I know who perhaps really couldn't undertake to make several things. We don't want her to feel uncomfortable."