Chapter 12 Girls of the True Blue by L. T. Meade
“I SHALL STAY FOR A YEAR”
Nan was so unhappy that night that she could not sleep. She was glad that she had a room to herself, for it did not matter how often she tossed from side to side, or how often she turned her pillow, or how often she groaned aloud. Mr. Pryor’s words, “There is no middle path,” kept ringing over and over in her ears. She thought of her mother, too, and of what her mother would feel if she saw her now—a little girl surrounded by every kindness, surrounded by luxuries and the good things of life, and yet, because she was afraid, going down and down and down the broad and steep path which led to destruction.
“It means that I will not see mother if I do not tell,” thought the child; and then she burst into tears. Towards morning she made up her mind that she would try to overcome her terrors; she would at least see Mr. Pryor and tell him exactly what had happened—she would tell him the whole truth—and be guided by his advice.
“Perhaps he will not think it necessary for me to tell everything,” thought the child. “Anyhow, I know he will not be hard on me, for I do not think he could be that on any one.”
Having finally made up her mind to confide in Mr. Pryor, she became soothed and comparatively happy, and dropped off towards morning into a quiet sleep.
She overslept herself, as was but natural, and had to jump up and dress in a hurry; but hurry as she would she was late for breakfast. Miss Roy said:
“Nancy, this is not as it should be.”
But she was a very gentle and considerate person, and when she saw how pale Nan’s face looked, and how sad was the expression round her lips, she forbore to chide her further.
The children started off for school immediately after breakfast, and the day’s routine proceeded as usual. In the afternoon Nan went up to Miss Roy and made a request.
“I want to know if you will do something for me; there is something I want very, very badly.”
“What is it, my dear?” asked the governess.
“Will you walk with me as far as Mr. Pryor’s? I want to see him.”
“But, my dear Nancy, you saw him yesterday.”
“But I want to see him awfully badly again to-day.”
“That sounds rather absurd.”
“He was a great friend of mother’s, and it is most important; may I go, Miss Roy?”
Just at that moment Augusta strolled into the schoolroom.
“Ah, Nancy!” she said, “you promised to hold this wool for me. There is a great lot to be wound; it will take us quite half-an-hour. Come, we may as well start; I have got to wind all the coloured balls and put them in order for Lady Denby’s bazaar.”
“I cannot do it this evening,” replied Nan, shrugging her shoulders and turning back in sheer desperation to speak to Miss Roy.
“And I am afraid,” said Miss Roy, “I cannot go with you, dear, so there is an end of it.”
“What is it?” said Augusta. “What does she want, Miss Roy?”
“Why, this silly little girl,” said Miss Roy, who saw no reason for keeping Nan’s request a secret, “wants me to walk with her as far as Mr. Pryor’s.”
“Who in the name of fortune is Mr. Pryor?” asked Augusta.
“A friend of mine, and you have nothing to do with him,” said Nan, speaking fast, and her cheeks flushing with anger.
“Hoity-toity!” cried Augusta. “But I rather think I have something to do with all your friends; for are you not my very own most special friend—are you not, Nan? Come here and tell me so; come and tell me so now before Miss Roy.”
“I won’t,” said Nan.
“But I think you will, darling. Just come along this minute.”
Nan went as if some one were pulling her back all the time. She got within a foot of Augusta; there she stood still.
“Nearer still, sweet,” said Augusta. “You are my very great friend, and I am your very great friend.”
“How mysterious you are, Gussie,” said Miss Roy. “Why, of course, everybody knows that you and Nancy are great friends.”
“That is all right,” said Augusta, “I just wish to proclaim it in public. I am very proud of our friendship.—I like you immensely, Nancy; all my life long I hope to be good to you. And now, kneel; you will oblige me by winding this wool.”
“I cannot. I must go out this evening.”
“And I cannot go with you, Nancy, so there is an end of it, I fear,” said Miss Roy; and she walked out of the room, feeling rather annoyed with Nancy.
“Now, Nancy, what is it?” asked Augusta.
“Nothing. I will hold your wool while you wind.”
“What a cross face! It is not at all agreeable to me to have a girl like you standing in front of me. And I am so good to you, and absolutely soiling my conscience for your sake—for, of course, I ought to tell what I know; I ought, but I will not. Now then, smile, won’t you?”
“I cannot.”
“Well, then, you need not smile. Here, hold this wool.”
The next half-hour was occupied by poor Nan in holding skeins of wool until her arms ached. At the end of that time, to her great relief, Augusta was called by Mrs. Richmond to go downstairs. Nan had the schoolroom to herself. She stood still, pressing her hand to her eyes. The next instant Augusta dashed into the room.
“Hurrah!” she said, “my dear aunty Jessie is going to take me to the theatre. I shall be out the whole evening. What fun! We are to get ready immediately; we will be off in no time.”
Augusta ran off to her own bedroom, and Nan went slowly into hers. Quick as thought she made up her mind. If no one would take her to Mr. Pryor, she would go to visit him alone. Miss Roy would be busy downstairs for some time and would not miss her; Mrs. Richmond and Augusta would be out; the two girls were spending the evening with friends.
“The thing is too important. All my future hangs on it. I must see him, and soon,” thought the child.
She put on her hat and coat, watched her opportunity, and slipped downstairs. She got out without any one noticing her, and having a very good eye for locality, in course of time found her way to Mr. Pryor’s lodgings. She had walked the entire distance; it took her exactly half-an-hour. Trembling in every limb, she mounted the steps and rang the bell. How often she had stood on those steps by her mother’s side! That failing form, that wan face, those loving eyes, all returned to her memory now.
“It is for mother’s sake—for mother’s sake,” she said to herself; and then Phoebe opened the door. She gave a start of rapture, and catching hold of Nan’s hand, pulled her into the house.
“Why, Miss Nan,” she said, “this is better and better. Yesterday evening you came unexpected, and to-day you come again. But you are all alone, miss; where is Susan?”
“I ran away this time, and you must not tell anybody, Phoebe.”
“Oh, ain’t you got spirit just?” said Phoebe in a tone of admiration. “But, miss, I hopes you won’t get into trouble.”
“No, no. I mean it does not matter. I want to see Mr. Pryor at once.”
“Oh, Miss Nancy! ain’t you heard, miss?”
“No. What—what?”
“Why, my dear, I am afraid you will be disappointed. He got a telegram this morning from his son, who is took very bad in Spain, and he has gone off to him. You know he had only one son, and he lives most of his time at Madrid, and he is took shocking bad—almost at death’s door—with some sort of fever; and the dear old gentleman was near off his head all day, and he has gone to him. He is away, Miss Nan, in the train, being whirled out of London by this time. You cannot see him, miss, however hard you try.”
“It does not matter,” said Nan. She spoke in a low tone; there was a sense at once of relief and of disappointment in her breast. It seemed to her at that moment that her good angels left her, and that her bad angels drew near. Nevertheless, she was relieved.
“I will see you back if you wish, miss.”
“No; it does not matter. I will get home as soon as I can.”
“Have you any message, miss? Perhaps mistress has Mr. Pryor’s address.”
“No; I could not write anything. Good-bye, Phoebe.”
“And you will not see my mistress?”
“No; I cannot.”
“And you would not like me to see you back?”
“No, no; I will go alone.”
Before Phoebe could utter another word, Nan was running up the street in the direction of Mayfield Gardens.
“God did not want me to tell, and there must be a middle path—there must,” thought the child.
She got back to the house without any one missing her. She went upstairs again to the schoolroom. A moment or two later she had taken off her hat and jacket, put them away neatly in the orderly little room which nurse insisted on her keeping, and sat down by the schoolroom fire. The day had been a warm one and the fire had only been lit an hour ago, but Nan felt cold, and was grateful for its warmth. She crouched near it, shivering slightly.
“I would have done it,” she said to herself, “if Mr. Pryor had been at home; but God sent him away, and—well, I cannot do it now. I hope my conscience will not trouble me too badly. I will try to be awfully good in every other way, and I must forget this; I must—I must.”
It was a few days after Nan’s stolen visit to Mr. Pryor that great excitement reigned in the house in Mayfield Gardens. In the first place, there had come a letter which greatly concerned Augusta. This letter was from her mother, begging of Mrs. Richmond to look after Augusta for a year, for Mrs. Duncan and her husband were going to South America on special business. They would be wandering about from place to place for quite that time, and it would suit Mrs. Duncan uncommonly well if Augusta remained with her sister. Mrs. Richmond herself spoke to Augusta about it.
“If you can put up with me, dear,” she said, “I shall be glad to have you; but you know that ours is a somewhat humdrum life, and you are older than my girls. Your mother proposed as an alternative that you should go to a very fashionable finishing-school, where you would have a good deal of excitement and interest and be prepared for your entrance into society.”
“It does not matter,” said Augusta. “I am just fifteen. When father and mother come back I shall be only sixteen; it will be time enough then to go to a finishing-school. And I am very happy with you, Aunt Jessie.”
“I am glad of that, my dear; and I like to have you. Well, you can run upstairs to the schoolroom and tell the children; I am sure they will be delighted.”
“The only one who may not be delighted is Nan Esterleigh,” remarked Augusta in a dubious voice.
“Come, my dear child, what do you mean? Nan not delighted! Why, I thought you were such special friends!”
“To tell you the truth, Aunt Jessie, I do not quite understand Nan; she is a very strange little girl. I have done my utmost to be friendly with her.”
“That you certainly have, darling.”
“And although to all appearance she is devoted to me, that is not the case in reality. I think if you were to question her you would find she does not like me at all. It is the fact of Nan’s extraordinary attitude towards me that makes me have any doubt of staying with you for the next year, sweet Aunt Jessie.”
“Then, my dear child, if such is the case I will have a talk with Nan myself. You certainly must not be made unhappy by any such ridiculous reason. Nan is a dear little girl, and I promised her mother to bring her up and do for her and make her happy, but I certainly did not mean her to be rude or unpleasant to my own sister’s child.”
“Oh! I do not mind, Aunt Jessie; do not worry her. I just thought I would mention it. Perhaps I shall win her in the end if I continue to be awfully kind, as I have been in the past. I take a lot of notice of her, as you know.”
“That you certainly do, dear.”
“And you are so good to her—so wonderfully good!” continued Augusta.
“Never mind that, my child; I could never be anything else. And Nan owes me nothing; I have said that before.”
Augusta kissed her aunt, and presently ran upstairs to the schoolroom. The children were having breakfast when she entered.
“Hurrah! Good news,” said Augusta. “Of course, that is how people take it. You thought, all of you, that I would be going back to father and mother in a few weeks’ time. Well, I am not; I am to stay here for a year—a year, positive. I am to be with you day and night for twelve whole months. When you go to the country I will go with you, and when you come back from the country I will come back with you. And I am to have regular lessons from this at school; and—— Oh, dear me! Nancy, you are glad, whoever else is sorry.”
“Yes—of course,” said Nancy. She said it in a trembling voice, and her face turned from white to red, and then from red to white again.
“Does she not look enraptured,” said Augusta, turning with laughing eyes to Kitty.
Kitty made no reply. She was glad on the whole that her cousin should stay. “The more the merrier” was her motto. She felt almost annoyed with Nan for the peculiarity of her attitude.
But the tidings that Augusta was to stay with them was completely eclipsed by other news, which filled the hearts of the two little girls, Kitty and Nora, with untold bliss.
“What do you think?” said Kitty, rushing into the room just as Nora and Nan were putting on their hats to go to school. “Uncle Peter is coming here to-day. He will stay for a fortnight or three weeks, mother says. Oh, this is heavenly! I am nearly off my head with delight.”
“Who is Uncle Peter? What does it mean?” said Nan.
“You will know what it means when you have seen him,” said Kitty; “but I will try and tell you something. It means the height of happiness; it means the extreme of joy; it means—oh, everything delightful! He is just perfect! He will be so sweet to you, too, Nan! He will be sweet to Augusta. He will be sweet to us all. He is father’s youngest brother—much, much younger than father. He is quite young still, and he is a captain in the army. And he is great fun—oh! great fun—and the house gets full of sunshine when he is with us.”
“I have never seen him,” said Augusta; “I should like to.”
“He will be sweet to you, Gussie. He will be delightful to us all. Oh, it is too good news! You never saw anything like the delight mother is in. I must rush off now and tell nursey; won’t she be glad!”
That day as she walked to school, and worked at her lessons, and came back again, there were three pieces of news rushing backwards and forwards in poor Nan’s heart. Two of them were bad, and one was good. Mr. Pryor was away, therefore there was no middle path; Augusta—the terrible Augusta, whom she hated and feared—was absolutely to live in the house for a whole year; and the children’s uncle Peter, the man who made everything right and turned gloom into sunshine, was coming to stay with them.