CHAPTER IX—AT THE GYPSY ENCAMPMENT
It was evening of a cloudless day when Paul and Hilda reached the Warfield farmhouse, which was looking charmingly picturesque in the ruby-red glow of the sunset.
The flowers in the lawn were giving out their sweetness, and birds in the maples were singing their vesper songs as if in greeting to the travelers.
Mrs. Warfield’s welcome to both was tenderly kind, and the marked resemblance she bore to Mrs. Ashley was a joy to Hilda.
Separated from those whose loving kindness had made life a holiday to her, she had again found a home and a mother.
“I will not weary you, my dear, by questioning now, but will give you the opportunity to refresh yourself after your journey,” said Mrs. Warfield, and, conducting Hilda to a pleasant room adjoining her own, she left her to herself and returned to the parlor to talk with Paul.
“Her beauty quite bewildered me, it was so unexpected,” she said, laying her hand upon his shoulder as he sat by the window, newspaper in hand.
“Yes, and the Merrymans spoke of the sweetness of her disposition. She will be a charming companion for you, mother.”
“I know I will love her as a daughter. How did you like the family who have so kindly cared for her?”
“I never met strangers whom I admire more. We have taken her from an excellent home, mother, and must try to make her happy here.”
“We will. And now tell me of my future daughter-in-law,” continued Mrs. Warfield, with a smile. “I hope she is well and happy.”
“Perfectly so,” replied the young man, smiling in turn and reddening slightly. “She sent her love to her future mother-in-law.”
“For which I am duly obliged. When does she expect to come home?”
“In a fortnight, and has promised to be my wife within the year. Mother dear, you will have more daughters than you can manage!”
“Yes, I can count upon three. Fred will be bringing me a daughter one of these days, I suppose.”
“If he can keep in love with any one girl long enough. He is fickle, and the girls seem to know it.”
“He is a jolly, generous, conscientious boy,” commented his mother with a glow of pride. “I don’t believe he would intentionally wound the feelings of anyone, and I hope the girls he flirts with understand that he means nothing serious.”
A step was heard on the stairs, and in a moment Hilda appeared at the parlor door.
“I think I told you on our journey that Fred is reading law with an attorney in Springfield,” remarked Paul, as he arose to give her a chair.
“Yes, and you also said that you expected him this evening.”
“I did, and he has come,” exclaimed Paul, glancing eagerly toward the door, for quick footsteps were coming toward it, and a buoyant voice had called, “Mother, where are you?”
“Here!” responded Mrs. Warfield, her eyes beaming with pleasure. “Come and welcome your new cousin!”
Fred came forward in his easy, graceful manner and was presented in due form.
“They are as handsome as pictures,” thought Mrs. Warfield proudly. “The Garden of Eden could scarcely have shown a handsomer couple.”
“How are you, old fellow?” said Fred, turning with a bright smile to shake hands with his brother.
“In fine health and spirits, and I see you are the same.”
“I thought you were not coming until late. Having you in time for supper is an unexpected pleasure,” said his mother.
“I intended coming out on the evening train, but there are gypsies encamped in Mr. Barry’s woods, and some of the young people of Springfield came out in carriages to have their fortunes told, and insisted that I should come with them, and here I am.”
“I have not the least belief in gypsies or in fortune telling, but I am glad you are here. Now we will go to the tea table.”
With an arm about his mother’s waist, Paul led the way, and Fred, with a radiant smile of pleasure, offered his arm to Hilda, who accepted with a smile and blush.
If Mrs. Warfield allowed herself to be proud of anything, it was of her sons, and not without reason. They were sensible, well educated, attentive to business, and honorable in their dealings, and mothers with marriageable daughters could not forbear pointing out, or at least alluding to the excellence of these damsels when in the society of Sarah Warfield.
If it be true that happy people have no history, then nothing could have been recorded of Fred Warfield, for Mother Destiny had willed that his pathway from babyhood should lie in sunshine, never in shadow. He had experienced but few disappointments and fewer trials to dampen his exuberant spirits; but light, almost trifling as he was in manner, his intimates knew that beneath it all was a warm, affectionate nature, a steadfast love for what was good, and a wish to help others to enjoy life, as he undoubtedly did.
That he was captivated by every new face and fickle in his attachments was known to all who were acquainted with him, but they looked upon it as no more than might be expected of a handsome youth who was courted and admired in society, a fault which age and experience would correct.
That evening at the farmhouse was an ideally happy one to him, the only shadow to its brightness being the knowledge that he could not study law in Springfield and at the same time remain under the home roof without attracting attention to the fact that it was because Hilda was there.
Without appearing to notice, Mrs. Warfield took note of Fred’s manner to the young girl, and read his thoughts as accurately as if inscribed upon the page of an open book, and resolved to have a more serious conversation with him than she had ever had in regard to his failing.
If it lay in her power to prevent it, there should be no trifling with the affections of any girl, no blighted happiness laid to the charge of her sons.
“It is really too beautiful this evening to stay indoors,” remarked Fred, when, tea finished, they returned to the parlor. “Mother, I will have Planchette put to the carriage and take you and cousin Hilda for a drive.”
“I would enjoy it, but Hilda will excuse me this evening, as several ladies are coming from the village to help arrange for a fair to be held in the hall there, but that need not prevent you and Hilda from going.”
“We will drive past the gypsy encampment,” said Fred eagerly, turning to Hilda. “It is really romantic; I could scarcely tear myself away. You will go, won’t you, cousin?”
No need to ask. Hilda’s face showed her delight in anticipation of something so new and altogether enchanting.
“I hope you will not encourage the gypsies by stopping to listen to their foolishness,” said Mrs. Warfield gently.
“Oh, I would not have them tell my fortune for anything!” ejaculated Hilda. “I would be afraid they would tell me something evil.”
“That would depend upon what you paid them,” smiled Mrs. Warfield.
Fred made no comment, but hurried out to give orders for the conveyance.
“Now, cousin mine,” he said as it came to the gate, “allow me to assist you,” and with easy grace he took the filmy white scarf from Hilda’s hand and placed it adroitly and becomingly on her brown hair and a few minutes later Planchette was speeding away with the long swinging trot which characterized her.
Fred had said truly that nothing could be pleasanter than the drive to the encampment, and nothing more romantic than the scene upon which they looked a little later.
In order to observe, and, as he thought, be unobserved, Fred selected as a good place to halt a part of the forest separated from the encampment by a running brook and the thick screen of willows on either side, between the trunks of which they could, with but slight obstruction, have a good view of the camp.
In the foreground were two small tents, in front of which was burning a bright fire of brushwood.
Two forked sticks supported an iron rod from which was suspended a tea kettle, clouds of steam issuing from lid and spout.
Upon a large box which served as a table a middle-aged woman had spread a white cloth, and was placing upon it dishes of different colors, and with an eye to effect.
A young and handsome gypsy in a scarlet dress and with a plaid kerchief about her shapely throat was seated under a large oak tree that spread its protecting arms over the tents.
Her swarthy yet clear complexion was smooth as satin, her eyes were large, brown and lustrous, and her crimson lips parted frequently in smiles at the gambols of the child at her feet, showing her perfect teeth. Two robust little boys played about the mossy bank, upon whom her eyes rested with pride.
Back of the tents stood two substantial, covered wagons, and under the oaks beside them lay three gypsy men, idly watching the horses, which, held by ropes, were cropping the grass within reach.
“It looks so lovely and peaceful,” commented Hilda. “I wish an artist were here to sketch it.”
“The full moon is rising,” said Fred, turning to look through the window of the carriage; “the tops of the trees are becoming silvered, which adds to the beauty. Would you like to be a gypsy, Cousin Hilda?”
“At this hour it would be charming to encamp; but during the bitter cold and snow-storms of winter the poor creatures must suffer.”
“No danger but they will keep warm so long as there is wood to steal; besides, they are accustomed to rough it,” said Fred lightly.
“And yet they suffer sometimes from exposure. When I was a child Dr. Lattinger attended a gypsy who was ill of pneumonia. Their encampment was in the woods near Dorton during two months of winter, and Dr. Lattinger saw her twice a day. He said they were very respectful to him, and in sympathy for the sick woman and in care of her were much like our own people. They were of the tribe of Stanley.”
“Yes, I suppose they have good and evil among them as have other communities, but it is the general belief that gypsies are not trustworthy.”
“Which of those women is the fortune-teller?”
“Neither of those. I do not see her. She must be in one of the tents.”
“Is she handsome?”
“Handsome! She is gray and wrinkled, and toothless and swarthy, cross-grained and disagreeable in every way. Phew!” grimaced Fred, at the remembrance of the prophetess.
“She did not please you in your fortune, I think,” laughed Hilda.
“She was not very clever to me, that is certain. Jack Prettyman gave her the largest fee, and is to marry a rich and beautiful girl and live in Europe.”
“What did she tell you?”
“She paid me a few compliments, which no doubt I deserve. She caught me mimicking her, and I never saw such a look of malignant hate as crossed her ugly face.”
“Had you no faith in her predictions, then?”
“No; yet I felt almost startled when she described my mother and my home better than I could have done. She also told me of some of my flirtations,” continued Fred, laughingly, while he reddened. “The old vixen said I would meet my match at no distant day, and would receive no pity, and deserve none.”
“How could she describe your mother and your home?” said his companion, amused at his discomfiture. “She had never seen them, had she?”
“Not that I am aware of, but these strollers have sources of information unsuspected by honest individuals. She could not have told me so much of my life since childhood had not someone given her the information.”
“What did she tell the ladies who came with you?”
“Something that pleased them very much, judging by their happy looks and smiles. We tried to persuade them to tell us, but they would only give us scraps and hints which might have been told any young lady and not been far wrong.”
“They are such good-looking people. I imagined that all gypsies had a wild, degraded look.”
“These are the most respectable ones I have seen, so far as appearances go, especially that one by the oak tree. They also belong to the illustrious house of Stanley.”
Fred’s laugh arose above the key to which they had been modulating their voices, and they realized that it had attracted the attention of the gypsies.
The men arose, and tying the horses, stood awhile looking about them, conversing in a low tone, then went to the brook, laved hands and face, and went to supper.
“Cousin Hilda,” said Fred, who had been gazing intently at the horses, “I believe that beautiful cream-colored one is the very animal that was stolen from an innkeeper in Springfield about two years ago.”
“But there are many cream-colored horses; how could you be certain that this is the one? Or why do you imagine it is?”
“By the peculiar manner in which she tosses her head. The one I speak of belonged to a circus company and had been trained to perform several tricks. I feel quite sure that this is the animal.”
“But surely you do not intend hinting anything of the kind to them?” said Hilda, anxiously.
“No, but Planchette is perfectly quiet. If you will hold the lines a moment I will take a circuit and come up back of the tents, and while the gypsies are at supper will examine that horse.”
“But what proof would a closer view give you?”
“One of the tricks of the circus horse was to kneel if touched upon a particular spot on his head. I know that spot and will put it to the test. You can watch from the carriage and see if I am right.”
“Oh, Cousin Fred, do be careful! Suppose they should see you?”
“But I do not intend them to see me, and will be back in a moment.” He swung himself lightly from the carriage and disappeared behind the thick underbrush.
Hilda gazed anxiously in the direction of the tents and saw Fred reach the place, keeping at the same time his attention upon the gypsies.
Patting the animal gently, and speaking in a low, soothing tone, his fingers glided to a spot upon her forehead. Instantly the intelligent creature knelt and laid her mouth in the outstretched palm of Fred. He raised his arm and she arose to her feet; and convinced that he was not mistaken, Fred went swiftly behind the tents on the way back to the carriage.
He found Hilda with a blanched face, a look of terror in her eyes, and seeming almost on the verge of fainting.
“Oh, Fred,” she whispered, “the fortune teller sprang from behind that bush the moment you left, and I cannot tell you the terrible things she said to me! She heard all you said and has gone to tell them.”
Fred was no coward, nor was he foolhardy. He realized the danger they were in, and his cheek grew as pale as that of his companion.
A commotion was visible among the gypsies—loud talking, curses and threatening looks toward the carriage, and a general uprising from the table.
Fred sprang to his place beside Hilda, took the reins preparatory to flight, had turned Planchette’s head toward the road and reached to take the whip from the socket, when the bridle was grasped by one of the men.
“Halt, liar, and explain, or you shall not leave this place alive!” cried the gypsy, his black eyes blazing with fury.
For answer Fred brought the lash down upon his hand with a quick, stinging stroke. The bridle was released, and Planchette sprang forward just as a bullet whizzed through the back of the carriage between the heads of the occupants, and amid shouts and imprecations from men, women and children, they cleared the woods, and were in comparative safety.
“This is only loaned,” exclaimed Fred, with flashing eyes, and face pale from anger and excitement. “I was single-handed, unarmed, and have a lady with me. It shall be returned with interest!”
“Oh, Fred,” implored Hilda, almost faint from terror, “promise me not to molest them! I should never forgive myself if anything happened to you, Which would surely be the case if you attacked them. Promise me!”
“That horse was stolen, Hilda; they should be made to return it! They fired upon me, and it is not through any merit in them that one of us is not lying dead at this moment. Would you wish me to leave all these things unpunished?”
“Yes, for we are the ones at fault. They did not go to us; we came to them.”
“Then you wish me to act the coward’s part by hiding their theft, and the attempt upon our lives?”
“Yes, all; all for the sake of your mother. Oh, to think that the very first evening of my coming I should be the cause of bringing anxiety and perhaps anguish upon her! Promise me, Fred, or I will not return to your house.”
“You would despise me when you reflected upon it,” commented the young man moodily. “Were I to follow your advice I would be of no credit to you.”
“What credit would it be to you, or to anyone, to quarrel with gypsies? Supposing you were victorious and killed one or more of them, what would it add to your advantage or happiness?”
“The woman insulted and frightened you. What man worthy of the name would allow it to go unpunished?”
“Words do not kill; I care nothing about them, and would not have told you only to warn you of the danger we were in. We were the aggressors.”
“They should be driven from the neighborhood, which the authorities cannot do unless complaint be made against them, and you will not let me make it.”
“We are unharmed, and have no right to complain against them when it was our own fault. They may not have stolen the horse, but bought it from someone who did, as I am sure if they had stolen it they would not encamp so near Springfield, where at any moment the horse is liable to be recognized.”
“That looks reasonable,” said Fred, reflectively.
“Let us keep it a secret, at least for some time. I am a girl, but I can keep it to myself.”
“Agreed!” responded Fred.
“Promise that you will not pass the encampment on your way back to Springfield, will you?”
“No, I will go by the way of the Lakes, or the Pacific, or around by California and the Isthmus of Panama, if you prefer.”
“My mind is at rest now,” said Hilda with an answering smile. “Thank you, Cousin Fred, I will go home with you now.”
Her mind was at rest so far as concerned the safety of Fred, but her tried nerves could not recover their tone for many days. Her sleep was troubled, and in dreams she saw the wild faces of the gypsies, heard their shouts and imprecations, and saw Fred dying at her feet.