"Yes," said Taisy; "nothing will persuade her either that you are not----" She stopped suddenly and got rather red.
"I know," said mamma, laughing, "that we are not in danger of starvation as well as of cold. You need not mind, Taisy dear--as if _anything_ could offend us that you said or that Aunt Emmeline thought. And of course it is true that we are anxious to spend as little as we can, while things are so uncertain."
"And then we can"t cure hams or pickle tongues like at home," I added.
So all the kind old lady"s gifts were very welcome. I think Hoskins was more pleased with the eatables than with anything.
Things had been nice before, but after Taisy came, we really did enjoy ourselves. She was always planning something amusing or interesting, and mamma declared she had never heard me or Geordie laugh so much in her life. It was very good for Geordie to be "routed out" a little, as Taisy said. He was inclined to be too serious and anxious, and to overwork, at this time, because of the scholarship, and as I had put it into his head, I was doubly glad of being helped to keep him bright and merry, as I know he worked all the better for it. He was _really_ anxious-minded--not like Denzil, who never laughed and was as solemn as an owl, not because _he_ was anxious, but just because he was too fat and comfortable to worry--poor old Den!--he really _is_ so good-tempered, I don"t like laughing at him.
It was very nice too that just about this time came the first really long letter from papa; up to now he had written scarcely more than sc.r.a.ps. And this letter was decidedly more cheerful and hopeful.
He had begun to go into things thoroughly, he said, and had got very good friends to help him, and he was beginning to think that, at worst, it would not turn out _too_ awfully bad. And for this mamma felt very grateful, though she had so bravely prepared for whatever might be to come.
So for a few weeks we went on very contentedly, more than that, indeed--very brightly too. It was, for me, too delightful not to have much governessing to do, for Taisy at once took the most of this on herself. And I a.s.sure you, she _did_ keep Miss Esme in order.
In return for this she joined me in some of my reading with mamma, and she always has said that she learnt more in this way about some lessons than she had ever done before. Mamma is very clever.
We went on, as I said, pretty steadily like this for some weeks till another rather big thing happened--almost as big as the "descent of the balloon," which we always called Theresa"s arrival.
But before telling about this new event, I must relate a curious thing that happened one day.
It was one afternoon--just after tea--we were still sitting out of doors where we had had tea--mamma in her "boudoir," for the days were getting quite long, and we were specially glad to be in the open air as much as possible, for we had had a good deal of rain for nearly a week--mamma was reading, and I think I was too--when Hoskins came out of the house looking rather "funny"--queer, I mean, as if not quite sure if she were vexed or not.
"If you please, ma"am," she said, "there"s a gypsy at the back door, and I can"t get her to go till she"s seen you."
"A gypsy," mamma exclaimed in great surprise; "how has she managed to get inside the grounds? And I did not know there were any in the neighbourhood just now. It is so seldom they come this way too. Taisy,"
she went on, looking round, "you might speak to her for me and ask what she wants."
But Taisy was not there.
"Miss Theresa has gone into the woods, I think," said Hoskins; "I heard her calling to Miss Esme just after tea-time."
Mamma and I had not noticed the others going; our books must have been interesting, and time pa.s.ses quickly in such a case.
"How did the gypsy get through the lodge gates?" mamma repeated.
"That"s what I asked her first thing," Hoskins answered; "but she did not answer very distinctly. She says she has come a good bit out of her way to see you--there are not any camping about near here. She has a boy with her--perhaps she wants something for him--quite a little fellow. She"s a pleasant, civil-spoken woman--indeed, gypsies generally are if they want to get something out of you."
"Like most people, I am afraid," said mamma, smiling as she reluctantly prepared to move. "Perhaps I had better speak to her; it would not do to have her lurking about all night. They are queer people--I should not like to rouse any ill-feeling in a gypsy."
"Mayn"t I come with you, mamma?" I said. "I have never spoken to a real gypsy."
Mamma looked at me rather doubtfully.
"Oh yes," she said; "but I don"t want her to tell your fortune or anything of that kind, Ida, so do not encourage her if she begins about it."
We made our way through the Hut, followed by Hoskins, to the door at the back, where, as she had said, the strange visitor was standing--Margery, who was washing up (I never saw Margery _not_ washing up, by the bye), was also keeping an eye on the woman, though I could see by the movement of her shoulders that she was giggling.
Mamma went forward.
"What do you want to see me for?" she said gently but rather coldly.
The woman lifted her face--she was not quite as tall as mamma, and looked at her closely, but not rudely. She was older than I had somehow expected. Her skin was very brown, her hair jet-black, her eyes not _quite_ as dark as one imagines a gypsy"s must be; I thought to myself that perhaps the very tanned complexion made them seem lighter. She was wrinkled and weather-beaten, but not by any means ugly, though not beautiful, except her teeth, which were extremely white and even.
"Yes, my lady," she said, "I did want to see you. I have come far to do so."
Her accent was peculiar, her voice low, and she talked slowly, almost as if using a foreign language.
"How did you get through the gates?" mamma asked.
The answer was a shake of the head.
"I have not pa.s.sed through them--not to-day," she said. "There are ways--when one is in earnest."
"I hope you have not broken through the hedges, or over the walls," said mamma, rather uneasily.
Another shake of the head.
"No, no--have no fear; I have done no harm," was the reply, and somehow mamma seemed as if she did not like to say any more about it.
"But what do you want to see me for?" she repeated. "Has it anything to do with the boy? Is he your son, or your grandson?" and she glanced at the little fellow beside the gypsy. A very little fellow he was--dark too, very dark-skinned and grave and rather frightened-looking. He stood there with his eyes cast down, a shock of black hair tumbling over his forehead, so that it was difficult to distinguish the upper part of his face.
Mamma looked at him curiously--afterwards she told me she felt sorry for him, and wondered if the woman was good to him. She--the woman--glanced at him and said something rather sharply in a queer-sounding language, on which the little fellow gave a sort of tug to his cap, though without actually taking it off--meant, of course, for politeness. But he never spoke the whole time they were there.
"No, my lady," the woman replied, turning again to mamma,--"no, I have no favour to ask for the child. He is not my son--nor my grandson," and here she smiled, showing her white teeth; "I am not quite old enough for that, though I may look it. I wanted to see you for a reason of my own--to do you no harm, you may be sure. And one day you will know the reason. But now," and she held out her hand, "you will let me tell your lines? Not much, nor far--I would not ask it. Just a little, and mostly of the past."
Mamma shook her head.
"Then the young lady"s?" said the gypsy, looking at me. Mamma shook her head still more decidedly.
"No, no," she said; "I would rather you told mine than hers. Such things make young people fanciful."
"Then your own, my lady," said the woman, and again she held out her hand persuasively,--"just a little."
I drew nearer.
"Do, mamma," I whispered; "she may be offended if you don"t."
Mamma laughed, and held out her right hand.
"Cross it with silver," said the woman, simply but gravely, as if she were issuing a command. I had my purse in my pocket, and drew it out.
"Give her a shilling," said mamma. I did so.
Then the gypsy bent over mamma"s hand, studying it closely and murmuring to herself.
"The other too," she then said, without looking up.
Mamma gave it.