Kitabı oku: «Girls of the True Blue», sayfa 5
CHAPTER X. – A MYSTERY
All in good time Nan’s foot got better, but for a week she was kept away from school, and during that week Augusta contrived to rivet her chains. At the end of that time she was able to walk again, and, to her own infinite relief, she went back to school. She learnt her lessons just as carefully as ever; she was pronounced by her teachers to be a remarkably clever and intelligent child; but there was a change in her face. It had not the look that it had worn when first she had come to the Richmonds’, but in some respects its expression was even sadder. Then it was just grief, absolute and terrible, for the loss of her mother; now there was a new expression in the frank eyes and sensitive lips, which puzzled those who looked at her. In process of time Kitty had got over the death of Pip. Her affections were deep, and nothing would induce her to talk about the rat; but she was a merry and happy child in other respects. She would not have a rat again, she said – at least, not for a very long time; but she attended to her mice, and looked after Nora’s rat, and saw that the dogs and kittens were comfortable, and that Polly had a good time in her cage. Not the faintest gleam of suspicion attached itself to Nan. Jack’s share in the death of Pip was likely to remain a secret to the end of time; so also was the true story of Nan’s sprained foot. But what ailed Nan herself? Kitty remarked on the change in her one day to Nora.
“She is not a bit the same, and I cannot make out what is wrong with her,” she said. “Do you think by any chance, Noney, that Augusta has anything to do with it?”
“Oh no!” replied Nora. “Augusta is a very nice girl, and she is extremely fond of Nan: she often says so.”
“Well, I am not quite so sure,” replied Kitty. “I saw her two days ago” —
“Yes; what did you see two days ago?”
“I do not like to tell tales, but I came into the schoolroom quite unexpectedly. I slipped away, and no one saw.”
“Well, go on; you always are so mysterious, Kitty.”
“Nan was crying.”
“Yes.”
“And Augusta was scolding her. I heard Augusta say, ‘If you tell you will be the biggest little fool that I ever heard of.’ Now, why should she say that?”
“Are you sure you heard those words?” asked Nora in a tone of great astonishment.
“Yes, I am certain she said them; and she meant them. And Nan’s face was – oh, so miserable! I got out of the room, and no one knew that I was listening; but I have a great mind to speak to Nan about it.”
“I wish you would. If Nan has a secret on her mind she had much better tell us. She is looking so pale! She seems to have no life in her – no interest in anything.”
“Very well; I will. I will tell her what I overheard.”
Nora and Kitty were as downright and honest as Augusta was the reverse. But Augusta was very clever; she knew well what sort of characters she had to deal with in the two little sisters; and whereas she secretly bullied Nan, held her secret for her, and had her absolutely in thrall, she was careful not to pursue any such methods with the sisters. With them she was open and above-board, delighting them with her apparent frankness, telling good stories, taking their parts, laughing with them – making the schoolroom party a very merry one indeed.
On the evening of the very same day that Kitty had made her small confidence to Nora, Nora and Augusta were walking home together. In consequence of Augusta’s superior age they were allowed to go as far as the Park by themselves, and they were hastening home now to be in time for the schoolroom tea.
“How nice it will be when I am grown-up,” said Augusta. “I shall be fifteen before very long, and then it will not take many years before I am out and enjoying myself. I mean to get mother to take me a great deal into society. I should love balls and parties, and gay frocks, and – and admirers.”
“Oh dear! it is more than I would,” said Nora. “I do not a bit want to be grown-up.”
“You will when the time comes; and of course you are too young to think of it at present. I expect you will look very nice when you grow up, Nora.”
“I don’t care whether I do or not. I don’t care twopence about my looks. I want to do my lessons well, and to learn a good bit, and then to devote myself to natural history. I shall never care for human beings as I care for animals. I want some day to own a complete menagerie or a sort of Zoo. If ever I have money in the future I will buy a great big garden, and have high – very high – walls round it; and I will keep all sorts of animals in great cages – wild creatures, you know – leopards and tigers and pumas. Oh! and wild-cats. And I will have a deep, deep sunken pond with alligators. I suppose I must not venture on a crocodile. I’ll have a snake-house, too. And of course I’ll have lots of domestic animals. I think Kitty will share what money she has with me, so we will make it quite a big thing. We will not want to have anything to do with men and women; we will live alone with our darlings. Oh! I think they are so sweet – so very, very superior to men and women.”
“You are an extraordinary girl,” said Augusta; “but of course you will change when the time comes. You cannot be different from the rest of the world. When I am married, and have a beautiful carriage, and a very rich husband, and heaps and heaps and heaps of money, I will come and see you, and drag you out of your Zoo, and take you about and show people what a pretty face you have; and then a prince will come along and make love to you, and – and you will forget your animals because of the beautiful words of the prince, and the poor animals will be neglected and they will die off because you will have married the prince and have gone away with him. That will be the end of your day-dream, my dear, funny Nora.”
Nora laughed.
“We will see,” she answered. “But, talking of pretty girls, do you not think that Nan will be very, very pretty when she is grown-up, Augusta?”
“Hum!” said Augusta. “Well, yes, if she is happy I suppose she will. Don’t you think there is something funny the matter with Nan, Nora? Can you account for it?”
“I cannot,” said Nora, startled and amazed at Augusta’s words. “I wish you could tell me. Can you throw any light on the change in her?”
“Oh! you have observed the change?”
“Of course I have. And, do you know, it all began the day you came here. Of course, dear little Nan was very sad when first she came to live with mother, but she had got over it, and we were all so fond of her; we thought her such a darling! And she was so merry; she used to laugh so heartily. And she was quite comforted because we gave her Jack as her own special little dog; but now it seems to us that Jack is more your Jack than hers, and Nan is very sad.”
“Poor Nan! I have noticed it myself. I am anxious about her.”
“Then you do not know what is the matter?”
“I think I do partly, but I must not say; perhaps she will tell you herself.”
“Oh! but won’t you say? It does seem unkind to have a weight of care on her dear little mind and not to have it relieved.”
“Why do you always talk about her as though she were such a tiny creature? She is nearly as old as you.”
“She is the same age as Kitty, but somehow she looks and feels younger.”
“Well, if I were you I would not take much notice,” said Augusta. “She will come right all in good time. Of course, you know, it is not as if she had been brought up with you; she was brought up by her mother, who was a very poor woman.”
“It is not poverty that makes Nan so strange and queer at present,” answered Nora.
“I know it is not. I cannot make her out myself, poor child; I am afraid she is naturally of a very melancholy disposition.”
The girls chatted a little longer. Nora had obtained no light whatever on Nan’s trouble, and went into the house feeling worried and distressed.
Augusta managed to rush into the schoolroom before the sisters appeared.
“You must try to be cheerful, Nan,” she said; “they are both suspecting that there is something amiss. You must really rouse yourself or the whole thing will be discovered, and where would you be then?”
“What would happen if it were?” said Nan.
“Happen! I suppose they would forgive you; but, seeing the peculiar circumstances under which you live in this house, I should not like to be in your shoes. Whoever could think well again of a girl who is deceitful?”
“But I am not. Oh! I would tell now – I would tell gladly were it not for you.”
“It certainly would not be very kind of you to get me into a scrape when I did what I could to get you out of one,” was Augusta’s answer. “But come! cheer up – do. We will have some jolly games after dinner; and, if you are an awfully good girl, I have something rather exciting to tell you to-morrow. No, not to-day – to-morrow.”
The girls came in; Miss Roy followed. They had all high tea together at half-past six, and immediately afterwards Augusta proposed games.
She was a splendid leader when there was anything of that sort for her to do, and soon the children – even Nan – were laughing merrily and enjoying themselves to their hearts’ content. It was not until bedtime that Kitty ran up to Nan, put her arms round her neck, looked into her eyes, and said in her sweetest, most coaxing voice:
“Nancy, I am coming into your room early tomorrow morning – quite early. When I come, may I creep into your bed, and put my arms round your neck, and kiss you a lot of times?”
“I should like it ever so much,” said Nan.
“I will come. Good-night, Nan darling.”
Augusta was standing near when Kitty made her petition of Nan.
As Augusta herself was going to bed she went up to Nan and kissed her.
“What did Kitty say to you?” she asked in a whisper.
“Nothing.”
“Nonsense! Tell me at once.”
“She said that she was coming to see me to-morrow morning early, to get into my bed.”
“Oh,” said Augusta, “that sort of thing means confidences. Be careful, Nan; be careful what you are doing.”
Nan said nothing, but went away to her room. When she got there she fell on her knees by the open window and looked out.
It had been a lovely day in spring, and the night was clear, fine, and balmy. Nan opened her window and let the soft air blow on her hot little face.
“It is four months since mother died,” she said to herself; “a great, great deal has happened, and I scarcely know myself. I have learnt to love Mrs. Richmond and the two girls. As to Jack, I think he is the dearest little thing in the world; and I have forgotten Sophia Maria. I have almost forgotten Phoebe; but I still love Mr. Pryor. And, oh! mother, mother, up in heaven, do you see Nan now, and are you pitying her, and are you telling me what is right to do? For I am not a good girl; and as to being the best girl that Mr. Pryor speaks about – oh I – I am more like the worst. And I am so afraid of Augusta! I think I do really, out and out, hate her. I do not know what she means by frightening me and making me so unhappy. Oh! I wish I had never yielded to her. I wish I had the courage to tell Kitty the truth.”
As Nan knelt at the window it came into her head that she might ask God to give her the necessary courage, but then a wild sensation of terror swept over her.
“If Augusta were not in the house I might tell, but Augusta would make it out to be so bad; she told me she would. She told me that if I ever told what I had done she would say that I implored of her not to tell, and she said that her word would be believed before mine; and I know it would, of course, because she is quite old beside me. What a miserable girl I am!”
Nan went to bed, and after a time, wretched as she felt, she fell asleep. But her sleep was haunted by dreams, and it was with a cry that she woke on the following morning when Kitty touched her.
“Here I am, Nancy,” said Kitty. “Just push over to the left side and let me get into your bed.”
Nan made room, and the two little girls lay side by side.
“Now, this is quite cosy,” said Kitty.
“Isn’t it?” replied Nan.
“You are very fond of me, are you not, Nancy?”
“Oh yes; very – very.”
“And of Nora too?”
“Very; I love you both most dearly.”
“And you love mother?”
“Not as I love you two, but I do love her.”
“And you love Augusta?”
Nan was silent.
“I thought you did; you are so much together, and you do such a lot of things for her. Sometimes Nora and I are rather angry when we see you trotting here and there, up and down stairs, fetching and carrying for Gussie. It is all very well, but Gus ought not to put things on you. If you do not like her, why do you do it?”
“Oh! never mind, Kitty. I do it because” —
“Well, because of what?”
“Because I do.”
“That is a very silly reason – and for such a clever girl to give!”
“I cannot help it; that is why I do it.”
“Then let me tell you why you do it,” said Kitty: “because you are afraid of her.”
Nan gave a sudden shrink into herself, and the little start all over her frame was not lost on Kitty, who lay so close to her.
“Nan,” said Kitty after a pause, “why are you afraid of her?”
“I did not say I was.”
“But I know it; and so does Nora.”
“You know it! Oh – oh! please – please do not know it any more.”
“I am going to tell you something. Two days ago I came into the schoolroom; it was in the dusk, before the lamps were lit. You were standing up, and Augusta was lying back in the easy-chair. Your face was turned towards the door, and Augusta’s back was to the door, but neither of you saw me; and I heard Augusta say to you, ‘If you tell you will be the biggest little fool that I ever heard of.’ Yes, Nan, those were her words; and you – you began to cry. You had been crying before, and you cried harder than ever. I slipped out of the room; but I want to know the meaning – yes, I want to know the meaning, Nancy.”
When Kitty finished speaking Nan suddenly flung both her arms very tightly round her neck.
“Why, you are trembling all over, Nan; what does it mean?”
“It means this,” said Nan – “this.”
“But what? You are not saying anything; you are only just shivering and clinging to me. What is the matter? Of course, Nora and I notice how terribly changed you are and how unhappy you look.”
“Never mind about that; please answer me one question.”
“Yes; what is it?”
“Do you love me?”
“Of course I love you. We all do – I mean Nora and mother and I; we love you dearly – dearly.”
“Better than the animals?”
“Oh, well! I am not sure, but in a different way, anyhow.”
“Better than your white rat that died?”
“I wish you would not talk about Pip. He is dead, poor darling. I think of him often at night. I loved him. I love him still. Do not let us talk about him.”
“Kitty, will you promise?”
“What, Nan – what?”
“That you will not ever say anything again about – about Augusta and me.”
“What about you?”
“What you overheard.”
“Well, if you do not wish it. But why will you not tell? You are afraid of her; what power has she over you?”
“I do not know. I mean I do; I want to tell you, but I don’t dare to. Let us talk about your rat – poor Pip.”
“How very queer you are, Nan! If there is a subject that I hate talking about it is about Pip.”
“But why?”
“I will tell you why. I have not told anybody else, not even Nora, but I will tell you. I ought not to have gone away that day in the country when Pip was so ill. It was awfully selfish of me! Perhaps if I hadn’t gone he would not have had that fit, poor dear! and he might have been alive still.”
“He might, of course,” said Nan, who knew well that he would have been alive, for certainly Jack would not have got at him had Kitty remained at home.
“That is why I am so absolutely miserable when I think about it,” continued Kitty. “The poor darling died quite neglected; even you did not go up to see him, because I asked you not.”
“And if,” said Nan, trembling very much – “if Pip had not died in the way you think, but from a sort of an accident, how would you feel then?”
“How would I feel if Pip had met with an accident? But he did not meet with an accident.”
“But let us suppose,” said Nan – “it is fun sometimes to suppose – let us suppose that he did, that that was the way he died.”
“I cannot suppose what did not happen, and I hate to talk of it.”
“But if it had, and – and somebody was to blame, how would you feel towards that somebody?”
“You really are too extraordinary, Nan! I should hate that somebody. I tell you what it is,” continued Kitty, “I would never forgive that person – never, never. But there! what nonsense you are talking! Nothing of the kind did happen. That is not your secret, is it?”
“Oh! of course not – of course not,” said Nan, frightened, and plunging into the biggest lie she had yet told. “No, no – of course not; only I like to wonder and think things out. It amuses me; I was always given that way.”
“Well,” said Kitty, “you gave me a fright. You talked as if it might be the case; and your voice was so queer and shaky! I do believe there is a mystery, but of course it is not that.”
“No, it is not that.”
“You did not go up to see Pip?”
“Of course not.”
“I am sorry I asked, for of course you would not do it, as I told you not. Nan darling, do please tell me what makes you so unhappy; please tell me. Let us forget about my little Pip. He is in his grave, poor, darling little rat, and all his troubles are over. He was so affectionate, and I was so fond of him! But he will never feel any pain ever again. And I love you, Nan; and Noney and I are wretched to think that you are so unhappy.”
“It is all right,” said Nan. “I will try not to be unhappy in the future. I have things that worry me now and then.”
“I will tell you what one of them is: you are afraid of Augusta; she has a power over you. You will be all right again when she goes away.”
“I don’t know,” said Nan; “perhaps so.”
Kitty could get nothing further out of Nan, and as it was now time to get up, she went slowly back to her own room.
Nora raised her head when Kitty came.
“Well,” she said, “have you discovered anything?”
“Nothing. I begin to think Nan a very strange little girl. Do you know, she asked me such a funny question! She said, ‘Suppose Pip had died by an accident, and somebody was to blame, how would you feel towards the somebody?’”
“What did you say?”
“That I would hate that somebody, and never forgive her.”
“I wonder why she said it,” continued Nora.
“Oh! I am sure I don’t know. I asked her point-blank if Pip had come by an accident, and she said ‘No,’ and that nobody had been upstairs. She is a very strange girl, but I love her all the same.”
CHAPTER XI. – THE MIDDLE WAY
On the following Sunday Nan came to Mrs. Richmond with a request.
“I do so want to see Mr. Pryor!” she said. “I have not seen him for two or three months; and he said that he was always at home on Sundays. May I go there this afternoon with Susan? Do, please, let me, Mrs. Richmond.”
“Certainly, Nan dear; I am always glad that you should see your mother’s dear old friend.”
So after early dinner, Nan, dressed in her pretty and neat mourning, started off, accompanied by Susan, to visit Mr. Pryor. She had not ventured to the house where her mother had died before, for on the last occasion of their meeting Mr. Pryor had come to see her. The door was opened by Phoebe, who, in her delight at seeing Nan, forgot all decorum, and shocked Susan almost out of her wits by flinging her arms round the little girl’s neck and hugging her tightly.
“Oh, Miss Nan! it is good to see you; and my missus, Mrs. Vincent, will be that pleased! You will come down, miss, and have a cup of tea with my mistress before you go back, won’t you? Oh! it is elegant you look. What a pretty frock, miss! It ain’t cut by our pattern, be it, miss?”
“No,” said Nan. “Please, Phoebe, can I see Mr. Pryor?”
“It is delighted he will be to see you, darling. I’ll just run up and ask him. Won’t you come into the parlour, dear? The parlour lodgers has gone, and there is no one there at present. Wait a minute, love, while I inquire whether Mr. Pryor is in. Oh! of course he must be; but I’ll go and find out.”
Nan and Susan went into the parlour, and presently Phoebe rushed downstairs.
“Mr. Pryor says you are to go up this very minute, miss. And he has ordered tea for two, and muffins and cream. And perhaps this young person would come to the kitchen.”
Poor Phoebe glanced with admiring eyes at Susan. Susan’s manners were staid and of a rebuking character. She did not think Phoebe at all the sort of girl she would care to associate with; but as Nan said in a careless tone, “Yes, Susan, go downstairs,” and then ran by herself to the drawing-room floor, there was nothing for it but to obey.
“What an elegant young lady Miss Nan has grown,” said Phoebe. “Come downstairs, won’t you, miss? My mistress will make you right welcome.”
So Susan had to make the best of it, and tripped down, accompanied by Phoebe.
Upstairs a very hearty welcome had taken place. Mr. Pryor had kissed Nan, and taken her hand and made her seat herself in the most comfortable armchair in the room; and then he had stood in front of her and looked her all over, from her head to the points of her neat little shoes.
“Well, Nancy,” he said, “and how goes the world?”
“I am very unhappy,” replied Nan at once. “For a time I felt better, but I am unhappy now. I have a great big secret, and it weighs on me and gets heavier and heavier every day; and I can never tell it, not to you nor to anybody; and I can never, never, never now be the best girl that mother wanted me to be.”
“That is very sad indeed, Nancy,” replied her friend; “and I cannot understand it, my dear. Nobody ought to be in the position you have just described yourself to be in, far less a little girl who is treated with such kindness and love.”
“It is because I am loved, and because they are so sweet, that I am so dreadfully unhappy,” said Nan. “I have told a lot of lies, Mr. Pryor, and I can never unsay them. I can never tell the truth, for if I did those whom I love would cease to love me. When it began I did not think it would be such a big thing, but now it has grown and grown, and I can think of nothing else. My lessons, and my play, and my walks, and even dear little Jack, are not a bit interesting to me because of this big Thing. There is no way out, Mr. Pryor; there is no way out at all.”
“That is not true, Nancy, my dear.”
Mr. Pryor sat down and looked thoughtful. The little girl’s face, the tone of her voice, the suffering which filled her eyes, showed him that her sorrow, whatever its nature, was very real.
“Suppose we ask God to help us out of this,” he said after a moment’s pause.
“I don’t want to ask God, for I know what He will say, and I cannot do it.”
“What will God say, Nancy?”
“That I must tell – that I am to tell the people what I did. And they will never, never forgive me, and I cannot tell – I cannot tell, Mr. Pryor.”
“Then, my dear Nancy, why did you come to see me?”
“Because I thought perhaps you would find the middle way.”
“The middle way, Nancy?”
“The way between the very naughty and the very good. There must be a middle way, and I want to get into it and to keep in it. Cannot you find it for me?”
“I have never heard of it, Nancy – never. I am afraid there is no middle way. You have done, I take it, something wrong; and you have, I take it, told a lie about it.”
“That is it.”
“And one lie, as is invariably the case, has led to another, and to another, and to another.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Pryor, that is certainly it.”
“And each lie makes your poor little heart feet more sad, and each lie shuts out more and more of the beautiful sunshine of God’s love from your spirit. Nancy, there is no middle way. You must go on telling those lies, and adding to the misery of your life, and getting lower and lower and your heart harder and harder, until after a time that happens which” —
“What?” said Nan. “You frighten me.”
“That happens which is the result of sin. You do not suffer any more pain; your conscience ceases to prick you; that voice within you is tired, and will not speak any more because you have treated it so badly. That is what will happen in the lower path on which you are preparing to walk.”
“You terrify me. I am sorry I came. I will not stay any longer. I could not tell.”
“Come here, Nancy, and let us talk it over.”
“I cannot – I do not want to say any more. Let us forget it.”
“My dear child, you would not have come to me if you had not hoped” —
“Yes; I hoped that you would show me the middle path.”
“There is none. Nancy dear, will you not confide in me if I faithfully promise that I will not tell any one what you have done.”
Nan paused to think.
“I should like to,” she said, “but I have promised not to tell.”
“Who did you promise?”
“I cannot even tell you that. Perhaps I will some day; perhaps I will get the person to allow me to tell you. It is a dreadful thing, and it seemed so small at the beginning! I am a very unhappy girl.”
“It requires a little pluck to get out of this dilemma, Nancy. But the strong hand of God would help you over this crisis in your life, and, lo and behold! the darkness would go, and sunshine and joy would be yours again.”
“I hoped so once, but I spoke to Kitty the other morning. I made up a sort of case, and I tried to find out what she would feel; and she said that if anybody had done such an awful thing, that person would be her enemy, and she would never, never forgive her. And then she asked me what I meant, and if anybody had done it; and I told a lot of fresh lies, and said no – nobody had done it; and I cannot go to Kitty now and tell her that I did it after all.”
“You are very mysterious, Nancy, and you make me very unhappy; but if you have quite made up your mind to go on being a naughty girl and adding to this burden of lies, I will not talk about it any more just now. But I will pray a great deal for you, and beg of God not to let your conscience go to sleep.”
“Oh, please, do not, for I am so miserable!”
“Here comes the tea. Will you pour me out a cup?” was Mr. Pryor’s answer.
Phoebe, with her beaming face, brought in the tray.
“If you please, miss, Mrs. Vincent would like to see you very much before you go away. Susan is having an agreeable time in the kitchen with a new-laid egg and buttered toast to her tea; and Mrs. Vincent will be so glad to see you once again, miss!”
Nan murmured something. Phoebe left the room. Even Phoebe noticed the shadow on the little face.
“Now, come,” said Mr. Pryor; “you know exactly how I like my tea; pour it out for me. One lump of sugar and a very little cream. Ah! that is right.”
Nan ministered to the dear old gentleman, and as he chatted upon every subject but the one closest her heart, she tried to cheer up for his sake.
By-and-by her visit came to an end. She bade Mr. Pryor good-bye. He told her that he would be in any day if she wished to speak to him, but he did not again allude to her secret. Mrs. Vincent was enraptured with Nan’s appearance, and made her turn round two or three times in order to get a good view of the cut of her dress.
“I declare, Phoebe,” she said, “you could take the pattern of that in your mind, so to speak. It is a very stylish little costume; most elegant it would look on my little granddaughter, Rosie Watson.”
Phoebe sniffed in a somewhat aggressive way; she did not consider that Rosie Watson had any right to the same pattern as Nan. Soon afterwards Susan and Nan left the house and went back to Mayfield Gardens.
