Kitobni o'qish: «Girls of the True Blue»

CHAPTER I. – “I PROMISE.”

“And how is she to-day, Nan?” said the kindly voice of Mrs. Richmond.

The time was early spring. The lady in question had come into a dark and somewhat dismal room; she herself was richly wrapped in furs and velvet; her large, smooth face was all beams and smiles. A dark little girl with thin cheeks, about eleven years of age, clasping a battered doll in her arms, looked full up at her.

“She is no better,” said Nan; “and I think perhaps it would be a good plan for you to go.”

“What a little monkey you are!” said Mrs. Richmond. “But I do not mind you, my dear Anna; I have known you too long. Come here, dear, and let me look at you.”

Nan laid her doll on the table and approached slowly. Her dress was untidy, her hair unkempt. There were traces of tears round her eyes, but none showed at that moment; the sad eyes looked bold and full and defiant into the kindly face of the lady.

“You are not too tidy, my dear little girl; that pinafore would be the better for the wash-tub. And must you play with that horrid old doll?”

“I would not give up dear Sophia Maria for anybody on earth,” said Nan in a determined voice; and now she went back and clasped her ragged and disreputable-looking baby to her breast.

“But you might have a new one.”

“I would not like a new one, thank you.”

“And you are rather old to play with dolls. Now, my Kitty and my Honora have long ceased to make babies of themselves; you must when you come.”

“I must when I come!” repeated Nan; and now, her eyes grew very big and bright and angry. “Oh! please,” she added, “will you excuse me? I want to go up to mother.”

“Certainly, dear. Tell her I am here, and would be glad to have a talk with her.”

Nan vouchsafed no reply to this, and left the room. Mrs. Richmond sat on in thought; she folded her hands in her lap.

“I will do my duty,” she said to herself; “it is my duty. Poor, dear Amy was always improvident, and careless of her health. She married without means; her husband died within a year; there is this child now eleven years of age and with no provision. Ah!”

There came a tap at the door, and the wizened and somewhat cross face of a middle-aged woman appeared.

“How do you do, Mrs. Vincent?” said Mrs. Richmond. She always spoke cordially to every one; her face beamed kindness itself on all the world.

Mrs. Vincent came in slowly.

“I am glad you have called, ma’am; the poor thing upstairs is very bad – very bad indeed – not likely to live many hours, the doctor says.”

“Oh! my good soul, I had not an idea that it was so near as that.”

“I am telling you the truth, madam; and the fact is, her poverty is excessive, and” —

“Now listen to me, Mrs. Vincent. Everything she needs as far as you are concerned will be paid for; see that she has every imaginable comfort. And leave the room.”

Mrs. Richmond’s kindly eyes could flash when occasion arose, and Mrs. Vincent, curtsying and mumbling, but highly delighted all the same, went downstairs.

There was no sign of Nan coming back, and Mrs. Richmond, after waiting for a quarter of an hour, determined to go upstairs to her sick friend’s room. The door was a little ajar; she pushed it open and went in. Nan was lying across the bed, her face close to the very white face of a woman whose features were wonderfully like her own. The woman’s eyes were open, and her lips were moving. Mrs. Richmond came and, without saying a word, lifted the child off the bed. Nan turned in a wild fury; she felt very much inclined to strike the intruder, but the look on her visitor’s face restrained her.

“You can stay, dear, if you like,” said Mrs. Richmond; and then she went round to the other side of the bed.

“Have you anything to tell me, Amy, before you go?” she asked.

There came a low – very low – murmur, and a glance of the dying woman’s eyes in the direction of the child.

“Only – only” – she began.

“I will see to everything, dear; I have promised.”

“And if – if at the end of a year – You remember – you remember that part, don’t you, Caroline?”

“I remember it. It will not be necessary.”

“But if it is – if it should be – you will send her” —

“I faithfully promise.”

“You are so good!” said the dying woman.

“God bless you! You have made things easy for me.”

“Come here, Nan, and kiss your mother,” said Mrs. Richmond suddenly.

The child, overawed by the entire scene, advanced. She pressed her lips to the lips growing colder moment by moment.

“And now leave the room,” said Mrs. Richmond. “Go – obey me.”

Nan went.

CHAPTER II. – “I WON’T EVER GO TO YOU.”

But she only went as far as the landing; there she crouched down in a corner and waited. She did not know what she feared, nor exactly what was going to happen; it seemed to her that there was a great darkness everywhere, and that it pressed her round and shut away the light.

The outward circumstances of Nan Esterleigh’s life had never been too bright, but all the same she had been a happy little girl; she had been petted and fussed about and loved, and her battered doll, Sophia Maria, had been the greatest imaginable comfort to her. She was quite accustomed to scanty meals and poor rooms and cross landladies. She was, alas! too, poor little girl, thoroughly accustomed to her mother’s state of miserable health. Mother had been often as bad before. Ever since Nan could remember, her mother had ached and shivered and moaned with pain; she had spent restless nights, and had stayed in bed to breakfast, and had struggled against the illness which crept on her more and more day by day. Nan in her heart of hearts supposed that very few people were well; she thought children enjoyed good health as a rule, and that grown people had illness. It was the law of life, she supposed. Now and then she confided her thoughts to Sophia Maria.

“My darling,” she used to say, “you must be as happy as you can while you are young, because there is no chance at all when you are grown-up. You will have pains then, Maria, and aches, and you will grow old, and you won’t have any strength. I’ll be the same; there’ll be two of us to keep each other company – that is one comfort.”

Now she crouched in the corner, feeling a little more depressed and a little more anxious than usual, but not really alarmed or stricken or subdued. She wondered, however, what her mother meant by the curious words she had spoken, with long pauses between, to Mrs. Richmond. They certainly pointed to a future for Nan herself; she was to go somewhere, and if all was not well she was at the end of a year to go somewhere else.

“But I am not going to leave my own mother,” thought the little girl. “Oh dear! oh dear! I know now why I am lonely; I want my poor darling Sophia.”

She ran downstairs, clasped her doll to her heart, and crouching over the fire, presently fell asleep.

It was during Nan Esterleigh’s sleep that her mother died. Mrs. Esterleigh died without a pang or a struggle – she just ceased to breathe; and Mrs. Richmond, with tears in her eyes, came downstairs.

Nan had stretched herself full length on the hearth-rug. The doll was clasped to her breast; her sallow little face looked more sallow than usual, and Mrs. Richmond noticed how black and long were the lashes that rested against her cheeks.

“Poor little girl, she is my care now,” thought the good woman. “I know what I should like to do; I should like to pick her up, and wrap a shawl round her, and take her right away in the cab with me. Nora will be nice to her, and Kitty will show her her favourite kittens. I have a great mind to try.”

But just then the big black eyes were opened wide, and Nan sat up and stared at Mrs. Richmond.

“What are you doing here?” she said. “Is mother no better? Has nobody thought of giving her her tea?”

“Come here, Nancy,” said Mrs. Richmond. “I have something I want to say to you.”

“But I don’t want to listen,” answered Nan; and she clutched her doll tightly in her embrace, staggered to her feet, and stood, with defiance in her eyes, a few feet away from Mrs. Richmond.

“Dear, dear! she is an extraordinary child,” thought the good lady. “She will be very difficult to manage. I should not be a scrap surprised if she felt this very much; some children do, and I should not be astonished if she was the sort, she is so stubborn and self-contained – not a pleasant child by any means. But Amy’s little girl shall always have a warm corner in my heart – always, always.”

“Come here, Nan,” she said again.

“If you want to say anything to me, please, Mrs. Richmond, be quick,” said Nan, who was now wide awake and felt absolutely composed; “I must go up to mother. This is the hour for her tea; I always make it myself for her. I know just how much she wants put into the little brown teapot, and the right quantity of milk and sugar; and, oh! I am going to toast her bread for her, for Mrs. Vincent does send it up so hard and untempting. Perhaps you will come another day, Mrs. Richmond, and talk to me then.”

“I must talk to you now, Nancy, my poor little girl; I have something to say.”

Curious emotions stirred in the child’s breast. She stood quite still for a moment; then she said slowly:

“You had better not say it.”

“I must; it is about your mother.”

“What! is mother worse?”

“She is better, Nancy.” Mrs. Richmond’s eyes brimmed over with tears.

“Then how silly of you to cry!” said the child, her face brightening up, and smiles dawning round her lips. “If she was worse you might cry – not that you ought ever to cry, for she is no relation of yours; but if she is better, Sophia Maria and I will sing.”

“Nancy dear, I cannot break it to you. I must tell it to you at once, and God help you to bear it. Your mother is better in one sense – in the sense that God has taken her away from all her pains. She won’t ever be tired or ill or sorry any more, and she will never again have aches or wakeful nights or sad days; she has gone to God. There is a beautiful heaven, you know, Nan, and – Oh, good gracious! what ails the child?”

Nan had given one smothered scream and had rushed from the room. Fast – very fast – did the little feet run upstairs. Mrs. Esterleigh’s room was on the third floor. Past the drawing-room landing she ran, where a good-natured-looking old gentleman resided. He was coming out of his comfortable drawing-room, and he saw the scared little face. He knew, of course, what had happened, and he wondered if the child knew. He called to her:

“Nancy, come in and sit by my fire for a little.”

But she did not heed him. She ran past the second floor; no one called her here or detained her. There was a very cross old maid who lived on that floor, and Nancy had always hated her. She ran on and on. Presently she reached her mother’s room.

“It is not true,” she gasped. “It is that dreadful Mrs. Richmond trying to frighten me. It is not a bit true – not a bit.” And then she took the handle and tried to turn it and to open the door, but the door was locked.

“Mother, mother!” she shrieked. “Mother, it is me – it is Nan. Don’t let them keep me out. Get some one to open the door. Mother, mother!”

Footsteps sounded in the room, and an elderly woman, whom Nancy had never seen before, opened the door, came quickly out, and stood with her back to it.

“You must go away, my dear little girl,” she said. “I will bring you to see your mother presently. Go away now, dear; you cannot come in.”

“But I will. You shall not keep me out. You are hurting mother. You have no right to be in the room with her;” and Nancy pommelled at the woman’s hands and arms. But she was strong and masterful, and presently she picked up the exhausted child and carried her right downstairs.

“Oh! give her to me,” said Mrs. Richmond. “Poor little child! Nancy dear, I am so sorry for you! And I promise, darling, to be a mother to you.”

“Don’t!” said Nan. “I don’t want you as a mother – no, I don’t want you.”

“Never mind, I will be a friend to you – an aunt – anything you like. I have promised your own dear mother; and she is quite well, and it would be selfish to wish her back.”

“But I want to be selfish; I want to have her back,” said Nan. “I don’t believe that God has come and taken her. He would not take mother and leave me; it is not likely, is it?”

“God sometimes does so, and He has His wise reasons.”

“I don’t believe it. You only want me not to go to her, and you are telling me lies.”

“It is the truth, Nancy; and I wish for your sake it were not. Will you come back with me to-night, dear?”

“I won’t. I won’t ever go to you. I will always stay just outside mother’s door until they let me in. I do not believe she is dead – no, not for a moment.”

In vain Mrs. Richmond argued and pleaded and coaxed; Nan was firm. Presently the good lady had to consult with Mrs. Vincent, who promised to look after the child. The landlady was now all tears and good-nature, and she assured Mrs. Richmond that Nan should have all her wants attended to.

“I have got a very nice, good-natured servant-girl,” she said. “Her name is Phoebe. I will send her upstairs, and she shall sit in the room with Miss Nan, and if necessary stay with her to-night.”

“Very well,” said Mrs. Richmond. “It is the best that I can do; but, oh dear! how anxious I feel about the unhappy child!”

CHAPTER III. – THE FROCK WITH CRAPE

All the lodgers in the house, the landlady, and the servants were extremely kind to Nan that night; but Nan would have none of them. Presently Phoebe was sent to sit in the parlour with her. The lamp, which usually smoked, burned brightly, and there was quite a good fire in the grate – of late it had been a miserable one – and the curtains were drawn, and a clean cloth had been put on the table, and Nan was treated as if she were a princess. Phoebe, too, dressed in her Sunday best, came and sat with her. Phoebe was sixteen years of age; she had left her country home about two months ago, and felt now wonderfully important. She took a sorrowful, keen, and at the same time pleasurable interest in Nan. She put the bowl of bread and milk, which Mrs. Vincent considered the best solace for grief, inside the fender to keep warm, and then she sat on a hard-bottomed chair, very erect, with her hands folded in her lap. For a long time her eyes sought the ground, but then curiosity got the better of her. She began to watch Nan. Nan sat with her back to her. Sophia Maria was lying on the table near. As a rule this battered and disreputable doll was clutched tight in her little mistress’s embrace, but even the doll could not comfort Nan now. Phoebe gave a groan.

“What are you doing that for?” said the child. She raised her eyes; there came a frown between her brows; she looked full at Phoebe.

“I am so sorrowful about you, missy!” replied Phoebe.

There was something in Phoebe’s hearty tone that interested Nan. She hated Mrs. Richmond and Mrs. Vincent when they expressed their grief; even the dear old gentleman, Mr. Pryor, on the first floor was intolerable to her to-night. As to Miss Edgar, the old maid who lived on the second floor, Nan would have fled any distance from her; but there was something about Phoebe’s country tone, and her round face, and the tears which filled her blue eyes which touched Nan in spite of herself.

“I wish you would eat your supper, miss,” was Phoebe’s next remark.

Nan shook her head. After a time she spoke.

“If your mother had just gone to heaven, would you eat a big bowl of bread and milk?”

“Oh, lor’, miss! I don’t know.”

“Has your mother gone to heaven?” was Nan’s next question.

“Indeed and she has not, miss; I would break my heart if she had.”

“Oh!” said Nan.

For the first time tears rose to her eyes. She looked again at Phoebe, then she glanced at the fire, then at the doll.

“Sophia Maria does not comfort me any longer,” she said. “Would it kill you, Phoebe, if your mother went to heaven?”

“I ’spect so, miss. Oh dear, missy! I ’spect so.”

“Then,” said Nan – and the next instant she had tumbled from her seat, had tottered forward, and was clasped in Phoebe’s arms – “let me cry. Don’t say anything to comfort me; I want to cry such a big, big lot. Let me cry, and clasp me tight – very tight – Phoebe.”

So Phoebe did clasp the motherless little girl, and the two mingled their tears. After that affairs moved better. Phoebe herself fed Nan, and then they cuddled up on the sofa, which Phoebe drew in front of the fire. Phoebe found her occupation intensely interesting. She was very, very sorry for Nan, and very comfortable in the thought that her own mother was alive. Nan began to ask her questions, and Phoebe answered.

“Did you ever know a little girl whose mother died ’cept me – did you, Phoebe?”

“Oh yes, miss; there was a girl in our village. It was a more mournful case than yours, miss, for there were two little brothers – they were young as young could be, nothing more than babies – and she was left to mind them, so to speak.”

“That must have been very nice for her. I wish I had two little brothers to mind. And did she mind them, Phoebe? Was she good to them?”

“No, miss; that she warn’t. She were for a bit, but afterwards she took to neglecting of them, and they were sent to an orphan school, and the girl went to service.”

“Oh! she was not a lady,” said Nan in a tone of slight contempt.

“We ’as our feelings even if we ain’t ladies,” was Phoebe’s somewhat sharp retort.

“Dear, dear Phoebe, I know you have; but tell me more about her. What happened just immediately afterwards, before she began to be cross to the little brothers?”

“Well, miss, there was the funeral and the funeral feast.”

“A feast!” interrupted Nan.

“In the country, miss, and amongst us we always take the occasion to have a big and hearty meal; but that ain’t interesting to you.”

“I could not eat – not now that mother is dead.”

“Well, miss, that was in the country; it is different there – grief makes us hungry. And she had her mourning to get.”

“Her mourning! What is that?”

“Black, miss – black from head to foot – and crape. She went into debt for the crape.”

“Did she? What is crape?”

“Something they put on black dresses to make people know that you are mourning for a near relative; and according to the amount of crape you puts on, so is the relation between you and the deceased,” said Phoebe in a very oracular voice.

Nan became intensely interested.

“Then I ought to get a black dress at once,” she said.

“As you will, miss. Mrs. Richmond will see to that.”

“I don’t want Mrs. Richmond to. I would rather get it myself. I have a little money. Don’t you think I could get my own dress?”

“Of course, miss, if you have the money.”

“Are you anything of a dressmaker, Phoebe?”

“Well, miss, I made the dress I am now wearing.”

“And it is awfully nice,” said Nan. “And Sophia Maria ought to wear black too.”

“To be sure, miss.”

“I wish I could get it to-night. But you might go out early in the morning and get the stuff, and we could begin to make it.”

“So we could,” said Phoebe, who wondered much if her mistress would allow her to devote all her time to Nan.

“I know a little bit about dressmaking myself; we could easily make the dress,” continued Nan. “And we need not let any one into the room; I could keep the door locked, and we could both make the dress that I am to wear for my own mother. Phoebe, would it make her happier to know I was putting stitches into a black, black dress with crape on it to wear because of her, because she has gone to God?”

“It would make a wonderful difference,” said Phoebe.

“Would it indeed? Then I will have it very black, and a lot of crape. If I have a lot of crape, would she be glad?”

“If anything could make her more glad than she is now, that would,” said Phoebe; “I know it for a fact.”

“And Sophia Maria would wear crape and a black dress too?”

“Yes, miss.”

After that the two girls talked on until they grew sleepy, and finally Phoebe wrapped her little mistress in a warm blanket, and lay down herself on the rug; and so the first night passed away.

Nan possessed exactly two pounds, which she had saved, sixpence by sixpence. She broke into her little savings-bank now and gave the money to Phoebe, who went out at an early hour and purchased coarse cashmere and the poorest crape she could get, and brought the materials to Nan.

They kept the parlour door locked, and sewed and sewed. Nan was interested, and although her tears often dropped upon the black stuff, yet, when Phoebe assured her that her mother was growing happier each moment at the thought of the very deep mourning her little daughter was to wear, she cheered up.

“You are quite, quite certain you are telling me the truth, Phoebe?” said Nan at last.

“Certain sure, miss. Didn’t I live through it all when poor Susan Fagan lost her mother? This is a dress for all the world the same as Susan appeared in at the funeral.”

After two or three days’ hard work the dress was finished. It was certainly not stylish to look at. Then there came an awful time when carriages drove up to the house, and all that was left of poor Mrs. Esterleigh was borne away to her long home. Nan could never afterwards quite recall that dreadful day. Mrs. Richmond arrived early. She had borne with Nan’s wish to stay locked into the parlour with what patience she could; but on the day of the funeral she insisted on the door being opened, and when Nan appeared before her in her lugubrious dress, badly made, with no fit whatever, the good woman gave a shocked exclamation.

“My dear child,” she said, “I have got a suitable dress for you. I found a frock of yours upstairs and had it measured. Take off that awful thing.”

“This awful thing!” said Nan. “I bought it with my own money. I won’t wear anything – anything else. And Sophia Maria is in mourning too,” she added; and she pointed to her doll, which was attired in crape from head to foot.

“Let her wear it,” said a voice behind her; and raising her eyes, Nan saw the kindly face of Mr. Pryor looking at her.

He had always been a strange sort of character, and it seemed now that in one glance he understood the child; he held out his hand and drew her towards him.

“You bought this out of your own money?” he asked,

“Yes,” answered Nan.

Tears trembled on her eyelashes; she raised her eyes and looked full at Mr. Pryor.

“And there is a lot of crape,” she said. “Everybody must know that she was a very near relation.”

“And you made it yourself?”

“Phoebe and I made it ourselves; and Maria is in black too.” She touched the doll with her finger.

“Then you shall go to the funeral in that dress,” said Mr. Pryor. “I take it upon me to say that your mother would wish it, and that is enough.”

So Nan attended her mother’s funeral in the dress she had made herself, and stood close to the grave, and tried vaguely to realise what was taking place. But what chiefly impressed her was the depth of the shabby crape on her little skirt, and the fact that she had bought her mourning out of her very own savings, and that the doll, Sophia Maria, from whom she would not be parted for a single moment, was also in mourning.