Chapter 4 Girls of the True Blue by L. T. Meade
THE BEST GIRL
Immediately after the funeral Mrs. Richmond took Nan’s hand.
“Now, dear,” she said, “you come home with me.”
Nan turned first red and then very white. She was just about to reply when Mr. Pryor came forward.
“Madam,” he said, “may I make a request? I want to ask a very great favour.”
“If possible I will grant it,” replied Mrs. Richmond.
“I have known Mrs. Esterleigh, this dear little girl’s mother, for two or three years; and on the whole, although I am not specially fond of children, I think I also know Nan well. Now, I want to know if you will grant me the great favour of allowing me to take Nan home to my rooms until this evening. I will promise to bring her to you this evening.”
“Oh yes, I will go with you and with Phoebe,” said Nan. She clasped hold of Mr. Pryor’s hand and held it to her heart, and she looked round for Phoebe, who in her shabby frock was standing on the outskirts of the group.
Phoebe was nodding to Nan and making mysterious signs to her. Mrs. Richmond looked full at Mr. Pryor.
“I do not wish to make Nan more unhappy than I can help to-day,” she said; “so if you will bring her to my house by six o’clock this evening I will be satisfied.”
She turned away and entered her own carriage, and Mr. Pryor looked at Nan.
“It is only two o’clock,” he said; “we have four hours. A great deal can be done in four hours. What do you say to our spending the day out here in the country?”
“Oh,” said Nan, “in the country! Is this the country?”
“This is Highgate. I have a carriage, and I will get the man to drive us quite out into the country parts—perhaps to Barnet. The day happens to be a lovely one. I have a kind of desire to go into the Hadleigh Woods with you; what do you say?”
Nan gave a vague nod, and looked round for Phoebe.
“You would like your little friend Phoebe to come too?”
Nan’s whole face lit up.
“Oh, very, very much!” she said.
“Well, she is standing there; go and ask her.”
So Nan rushed up to Phoebe.
“Phoebe,” she said, “shall we go into the country with Mr. Pryor? I need not be back till six o’clock.”
“I don’t know if my mistress would wish it,” said Phoebe.
“I will take upon myself to say that Mrs. Vincent will not be angry with you,” said Mr. Pryor, coming up at this moment. “Now, children, get into my carriage; I will give the driver directions.”
So they left the cemetery and drove away and away into the heart of the country. It took them some little time to reach it, but at last they got where the trees grew in numbers and houses were few and far between; and although it was winter the day was a lovely one, and there was a warm sunshine, and it seemed to Nan that she had come out of the most awful gloom and misery into a peace and a joy which she could scarcely understand.
Mr. Pryor dismissed the carriage when it set them down at a pretty little inn, and he took Nan by the hand and led her into the parlour, and asked the landlord for a private room; and there he and Nan and Phoebe had dinner together.
It was a simple dinner—the very simplest possible—and Sophia Maria sat on Nan’s lap while she ate, and Mr. Pryor talked very little, and when he did it was in a grave voice.
Phoebe looked somewhat awed; and as to Nan, the sense of grief and bewilderment grew greater each moment.
“Now, Phoebe,” said Mr. Pryor when the meal was over, “I want our little party to divide. There are four of us, for of course I consider Sophia Maria quite one of the family.”
“Oh, she is quite, the darling!” said Nan.
“Will you take charge of her for a little, Phoebe,” said Mr. Pryor, “while Nan and I go for a walk?”
“Oh, must we?” said Nan, looking full at him.
He smiled very gravely at her.
“We will not be long,” he said. “There are a few things your mother has asked me to say to you. I would rather say them to you alone, without even Sophia Maria listening.”
Then Nan’s little white face lit up.
“Phoebe,” she said, “Mr. Pryor and I have something most important to say to each other. Be sure you take great care of Maria, and don’t let her catch cold.”
Phoebe promised, and Mr. Pryor and Nan, hand in hand, walked in the direction of the Hadleigh Woods.
They walked in absolute silence until they reached the woods, and then their steps became slower, and Nan looked up into the face of her companion and said:
“I wish you would tell me. What did mother say?”
“My dear Nan, your mother knew very well that the day was soon coming when God would send for her. She did not like to talk to you about it, although she often tried to; she was anxious about you, but not very anxious.”
“I wonder mother was not very anxious when she thought of leaving me so far, far behind,” said Nan.
“You see, she did not think that, for in reality those who go to God are not separated very far from those they leave.”
“Then is mother near me?”
“You cannot see her, nor can you realise it, but I should not be surprised if she were quite near you.”
“She knows all about my black dress and my crape?” said Nan. “Phoebe said she would be so glad about the crape!”
“Well, Nan, the fact is that the crape could not make her glad, nor the black dress; but the thought that you, her little girl, made it and wore it for love of her would make her glad. It is not the colour of the dress makes her happy; it is the love you put into it.”
“Oh! I don’t quite understand,” said Nan.
“You will when you think it over. You see, she is in white; she has a crown and a harp. That is what we have learnt about those who leave us—that if they have loved God they go into His presence, and their dress is white and glistening, and they have harps to sing to and crowns to wear; and we know the more we love the nearer we get to them. So, Nan, the message your mother has left me is this: ‘Tell Nan to be as good as girl can be—to be the best girl she knows. By being the best she must be the most loving, she must be the most unselfish. She must not wish to be the best to be thought well of by her fellow-men, but she must be the best because God loves those who try to follow Him.’ Do you follow me, Nan, when I say these words?”
“I follow you,” said Nan. “You want me to be good, but I do not think I can; and as to being the best, that I can never be. You want me to have a great deal of love, and I only love mother and Phoebe a little bit. And to-night everything is to be changed; I won’t even have you.”
“I am going to ask Mrs. Richmond to send you to see me sometimes—perhaps once a fortnight or so.”
“Will you?” said Nan. “I think if I could like anything I should like that.”
“I will arrange it then; and perhaps although you do not exactly love me now, you will regard me as your friend and love me presently. But there is something else I want to say. Your mother wished all these things for you, but she knew that you would have certain difficulties in your life. I am sorry to have to tell it to you, my dear little girl, but it is the fact: your mother left you without any money.”
“But mother could scarcely do that, because we had something to live on,” said Nan. “Has mother taken our money away with her up to God?”
“No, dear. In the home where she is now money is not needed; but the little money she had was only to be here during her lifetime. It was what is called an annuity; that means, she could have the use of it for her life, but only for her life. So, my dear little girl, you have no money.”
“Then I expect,” said Nan, drawing herself up and fixing her eyes full on Mr. Pryor’s face, “that I had best go to the workhouse. I can go to the workhouse until I am old enough to take a place as servant; and I would like, please, to go into the same house with Phoebe. Perhaps Mrs. Vincent would have me as her little servant, and Phoebe could teach me.”
“That is not necessary; you are not suited for that kind of life, and God does not require it of you. Mrs. Richmond is very well off; she has more money than she knows what to do with, and she always loved your mother, so she is going to take you to bring you up with her two little girls. You will be trained and educated, and have everything that a little girl can require, and all Mrs. Richmond wants in return is your love and your obedience.”
“But I don’t think I can love her. I wish—oh, I wish she would not do it!” said Nan.
“Now, Nan, the first proof of your love for your mother has arrived, for she wanted you to go to Mrs. Richmond. She would be dreadfully pained—far, far more pained, if trouble could reach her in heaven, by your not going there than even if you still wore a coloured frock.”
“Oh, how puzzling it is, and how difficult!” said Nan. “I shall quite hate to go to Mrs. Richmond. I never liked her much, and now to think that I owe everything to her!”
“I have something more to say. There is a man who owed your father money long ago, and he has promised to adopt you in case you are not happy with Mrs. Richmond; but you must spend quite a year with her before you go to him. You would have a different life with him—freer, wilder. Your mother preferred the idea of your being with Mrs. Richmond, but if you are unhappy with her you are to go to the Asprays; when last I heard of them they lived in Virginia, in the States of America.”
Nan pressed her hand to her forehead.
“That does not seem much better,” she answered; “and I think my head aches, but I am not sure. Shall we go back again now, Mr. Pryor?”