Miss Poppleton, having, as she deemed, successfully detected Gipsy in her misdoings, was determined to force her into making a full confession. The girl's repeated denials she regarded as mere stubborn effrontery, and after several stormy scenes she had locked her up in the dressing-room, to try if a spell of solitary confinement would reduce her to submission. Poor Gipsy, agitated, overstrung, burning with a sense of fierce anger against the injustice of her summary condemnation, had faced the Principal almost like an animal at bay, and defying her utterly, had persisted in sticking without deviation to her own version of the story.
"You'll gain nothing by this obstinacy!" stormed Miss Poppleton. "I'll make you see who is in authority here! Do you actually imagine I shall allow a girl like you to set herself against the head of the school? Here you stay until you own the truth and beg my pardon."
"Then I'll stop here till I'm grown up, for I've told the truth already," returned Gipsy desperately.
She had kept up a brave front in opposition to Miss Poppleton's accusations; but after the key had turnedin the lock, and the sound of footsteps died away down the passage, she sank wearily into a chair, and burying her hot face in her trembling hands, sobbed her heart out. She felt so utterly deserted, friendless and alone. There seemed nobody to whom she might turn for help or counsel, nobody in all the wide, wide world who belonged to her, and would defend her and take her part. Everything appeared to have conspired against her, and this final and most crushing blow was the last straw. Gipsy clenched her fists in an agony of hopelessness. "Oh, Dad, Dad! why don't you come back?" she moaned, and the utter futility of the question added to her misery. Outside the sun was shining and the birds were singing cheerily—they had their mates and their nests, while she had not even a relation to claim her. She could hear the voices of the girls as they took their eleven o'clock recreation; each one had a joyful home to return to, and parents or friends who would shield and protect her.
"I've never had a home!" choked Gipsy. "Oh! I wonder why some people are always left out of everything?"
Then she sat up suddenly, for there was the sound of a hesitating footstep in the passage. The key turned, the door opened gently, and Miss Edith, very nervous and excited, entered the room.
"Oh, Gipsy!" she began tremulously, "Miss Poppleton doesn't know I'm here, but I felt I must come. Oh! you poor, naughty, naughty child, why did you do it? How could you, Gipsy? I'd never have thought it possible. Oh, do be a good girl and ownup! Miss Poppleton will forgive you if you'll only tell the truth—and you know you ought to! For the sake of what's right, be brave, and don't go on with this dreadful tissue of lies—it's too wicked and terrible!"
Miss Edith's eyes were full of tears. She laid her hand tenderly on the girl's shoulder, and looked at her with a world of reproach in her twitching face. If Miss Poppleton's scolding had been hard to endure, Miss Edith's concern was far worse. Gipsy seized the kind hand, and held it tightly.
"Oh, Miss Edie, I can't bear you to misjudge me!" she exclaimed bitterly. "Indeed, if you only knew, I am telling the absolute, whole truth. Have I ever told you an untruth before?"
"No, Gipsy. But this, alas! has been so conclusively proved."
"But has it? It all rests on my wet waterproof and galoshes. I don't know how they got wet, but I do know that I didn't go out in them, and if I said I did, why, then I should be really telling a falsehood."
Miss Edith sighed with disappointment, and drew her hand reluctantly away.
"I thought I might have influenced you, Gipsy," she said, with a little sad catch in her voice. "I'm not clever like my sister, but you were always fond of me. I can't put things as she does, but I should have liked to make you feel that doing right is worth while for the sake of your own conscience. Oh, you poor misguided child, do think it over, and make an effort! You'll be glad all your life afterwards if you own your fault, and start afresh. I can't stay anylonger now—and you've no need to tell Miss Poppleton that I came—but I'll be your friend, Gipsy, if you'll only confess."
She lingered a moment, half hopefully; then, as Gipsy only shook her head in reply, she gave up her useless attempt, and went sorrowfully away. In black despair Gipsy mentally went over the conversation, wondering how she could have convinced Miss Edith of her innocence. She could not allow herself to be cajoled by kindness into a confession of what she had not done, any more than she could permit herself to be coerced by severity. Miss Edith might use gentle persuasion, and Miss Poppleton might try to cow her and break her spirit, but neither should succeed in forcing her to a false admission.
Helen Roper came up at dinner-time with a plate of meat and vegetables in one hand and a glass of water in the other. She slammed them down hastily on the table, with a scornful glance at the prisoner.
"That's all you'll get," she remarked brusquely. "Miss Poppleton says you don't deserve pudding to-day. And quite right, too! Bread and water'd be enough for you, in my opinion. Why haven't you the pluck to face things in an honourable way, and say you're sorry for what you've done? I never much cared for you, but I thought better of you than this. For the sake of the school, do let's have an end of this wretched business! 'Noblesse oblige' has been our motto, and I hoped every girl would have risen to it. Have you no self-respect?"
"Yes—too much to say I've done what I haven't," retorted Gipsy, glowering her defiance.
Helen shrugged her shoulders.
"Miss Poppleton says you're as obstinate as a mule, and she's about right!" she remarked tartly, as she banged the door and locked it noisily behind her. Gipsy was not hungry, so the plentiful supply of meat and vegetables was quite sufficient for her needs, and the lack of pudding was no grievance. Helen's severe censure hurt her desperately. Had the girls all condemned her equally without fair trial, and without sifting the evidence against her? Did Hetty, and Dilys, and Meg, and Lennie, her own particular friends, consider her guilty? Had they no better belief in her honour than that? Had everybody forsaken her? Gipsy pushed her half-finished plateful aside. She was choking too much with sobs to swallow another morsel.
"There isn't a single soul here who cares! I shall have to go away and find Dad!" she exploded in a kind of desperation, standing up and scrubbing her eyes with her wet pocket-handkerchief.
In the meantime Gipsy's friends had not altogether abandoned her, as she supposed. They had been on the alert all the morning to discover some means of communicating with her, though, owing to Miss Poppleton's vigilance, their efforts had so far met with ill success. Any girl found loitering in the vicinity of the passage that led to the dressing-room had been packed off in a most summary fashion, with a warning not to show herself there again under penalty of an imposition. After dinner, however, Meg, who had secret plans of her own, managed to dodge Miss Lindsay, and by creeping under the laurels in the plantationmade her way to a forbidden part of the garden which commanded a view of the dressing-room window. Exactly underneath this window stood a greenhouse with a sloping glass roof, and at the corner of the greenhouse there was a long down spout to drain the gutters above. Meg advanced under cover of the bushes with the caution of a scout, and reviewed the position carefully before she ventured into the open.
"I believe I can manage it," she murmured. "My toe would fit into that hole, and I could catch hold of the bracket. I haven't learnt mountaineering for nothing, and if I could tackle that crag on Hawes Fell I oughtn't to be stumped by a gutter pipe. I flatter myself there's not another girl in the school who could do it, though. Between half-past one and two is a good time. Probably no one will be round at this side of the house, but I shall have to risk something, and trust to luck."
The down spout certainly put Meg's climbing powers to the utmost test. It was smooth and slippery, while the footholds in the wall were of the very slenderest. With considerable difficulty she swung herself up, and creeping over the roof of the greenhouse reached the small railed balcony that gave access to the dressing-room window. She peeped in. There was Gipsy, sitting, doing nothing, and looking the picture of disconsolate misery.
"Gipsy!" called Meg, under her breath.
"Hello! It's never you! Oh, Meg, you angel!"
"Don't make such an idiotic noise, but help me in quietly. Mum's the word! How are you getting on here?"
"Come in and I'll tell you. But you'll have to whisk out pretty quickly if we hear Poppie's fairy footsteps in the passage. We must listen with both ears open while we talk."
"Trust me! Oh, Gipsy, we're all so sorry for you!"
"You believe in me, then? How does the school take it?"
"Variously. Some are for you, and some are against. Dilys and Lennie and Hetty of course stand up for you hard, and funnily enough so does Leonora. She took your part this morning quite hotly, and had such a quarrel with Maude and Gladys that she won't speak to them. I didn't think Leonora would have behaved so decently. The Seniors are very dubious, especially Helen Roper."
"Yes, Helen lashed into me when she brought my dinner. She's always ready to think the worst of me."
"Poppie's furious," continued Meg. "She says you're only making your punishment worse by obstinate falsehoods, and she means to make an example of you."
"What's she going to do?" asked Gipsy with apprehension.
"I don't know—she didn't condescend to tell us."
"Look here, I'm sick of the whole business!" said Gipsy bitterly. "I'm not wanted at Briarcroft. Poppie'd be only too delighted to get rid of me. I'm not going to stay here any longer to be ordered about and scolded, and accused of things I've never done. I'll run away. If you can climb up the greenhouse roof, I can climb down it."
"Oh, Gipsy! Where will you go? Come to us! We'd hide you somewhere at home, and Mother wouldn't give you up to Poppie, I know!"
But Gipsy shook her head emphatically. The very fact of the Gordons' kindness made it impossible for her to trespass upon their generosity. She knew that if she were to seek sanctuary at their house, she would place Mrs. Gordon in a most awkward and difficult position, and her natural delicacy of feeling caused her to shrink from such a course. It would be a poor return indeed for their former hospitality.
"No, Meg; it's awfully good of you, but I must go farther away than that. I'm off to Liverpool. Don't look so staggered; I've quite made up my mind!"
"Liverpool! Why, that's miles and miles away! How will you go? And what will you do when you get there?"
"I shall manage somehow to sell my watch. It's a gold one, you know, so it ought to be worth enough to pay my railway fare, at any rate. It belonged to my mother, and I wouldn't have parted with it under any other circumstances than these. Thank goodness I put it on this morning! I don't wear it always. When I get to Liverpool I have a plan. Captain Smith—the captain of the vessel we were wrecked on—lives at a suburb called Waterloo. I'll enquire and enquire till I find the house. If he's at home, it's just possible that he could give me some little hint about my father. Dad might have dropped something in talking to him that he did not tell to me. I believe Captain Smith would help me if he could."
"But suppose he's gone to sea again?"
"That's quite likely. I've thought of that too. Well, I mean to go to some of the shipping offices, and see if they'll give me a post on a South African liner as assistant stewardess. Don't look so frightfully aghast! It's work I could do very well, though it wouldn't be pleasant. I've travelled so much about the world that I'm absolutely at home on board ship. I know all the ins and outs of voyaging, and I'm a splendid sailor, never seasick in the least. I could make myself most uncommonly useful. I'd buy a packet of hairpins and tuck up my hair so that I'd look much older, and I believe they'd engage me, because it's so difficult sometimes to meet with assistant stewardesses. I'm nearly fifteen now, and I'd rather earn my own living like that than stay here at Briarcroft on Poppie's charity. American and Colonial girls are never ashamed to work. When I get out to Cape Town, I'll go to the headmistress of the school where I stopped three months. She was a trump, and I believe she'd help me to find Dad."
So bold a plan almost took Meg's breath away, yet its ambitious daring appealed strongly to her schoolgirl imagination. She had absolutely no knowledge of the world, and the scheme which an older person would have instantly vetoed sounded to her inexperienced young ears not only perfectly feasible, but delightfully enterprising and romantic. She entered into it with enthusiasm, absolutely certain that anything that Gipsy proposed must be right. Having worshipped her friend for so long, she could not believe her idol's judgment would be at fault.
"I'll tell you what we'll do!" she exclaimed. "Let'schange dresses! Then if Poppie tries to follow you, it will throw her off the scent. Mine's longer than yours, too, so it will be better for a stewardess."
"Won't they notice it in school? It might give the thing away," hesitated Gipsy.
"It's Drawing the whole afternoon with Mr. Cobb, and he won't know the difference. Quick, or somebody may be coming! Take my hat too. I'll get yours out of the cupboard, or go home without one. None of the girls would tell, and I'll dodge mistresses."
It did not take very long for the pair to effect an exchange of costumes. They were soon arrayed in each other's dresses, an arrangement which was certainly more to Gipsy's advantage than Meg's. They knew there was no time to be lost, so, swinging themselves over the balcony railings, they began creeping cautiously down the greenhouse roof. They had just about reached the middle when Meg, who was first, suddenly stopped with a stifled exclamation, and lay as flat and as still as she could. Gipsy naturally followed suit, and looking downwards saw the reason for the alarm. They were in horrible and imminent danger of discovery. Miss Poppleton herself had entered the conservatory below, and with a little watering can in her hand began to attend to her plants. Would she look up and notice the two dark bodies on the roof above her?
Gipsy felt she had never been so thrillingly interested in gardening in the whole of her life. She watched while the geraniums and fuchsias received their due sprinkling, and held her breath when the Principal appeared about to stretch up to a hangingbasket. Most fortunately for the two girls, she changed her mind, and evidently thinking there was not enough water in the can, emptied the remainder on a box of seedlings, and went into the house for a fresh supply.
"Now!" breathed Meg. "As quick as you can, without putting your heels through the glass!"
"It was the nearest squeak!" gasped Gipsy, as the pair, after a rapid slide down the gutter pipe, reached the ground in safety. "She'll be coming back directly."
"Rush under the shrubs—quick!" said Meg. "Oh, I say! There's the bell! I must fly. I daren't walk in late, or your dress might be noticed at call-over."
"I'm off too, then," returned Gipsy. "When Poppie unlocks the dressing-room door, she'll find the bird has flown!"
"Goodbye! I can't wait! Oh, Gipsy! when shall I see you again?"
"Some day. I promise that! The bell's stopping! You'll be late, Meg, if you don't scoot."
Torn in two between her reluctance to part from her friend and her anxiety to be in time for call-over, Meg hurried away without further farewell; and Gipsy, in wildest fear of detection, metaphorically speaking burnt her boats, and darting through the side gate, ran with all possible speed down the high-road.
Megrushed to the lecture hall just in time to enter unobtrusively among a crowd of other girls, and to take her seat for afternoon call-over without attracting special notice from mistresses or monitresses. She congratulated herself on having been promoted to Mr. Cobb's painting class. The fact of her change of costume would be quite lost upon him, though Miss Harris, the ordinary drawing mistress, might possibly have recognized Gipsy's dress. One or two of her Form mates stared at her curiously, but the greater number were too much preoccupied with answering "present" to their names, and filing away to their various classes, to pay any particular attention to her. The girls at the painting lesson, with the exception of Fiona Campbell, were all Seniors. If they realized any difference in Meg's appearance, there was no opportunity either for them to make comments or for her to give explanations. I am afraid the study in oil colours of carnations, upon which she was engaged, did not make much progress that afternoon, for her thoughts were entirely about Gipsy, wondering how far she had got upon her travels, and whether Miss Poppleton had yet discovered her absence.
Directly the four o'clock bell rang and the classwas released, Meg, leaving the other girls leisurely putting away their tubes of paints and cleaning their palettes, scrambled her possessions together anyhow, and bolted from the room before she could be questioned. Going boldly to the boarders' cupboard in the hall, she purloined Gipsy's hat, and, without waiting even to tell her story to Hetty and Dilys, departed from the premises with all possible speed.
She had come to school that day on her bicycle, and fetching it hastily from the shed where all the machines were stored, she rode away in the direction of Greyfield. There was something slightly wrong with one of her pedals, and her father had told her that morning that she had better have it mended at once, so she intended to take the cycle to the depot where it had been bought, and let it be thoroughly overhauled before she returned home. The assistant at the shop promised to have the repairs finished in about half an hour, and Meg therefore strolled into the town, to wait with what patience she could muster. She walked up Corporation Street and round by the Town Hall, peeped into the Parish Church and the Free Library, then finding herself close to the railway station, decided to go and buy a copy ofHome ChatorTit Bitsat the bookstall.
"Want a ticket, Miss?" asked a porter, as she passed the booking-office near the entrance.
"No, thank you; I'm only going to get a paper," replied Meg, walking briskly on.
She noticed that the man looked at her keenly, and said something to another official. Immediately afterwards an inspector came on to the platform, and eyedher with more than ordinary curiosity. She could hear the telephone bell ringing hard, but it never struck her that these occurrences had anything to do with herself. She walked to the bookstall, and after spending some minutes looking at the various magazines spread forth, bought a copy ofTit Bits, and strolled back down the platform reading it as she went, and smiling over the jokes. At the automatic sweet-machine she paused, put a penny in the slot, and had just withdrawn her box of chocolates when, turning round, she found herself face to face with a policeman.
"Very sorry, Miss," said the man civilly, "but I'm afraid you've got to go along with me."
Meg was so surprised that she nearly dropped bothTit Bitsand the chocolates.
"To go along with you!" she gasped. "Indeed I shan't do anything of the sort."
"Better not make a scene, Miss," advised the policeman, with an indulgent smile. "I'm sorry, but it's my duty to take you in charge."
"But what for? I've done nothing!" protested Meg in huge indignation.
"That's a little matter between your schoolmistress and yourself. It's none of my business. My instructions are to take you straight to the police station."
"But I tell you I won't be taken!"
"Better go quietly, Missy," said the station inspector, who had come bustling up. "You don't want to attract a crowd, I'm sure, do you? No; then let me put you in this cab, and drive you round to the police station. It's only a couple of streets away. They'll explain everything to you there."
There was sense in his remarks, for people on the platform were beginning to stop and stare at Meg with an interest she deeply resented. To enter the cab seemed the lesser evil, even if she must pay a visit to the police station. The inspector handed her in politely, and entering after, took the seat opposite, while the policeman mounted the box beside the driver.
"They seem desperately afraid of my escaping! I wonder they don't handcuff me!" thought Meg, waxing more and more angry at the indignity of the proceeding. The little drive only occupied a few minutes, and arrived at the police station, she was shown at once into the head inspector's office.
"I should like to know what charge you have against me," demanded Meg, determined to hold her own, and not to be frightened at her arrest.
"Withdrawing yourself from the hands of your lawful schoolmistress and present guardian," replied the inspector pompously.
"But I was only on my way home!"
The official, however, was busy reading something from a notebook.
"'Surname Latimer, Christian name Gipsy. Height, 5 feet 1 inch. Eyes brown, complexion dark, hair brown. Dressed in navy-blue alpaca frock over white delaine blouse top, and probably wearing sailor hat with blue-and-white striped band, and a pair of tennis shoes.' The whole tallies exactly," he murmured, surveying Meg from head to foot, to see that he had not omitted any of the items.
"You're making a mistake. My name's Margaret Gordon, not Gipsy Latimer! I live at The Gables,near Willowburn. My father is a solicitor in the town. His office is at 15 Wells Street."
"We'll soon see about that. I think I must trouble you for your pocket-handkerchief, Missy, please."
Considerably mystified, Meg felt in her pocket and handed over the article in question. The inspector examined it closely, then shook his head.
"It has 'G. Latimer' marked in the corner. That doesn't look much like Margaret Gordon, does it?"
Meg was furious at her own stupidity. She and Gipsy had never thought of exchanging the contents of their pockets.
"Look here! Send for my father!" she begged. "He'll soon tell you who I am, and explain the whole matter."
"We don't need to send for anybody," returned the official. "Miss Poppleton's quite enough for us. We've got her description of you, and our instructions are to take you straight back to the school. You'll find you've not gained much by running away."
There was only one consolation for Meg, the remembrance that her capture would possibly enable Gipsy to escape in safety.
"They must have been looking out for her at the railway station," she thought, "but they wouldn't recognize her in my dress. I'd like to know what Poppie'll say when I turn up instead!"
There was undoubtedly a humorous side to the situation, and Meg laughed as she pictured the discomfiture of the officials when they discovered their mistake. It seemed of no further use to try to prove her identity at present, so she allowed herself to beonce more escorted to the cab and driven off, this time in the direction of Briarcroft.
"I wonder what sort of a scrape I'm in for," she thought, as they drew up at the front door, and the constable in charge solemnly marched her into the house. Miss Poppleton came hurrying out of the library into the hall, followed by Miss Edith.
"I am happy to be able to inform you, Madam, that our search has been successful," said the policeman, standing at attention.
"What? Have you found her?" cried Miss Poppleton eagerly; then she stopped as she recognized Meg. "Ah! So that's it, is it? I'm sorry to say, constable, that you've brought the wrong girl!"
Meg had thought out her plan of action carefully during her drive in the cab, and took advantage of the sensation that followed to rush at the Principal with an air of aggrieved and injured innocence.
"Oh, Miss Poppleton! Isn't it a horrible mistake!" she exclaimed. "I told them my name, and they wouldn't believe me! Oh! please, may I go home immediately? My mother will be so dreadfully anxious at my being so late!"
"Meg, do you know where Gipsy is?" interposed Miss Edith, catching her by the arm.
"Indeed I don't; I haven't the least idea!" replied Meg truthfully. "Please let me go home, and relieve Mother's mind!"
"Yes, go at once!" answered Miss Poppleton distractedly; and turning to the rueful constable, she began to explain matters with much volubility.
Meg vanished like the wind, thankful that in thegeneral excitement nobody had remarked upon the fact that she was wearing Gipsy's dress. She considered that she had come out of the affair uncommonly well, and congratulated herself upon her presence of mind in the emergency. She hurried home as fast as she could, anxious to tell the tale of Gipsy's escape and her own adventure, and rather proud of her share in both. To her surprise her mother took an utterly different view of the case from her own.
"Gipsy run away!" cried Mrs. Gordon in great consternation. "And you changed dresses with her so as to help her? Oh, Meg! what have you done! You naughty, foolish, foolish girl! You little know the dangers you may have thrown her into. We must do our utmost to find her and bring her back this very evening. We should never forgive ourselves if any harm came to her. I must telephone at once, and see if Father's still at the office."
"But, Mummie darling, Gipsy doesn't want to be caught and brought back to Poppie's tender mercies. She's going to ship as a stewardess, and go to South Africa to look for her father. I think it's ripping!"
"You don't know what you're talking about, Meg. Gipsy is too young to manage her own affairs without consulting her elders. I would have had the poor child here, rather than that she should run away. Tell me everything you can remember of her plans. I expect Father will start for Liverpool at once in search of her."
"You won't tell Poppie, Motherkins?"
"I shall send a note to Miss Poppleton as soon as I have telephoned to Father. We must leave no stoneunturned to find Gipsy. Miss Poppleton will be as alarmed and anxious as I am myself. She may be a little stern, but she is a good, conscientious person in the main."
Mrs. Gordon's estimate of Miss Poppleton's character was a correct one. The latter, though she had been severe and even hard with Gipsy, had meant well by her, and had intended to take charge of her until she found an opportunity of sending her, under careful protection, to her relations in New Zealand. She was in a state of the utmost concern at the girl's rash action in running away, and had lost no time in summoning the aid of the police to track her and ensure her safety. If Gipsy were the black sheep of the flock, she was at any rate the lost sheep, to be sought for diligently, and rejoiced over when found.
To Miss Edith the affair was a sad blow. She was genuinely fond of Gipsy, and had been greatly distressed by the events of the last few days. Though she dutifully accepted her sister's opinion, and believed Gipsy guilty, she nevertheless was ready to welcome back the prodigal with open arms. She did not dare to break down before Miss Poppleton, who disliked a public exhibition of feeling, so she retired to the linen room to wipe her eyes in private. Having indulged in a little surreptitious weeping she felt better, and decided to try to distract her mind by tidying her cupboards. Now, though Miss Edith was on the whole a good housekeeper, she had a poor memory, and was very apt to put things away and forget all about them. As she rearranged her drawers and shelves on this particular evening, she was dismayedto find several articles for which she had searched in vain elsewhere.
"Why, here's the tea cloth that I thought had been lost in the wash!" she exclaimed. "And Miss Lindsay's dressing jacket—she was afraid she must have left it in London. Why! and here's a coat of Daisy Scatcherd's. I remember quite plainly putting it by last autumn, when she had such a terrible cold. I thought it was too thin for her to wear. Why didn't the child ask me for it? She's as forgetful as I am. It's just the thing for chilly evenings, to slip on when she's been playing tennis."
Miss Edith gave the coat a good shake, and as she did so there fell from the pocket an unopened letter. She picked it up and looked at the address:
"Miss Gipsy Latimer,Briarcroft Hall,Greyfield,England."
She read it twice before she realized its significance. Then, trembling violently, she sank on to a chair, and gave way to what very closely resembled a fit Of hysteria.
"Fetch Miss Poppleton!" she cried to the alarmed servant who ran to the linen room at the sound of her wails. "Oh, dear! To think it's all my fault!"
Miss Poppleton hurried to the scene at once, and though at first her sister's explanation was rather incoherent, she managed to grasp the main facts of the case.
"It's Gipsy's missing letter, Dorothea! It must have come after all, you see, only I can't imagine how itgot into Daisy Scatcherd's pocket. I don't remember looking in the pockets when I put the coat by. And it's been there all this time! Look, the postmark is Cape Town, 3 November. Oh, isn't it dreadful? And the poor, dear child has just run away! Dorothea, whatever are we to do about it?" moaned Miss Edith, almost beside herself with horror at her discovery.
"In the circumstances I consider I am perfectly justified in reading the letter," replied Miss Poppleton, solemnly tearing open the envelope. "Why, here's an enclosure for me inside it!"
The long-delayed missive was from Gipsy's father, and contained the very information for which Miss Poppleton had waited more than six weary months. Mr. Latimer informed her that he was on the point of starting with a pioneering expedition to prospect for minerals in the almost unexplored district at the sources of one of the tributaries of the Zambesi. It might be several months before he would be in any civilized place whence it would be possible for him to communicate with her again, but during his absence he was glad to know that his little daughter was left in good hands. For all expenses in connection with Gipsy's education, dress, and pocket-money, he begged to refer her to his London bankers, Messrs. Hall & Co. of Lombard Street, who had instructions to settle the account as soon as submitted to them.
"I hope my girlie will behave well, and give no trouble," he wrote. "She is generally ready to attach herself to anybody who is kind to her."
Miss Poppleton turned a dull crimson as she finished reading the letter, and handed it to Miss Edith.
"I must question Daisy Scatcherd at once," she remarked peremptorily. "I can't understand how the letter came to be in her pocket at all."
The luckless Daisy, subjected to a searching examination, could at first render no account of how she came to be mixed up in the affair. Then little by little a vague remembrance returned to her, and she began dimly to recall the circumstances.
"It must have been on my birthday," she faltered. "I have a kind of recollection that I stopped the postman in the drive, and he gave me several letters. But indeed I never noticed one for Gipsy! If I even looked at the name, I didn't take it in properly. I suppose I only saw it wasn't for me, and stuffed it in my pocket while I opened my own letters. Then I utterly forgot all about it."
"It must be a warning to you, Daisy, against carelessness—a warning to last you the rest of your life," said Miss Poppleton, relieving her feelings by improving the occasion. "Your thoughtless act has had the most unfortunate consequences. It's no use crying now" (as Daisy dissolved into tears). "You can't mend matters. But I hope you'll take this to heart, and be more careful in future."
"If we could only find that poor, unfortunate child, Gipsy," sobbed Miss Edith, when the weeping Daisy had taken her departure. "I always said perhaps her father wasn't an adventurer after all. I think you were too hard on her, Dorothea—too hard altogether!" Which, was the nearest approach to insubordination that Miss Edith, in all her years of meek subserviency to her sister, had ever yet dared to venture upon.
Andwhere, all this time, was Gipsy, whom we left running down the road in the direction of Greyfield?
She tore along at the top of her speed, until she had put a considerable distance between herself and Briarcroft; then, panting and almost breathless, she slackened her pace, and looked round to see whether anyone was following her. As nobody of a more suspicious character than an errand boy and a nurse girl with a perambulator was in sight, she began to congratulate herself that she had escaped unobserved. How soon her absence would be discovered depended upon when Miss Poppleton or one of the monitresses next paid a visit to the dressing-room; and she laughed to picture the consternation that would ensue when the door was unlocked and her prison found to be vacant. No doubt they would send in search of her, but in the meantime she had stolen a march upon them, and given herself the advantage of a start, so she hoped by using all possible haste to get away before she was traced.
As she strode rapidly along, all her old vagabond instincts arose, and the gipsy element which had justified her name came strongly to the fore. It wasa delightful, mild afternoon, with blue sky and bright sunshine; the gardens on either side of the road were gay with pink hawthorn and long, drooping sprays of laburnum, while blackbirds, thrushes, chaffinches, and tits were singing in a perfect chorus of joy. It felt so glorious to be as free as the birds, to be rid of all the tiresome rules and restrictions and conventions that had oppressed her soul for the last eight months, to be accountable to nobody but herself, and to be able to do just what she chose and go where she liked. School seemed as a nightmare behind her, and the world a fresh wonderland which it was her happy privilege to have the chance to explore.
"I'll never go back again—never!" she resolved. "Not if I have to sweep a crossing or sell flowers! But I don't think it will come to that, because I'm sure I can get a post on board ship. Oh, what a blissful relief it is to be on my own for once! I've made up my mind to find Dad, if I have to go to the ends of the earth to hunt for him."
In the exuberance of her spirits she almost danced along, humming now Schubert's "Wander Song", with its ringing refrain:
"Oh! surely he must careless be,Who never loved to wander free,To wander! To wander!"
or "The Miller of Dee", with special emphasis on the words:
"I care for nobody, no, not I!And nobody cares for me."
The sight of the town of Greyfield, with its streetsand shops, changed the current of her thoughts, and brought the more sober reflection that she had no money in her pocket, and that it was a matter of urgent necessity to obtain some if she meant to reach Liverpool and start for South Africa. The fare, she knew, was about seven shillings, and though she hoped to be able to embark on board ship almost immediately after her arrival at the port, she supposed she would require something in the way of food on the journey. It went to her heart to be obliged to sell her beautiful gold watch, but in the circumstances it seemed the only thing to be done, and she braced her mind to part with it. She had no previous experience of selling things, so, choosing out the best jeweller's shop in the High Street, she marched blithely in, and taking off her watch and chain laid them upon the counter.
"Yes, Miss; want repairing, I suppose?" enquired the assistant who came to attend to her.
"No, they're in perfectly good order; but I wish to sell them. What price can you give me for them?" returned Gipsy confidently.
The man looked at her in decided astonishment, then pushed back the watch across the counter with a marked decrease of civility.
"We don't do that kind of business," he replied shortly.
"Won't you buy it then?" asked Gipsy in accents of blank disappointment.
"No; it's not in our line at all."
"Then where should I be able to sell it?"
"I couldn't say; probably at a secondhand shop. We only deal in new articles."
Very much disconcerted and snubbed, Gipsy snatched up her watch and chain and fled from the shop. She had evidently made a mistake in applying at a first-class jeweller's, and she was angry at having exposed herself to the humiliation of a rebuff. With two flaming spots in her cheeks, she stalked down the High Street, and into one of the narrower and more modest by-streets, where smaller shops were to be found. She walked on for quite a long way without meeting with any place that looked in the least degree likely; then at last, at the corner of an even humbler street still, she found a secondhand furniture dealer, who, to judge by the contents of his windows, seemed also to trade in a variety of miscellaneous articles. On the pavement in front of the shop were spread forth specimens of chairs, tables, and washstands, and inside she could see a goodly array of glass, antique china, old jewellery, old silver, prints, pictures, books, candlesticks, firearms, and an assortment of small pieces of bric-à-brac. Over the door was the name of Daniel Lucas.
"This looks more the kind of place," she murmured. "I'll have a try here, at any rate."
The interior of the shop was so crowded with furniture that it was quite difficult to walk between the piled-up sideboards and sofas to the corner where a very dirty and shabby-looking individual, with untidy grey hair and unshaven chin, was busy adding up accounts. He paused with a grimy finger in the middle of a column of figures, and peered at Gipsy with a pair of red, bleary eyes.
"HE PAUSED AND PEERED AT GIPSY""HE PAUSED AND PEERED AT GIPSY"
"I see you sell secondhand jewellery here, and wantto know if you care to buy a watch," she began, with rather less assurance than at her former interview.
"It depends on the article. Have you brought it with you?" replied the old man cautiously.
"It's real gold, and so is the chain," volunteered Gipsy, as she produced her treasure.
Mr. Daniel Lucas examined both watch and chain with minute care, then shook his head deprecatingly.
"I'm afraid it wouldn't be of much use to me. You see, it's not exactly in the nature of an antique," he replied.
Gipsy's face fell. To get the money for her journey was a matter of vital importance.
"Couldn't you offer me anything for it?" she pleaded.
The bleary red eyes glanced at her keenly, and appeared to appreciate her disappointment.
"Well, to oblige you, I might go to a matter of seven and six."
"Couldn't you possibly make it ten shillings, with the chain?" hazarded Gipsy. She had no idea of the value of secondhand articles, and thought only of what amount would take her to Liverpool.
"All right—with the chain. But it's a poor bargain for me, mind you. I'm only doing it just to oblige you," returned Mr. Lucas, opening a drawer and counting out four half-crowns with an alacrity that belied his words. Thankful to have concluded the transaction on any terms, Gipsy seized the money and beat a hasty retreat. She was extremely anxious to reach the station before Miss Poppleton missed her and sent somebody in search of her. She had no ideaof the times of the trains, but trusted to luck to catch the next that would take her anywhere in the right direction. With her four precious half-crowns grasped tightly in her hand, she hurried back up the sordid street, and took the shortest cut possible to the railway station. There was quite a crowd at the booking office, so she was able to take her place in the queue of prospective travellers and to obtain her ticket without attracting any special attention.
"Liverpool?" said the inspector who stood at the platform door. "You've just time if you're quick. That's the train over there on No. 3."
Gipsy fled across the bridge with a speed that seriously interfered with the convenience of passengers coming in the opposite direction; she rattled down the steps on to Platform 3, and, nearly falling over a pile of luggage, flung herself into the first third-class compartment that came to hand.
"Am I right for Liverpool?" she gasped tremulously to the collector who came to punch her ticket.
"Quite right, Miss; change at Preston, that's all," replied the man as he slammed the door.
The porters were thrusting some boxes into the luggage van, and a few latecomers made a last dash for carriages; then the green flag waved, the whistle sounded, and the train started with a jerk. Gipsy, hot, excited, and agitated, drew a long, long breath of relief. She was actually off! They were speeding fast out of the station, and she was leaving Greyfield and Briarcroft, and all the painful experiences of the last few months, entirely behind her. She could hardly believe her good luck in thus slipping awayunobserved. True, she had only a half-crown and two pennies left after paying her fare, but she supposed that would be enough to last her until she could go on board a vessel. Surely chance had favoured her in enabling her to reach the station in the nick of time to catch the train, and no doubt she would be equally fortunate when she reached Liverpool. Her fellow passengers were uninteresting, and she had no desire to talk to anyone and confide her affairs, so she amused herself with her own thoughts and plans for the future. At Preston she changed, and bought a bun at the refreshment rooms; her dinner had been almost untasted, and she was growing hungry now. It seemed funny to have absolutely no luggage, though in one respect it was a great convenience not to be obliged to haul about a heavy handbag, or to tip a porter out of her extremely small capital.
"I feel almost as if I'd been shipwrecked again—in a borrowed dress and hat, and nothing else to call my own!" she thought with a smile.
It was half-past six before the train arrived at the big Liverpool terminus—rather late in the day to begin all the numerous enquiries which Gipsy was determined to make; but, nothing daunted, she set out at once for Waterloo, to try to find the residence of her old friend Captain Smith. She was directed by a policeman to take an overhead electric car, and travelled several miles above what seemed a wilderness of streets before she reached the suburb in question. Not knowing where to make a beginning, she decided to go first to a post office, thinking that there she might be able to gain the information she wanted.She had somehow imagined Waterloo to be quite a little place, where by diligent enquiry it would be fairly easy to trace such an important person as a sea captain who had been wrecked in the Bay of Biscay; greatly to her dismay, however, she found herself in the midst of what seemed a large city in itself—a veritable maze of long streets and small houses, stretching away into the distance with an endless vista of chimneypots. In a distinctly sober frame of mind she entered the post office and proffered her question.
"Smith? I couldn't tell you, I'm sure; there are so many Smiths," said the girl at the counter, with a superior smile. "One of them may be a sea captain, for anything I know. You'd better look in the Directory."
Gipsy seized upon the book with a sense of relief, and carried it off to a less busy part of the office. She turned up Waterloo, found the list of residents, and went through them in alphabetical order till she reached the letter S. She was appalled to see the number of Smiths who resided at Waterloo. To some of the names the Directory had appended an occupation, but with many it gave no details. Taking one of the telegraph forms she wrote down the addresses of about a dozen Smiths who, she considered, might be likely; then, returning the Directory to the girl at the counter, she started off on her arduous quest.
"I shall go to 'Ocean Villa' first," she thought. "It has a particularly nautical sound. I shouldn't think anybody but a sea captain could possibly live there. 'The Anchorage' sounds hopeful too, though it oughtto be the home of somebody who is retired. 'Sea View Cottage' is doubtful, but 'Teneriffe House' is likely. TheQueen of the Wavesused to touch sometimes at Teneriffe. Oh, dear! the trouble will be to hunt out where they all are."
Poor Gipsy had indeed undertaken a most difficult task. She was obliged to ask her way again and again, and when at length she arrived at "Ocean Villa" it was only to meet with the information that nobody of a seafaring description was known there. Much disappointed, she trudged away in an opposite direction to find "The Anchorage", and after walking half a mile or more in search of it, was again confronted with ill success. At "Sea View Cottage" and "Teneriffe House" she fared no better; the occupiers, albeit they belonged to the great family of Smiths, had no connection whatever with the sea: and though she went to several other addresses on her list, the answer was invariably the same.
Utterly tired out, weary and despondent, Gipsy retraced her steps in the direction of the post office. Having parted with her watch, she had no idea of the time, but catching sight of a clock in a public building, she was horrified to find it was nearly a quarter to nine. The days at that season of the year were long, and this particular evening had been more than usually light; moreover, she had been entirely preoccupied with her quest, so she had never given a thought to the rapidly passing hours. For the first time the question of where she must sleep presented itself to her.
"I must get back to Liverpool," she thought, "andapply at one of the shipping offices. The docks aren't very far away, so I can get engaged as stewardess and go on board some ship at once, I expect."
But in the meantime a meal was an urgent necessity. She was sick and faint from want of food, and felt as if her tired feet could scarcely carry her farther. Seeing a modest confectioner's shop with a notice "Teas Provided", she went in and asked for some refreshment. The proprietress, a little elderly woman, struck partly by the weary look on her face, and partly by the unusual circumstance of a girl of her age coming into the shop alone to ask for tea at so late an hour, took her into a small parlour, and while laying the table and bringing in the meal, insinuated a few skilful questions as to where she was going. Gipsy had decided to pose as a working girl, so she answered readily enough that she was on her way to Liverpool, to find a post as assistant stewardess; and she wished to be very quick over her tea, so that she might go at once to the shipping offices, procure an engagement, and proceed at once to her vessel.
The expression on the woman's face changed from curiosity to sympathy, and then to utter consternation, as Gipsy briefly stated her intentions.
"But my goodness gracious! You'll never get a situation at this time of night!" she broke out. "Why, don't you know all the offices close at half-past five?"
Gipsy had not known, and the news struck her like a deadly blow.
"The offices all closed! Do you mean to say I can't get on board ship to-night?" she gasped. "Then where in the world am I to go?"
The woman shook her head dubiously.
"Best go back where you've come from," she remarked.
"I can't! I can't!" cried Gipsy. "That's absolutely impossible. Oh! why didn't I know of this before? What shall I do? What shall I do?" and springing up excitedly from the table, she burst into a flood of tears. For the first time she realized what an extremely rash thing she had done in running away, and in what a terrible position she had placed herself. Alone, friendless, and nearly penniless, in the midst of a great, strange city, with no one who knew her, nowhere to go, and the light already fading so fast that it was dark in the little parlour! She had acted almost on the spur of the moment in leaving Briarcroft, without seriously considering whether her plans were practicable, and now she was reaping the bitter harvest of her own folly. She began heartily to wish herself back at school; even Miss Poppleton's severest scolding was as nothing to the misery of this present crisis, and she yearned for the sight of Miss Edith with a longing that amounted to home-sickness. Wishing and regretting, however, would not help her in the least. She must find some way out of her difficulty, and that promptly.
"I've only one and ninepence left," she faltered. "And out of that I have to pay for my tea and keep a few pennies to go back into Liverpool with by the car. Could I get a night's lodging anywhere very cheaply? Do you know of a clean place?"
"Better not try cheap lodgings!" said the woman emphatically. "Can't you go home again? No?That's a bad lookout." Then, noticing the utter agony in Gipsy's face, she added: "Well, I'd be sorry to turn a young girl like you out alone at this time of night. I'll let you sleep on the sofa here, if you can manage, and you can get on to Liverpool first thing in the morning."
Manage? Gipsy would have slept on the floor, instead of the sofa, if required. She was only too thankful to be allowed to stay, and was almost ready to hug the little confectioner with gratitude. She was so utterly wearied that she was glad to lie down at once in the parlour, and even before the tea-things were removed from the table she had sunk into a sleep of absolute exhaustion. Her hostess scanned her face narrowly, took in the details of her dress, and examined her school hat with attention, then shook her head.
"Doesn't look much in the stewardess line of business," she muttered. "There's something wrong here, I'm afraid. I'll have a talk with her to-morrow." Then she locked the parlour door carefully before she went back to the shop.
Gipsy slept straight on until eight o'clock the next morning, when she was aroused by her landlady, who brought her a cup of tea and a piece of thick bread and butter.
"If you'll take the advice of one who knows more of the world than you," said the woman, "you'll go back home as fast as you can. Your own folks are the best to look after you. If you've spent all your money, they'd help you at the police station. They'll always send a girl back to her friends." Then, leavingGipsy to digest her remarks while eating her breakfast, she went to perform household tasks.
The last hint put Gipsy in a panic. With her long night's rest her spirits had revived, and her courage returned. The idea of seeking her father in South Africa appeared once more attractive, and she had no wish to be taken charge of by the police and ignominiously packed back to school. She wondered whether the little confectioner had already gone to inform a constable of her whereabouts. She could and would not allow herself to be thus treated. Hurriedly finishing the tea and bread and butter, she laid all her money, with the exception of sixpence, on the table, and finding the shop door already open, made her escape into the street. It felt almost like running away a second time, and she was sorry not to have said "Thank you!" for her night's lodging, but she considered the emergency to be critical, and was glad when she turned the corner and was out of sight of the shop. She made her way as fast as possible to the electric railway, and took the first car for Liverpool, determined not to waste any further time in looking for Captain Smith at Waterloo, but to try her utmost to obtain a berth as stewardess. By dint of diligent asking, she managed to find the quarters of one of the shipping companies that ran a line of steamers to South Africa, and after toiling up a long flight of stairs she boldly entered the office, and stated her business to an astonished clerk. He gave her one comprehensive glance, screwed up his mouth, and most impolitely whistled.
"Whew! You're rather juvenile for the job, ain'tyou?" he asked facetiously. "Ever been on the sea before? 'Tisn't nice when it's rough, I can tell you."
"I'm older than I look," returned Gipsy with dignity, suddenly remembering, however, to her confusion, that she had forgotten to buy a box of hairpins and turn up her hair. "That's to say, I'm quite old enough to be very useful on board ship, and I know all about long voyages. I'd like to speak to the head of the office."
"I dare say you would! But he's not here yet—never comes down till ten or half-past, and I don't believe he'd see you, either. We're not wanting any stewardesses at present—leastways, those we engage have to be on the wrong side of thirty."
"I'll wait and see the head of the office," announced Gipsy firmly.
"Well! Of all the cheek—!"
But at that moment the telephone bell rang violently in an inner room, and the clerk fled to the instrument. After a few minutes he returned, and with a complete change in his manner asked Gipsy to take a seat.
"The Chief will be here before long," he said affably. "If you don't mind waiting a little, I can promise it will be to your advantage."
Gipsy sat down on one of the office chairs, and amused herself for about the space of ten minutes in studying the shipping advertisements that were hung round the walls. She turned eagerly at last when a footstep was heard upon the staircase. Was it the manager of the Tower Line, she wondered, and would he after all be willing to engage her for the work she desired? Her heart beat and throbbed as the doorswung open. But instead of a stranger appeared the familiar figure of her friend Meg's father.
"Gipsy! Gipsy!" cried Mr. Gordon reproachfully. "Thank Heaven I've found you! Come along with me at once, child! We must go straight back to Greyfield by the next express."