  For half an hour Nan rode, bent low in her saddle possibly with the thought that she would be less noticeable. Each time that the winding road brought her to an open place where she could see across the valley, she drew rein and gazed steadily at the ribbon-like trail which appeared, was lost to sight, and re-appeared for many miles to the south. At last what she sought was seen, a horseman so small because of the distance that he appeared no larger than a toy going rapidly away. Sitting erect, the girl gazed down in the other direction and saw the garden city of San Seritos between the mountains and the sea. “Ho, Binnie!” she cried, her black eyes glowing. “I know where we’ll go.—Back to that beach place where the flowers of gold are.” And then, in the glory of the still early morning, with her black hair flying back of her, the girl in the red and yellow dress galloped down to the highway and rode around the village, that no-one might see her and arrest her because she was a gypsy. There were but few astir at so early an hour, but the sun was high in the heavens when at last she reached the little ravine that led down to the sea. This time she breakfasted alone in the shadow of the high hedge, and the shining white birds did not come. “Perhaps they only came for little Tirol,” she thought. Then springing up, she stretched her arms toward the gleaming blue sky as she said: “I do want little Tirol to be happy.” This was an impulse and not a prayer, for the gypsies had no religion, and Nan knew nothing really of the heaven of the gorigo. Then, telling Binnie to wait for her she opened the gate and entered the garden. The masses of golden and scarlet bloom, the glistening of many colors in the fountain, the joyous song of birds in the red-berried pepper trees fascinated the gypsy girl, and she danced about like some wild thing, up and down the garden paths, pausing now and then to press her cheek passionately against a big yellow crysanthemum that stood nearly as tall as she, and to it she would murmur lovingly in strange Romany words. She was following a path which she and Tirol had not found, suddenly she paused and listened. She had heard voices, and peering through the low hanging branches of an ornamental tree, she saw a pretty cottage by the side of great iron gates that stood ajar. Here lived the head gardener and his little family. A buxum, kindly faced young woman was talking to a small girl of seven. “Now, Bertha, watch Bobbie careful,” she was saying. “Mammy is going up to the big house. The grand ladies is comin’ home today an’ every-thin’ must be spic and ready.” Nan darted deeper among the shrubs and bushes for the young woman passed so close that she could have touched her. The gypsy girl remained in hiding and watched the small children who looked strange to her with their flaxen hair and pink cheeks used as she was to the dark-eyed, black-haired, fox-like little gypsies. The baby boy was a chubby laughing two-year-old, “Birdie,” as he called his sister, played with him for a time on the grass in front of their cottage. At last, wearying of this, she said—“Now Bobby, you sit right still like a mouse while Birdie goes and fetches out her dollie.” Springing up, the little girl ran indoors. A second later a butterfly darted past the wee boy. Gurgling in delight, he scrambled to his feet and toddled uncertainly after it. Out through the partly-open iron gates he went, and then, tripping, he sprawled in the dust of the roadway. At that same instant Nan heard the chugging of an oncoming machine and leaping from her hiding place, she darted through the gates and into the road. A big touring car was swerving around a corner. The frightened baby, after trying to scramble to his feet, had fallen again. Nan, seizing him, hurled him to the soft grass by the roadside. Then she fell and the machine passed over her. The “grand ladies” had returned. The car stopped almost instantly, and the chauffeur lifted the limp form of the gypsy girl in his arms. “I don’t think she’s dead, Miss Barrington,” he said, “and if you ladies wish I’ll take her right to the county hospital as quickly as I can.” The older woman spoke coldly. “No, I would not consider that I was doing my duty if I sent her to the county hospital. You may carry her into the house, Martin, and then procure a physician at once.” “But, Miss Barrington, she’s nothing but a gypsy, and yours the proudest family in all San Seritos or anywhere for that,” the man said, with the freedom of an old servant. Then, it was that the other lady spoke, and in her voice was the warmth of pity and compassion. “Of course we’ll take the poor child into our home,” she said. “She may be only a gypsy girl, but no greater thing can anyone do than risk his own life for another.” And so the seemingly lifeless Gypsy Nan was carried into the mansion-like home which stood in the garden-all-aglow that she had so loved. |
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