AN UNEXPECTED TRIP
The next Saturday proved to be warm and sunny, and Mrs. Dainty had
taken an early train for the city, intending to spend the day in
shopping.
It had been necessary that Dorothy should go with her, because there was
a new cloak to be "tried on." Mrs. Dainty had wished to have Mrs.
Grayson with her, but both had thought that Nancy would be lonely.
"If I were to spend the day in the stores, Nancy, I would take you with
me, because you always enjoy shopping," Aunt Charlotte said, "but I am
to visit a friend who is ill, and that would be very dull for you, and
if you go with Dorothy, you will think that the hours drag if you sit
waiting while her cloak is being fitted."
"Oh, but I shall not mind being at home _this_ time," Nancy said,
cheerfully; "I shall play with Flossie and Mollie all the forenoon,--"
"And the maid will serve your lunch at _my_ house at one," Dorothy said.
"And I'll ask them both to come over to the cottage to play with me this
afternoon," Nancy continued, "and before we're done playing you'll
return."
And the forenoon was quite as pleasant as she had thought it would be.
She had gone over to Mollie's, and found Flossie already there, and they
had played tag and hide-and-seek just as if it had been a summer day.
The sunlight was warm, the breeze soft and sweet, and every bit of snow
had vanished. It was like springtime, and they played without ceasing
until the hour for lunch.
"Well come over to the cottage together this afternoon," called Mollie,
as Nancy hurried away towards the stone house.
She knew that lunch was always served promptly as the hands upon the
dining-room clock pointed to the hour of one.
She was rather afraid of the burly butler, because he stood so very
erect, and never, _never_ smiled even when the jokes told at the table
were very funny. But the maid's eyes often twinkled, and Nancy hoped
that it would be the maid who would serve her.
She was surprised to find that lunching alone in the great dining-room
was not very cheerful after all, and after a hasty meal, she slipped
from her chair, refusing to taste any more of the dainties which the
maid offered her.
"You've not had much lunch, Miss Nancy," the girl said, "you might take
an orange, and eat it away from the table if you like."
Nancy took the big orange, and after much coaxing, pushed it into her
pocket, and soon forgot that she had it. It was only quarter-past one.
She looked again at the clock. Yes, that was just what it said;
quarter-past one, and Mollie and Flossie were still at lunch. She
remembered that they rarely came out to play in the afternoon before
half-past two. She wondered where she would rather spend the time. At
the cottage she could play with the kitten, get out the new game that
Mrs. Dainty had given her, or read her newest book, but Dorothy's books
were up in the playroom of the stone house, and she was always free to
read them. No, she would not stay indoors. She would go out and be ready
to greet her playmates as soon as she saw them running down the avenue.
She put on her cloak and hat, and walked slowly through the hall, thus
using up as much time as possible. The house stood high, and from the
doorway she could see the avenue. There was no one yet in sight.
She strolled down the driveway, intending to wait at the great gate for
her playmates to appear.
The gates were wide open, and as Nancy looked out, some one rushed past
her. The plainly dressed young woman turned to look at the little girl.
"Oh, Nancy!" she cried, and "Why, Sue!" cried Nancy.
"D'ye live in that el'gant place Nancy? Why, it looks like er palace!"
"Mrs. Dainty lives there, and I'm there 'most all the time playing with
Dorothy. I live in that dear little stone cottage with Aunt Charlotte,"
Nancy said, "but Sue, how happened you to be here? Aren't you working
for the doctor?"
"Nancy, I come _purpose_ ter see yer," said the girl, bending to look
into Nancy's face; "I wondered if you'd remember me."
"Oh, how _could_ I forget you, Sue? It was you who used to be kind to me
when Uncle Steve was cross, and when I was sick you sent my little note
to Aunt Charlotte so that she and Mrs. Dainty came for me."
"I done what I could for yer, Nancy, an' now I've come ter ax yer ter do
somethin' that I'm 'fraid ye won't want ter do."
Eagerly Nancy looked up into Sue's honest face.
"I'd do _anything_ for you, Sue, because you were good to me when no
one else was kind. You were working for Uncle Steve, and you were as
afraid of him as I was, but you helped me, and you knew he'd be angry if
he found it out."
"Ye're a kind little thing; ye'd do it quick fer me, but it ain't fer me
I'm askin'," Sue replied.
"Is it for the doctor who helped me to get well? I'd do something just
as quick for him. Uncle Steve was going to _make_ me dance when I was
sick, but the big doctor said I shouldn't, and Uncle Steve didn't dare."
As she spoke Nancy's clear brown eyes looked up into Sue's blue ones,
and Sue's cheek flushed. She looked down at the sidewalk.
"It ain't fer the doctor," she said; "he's gone ter Europe, but he's
payin' my wages whilst he's gone, an' I'm stayin' with a woman what I
worked fer before. Nancy, it's yer aunt I'm with, an' it's her that made
me come!"
Nancy started back in terror. With frightened eyes she stared a moment
at the girl, then turned to run.
"Oh, Nancy, Nancy! Come here!" cried Sue. "Ye don't understand."
Nancy paused, but she did not take a step nearer.
Sue hastened towards her, and Nancy seemed about to run again.
"Don't run away, Nancy," pleaded the girl, "I know what ye think; ye
think yer Uncle Steve's after yer, but ye can be sure he ain't. Yer
Uncle Steve's dead, an' I do'no's ye need try ter be very sorry."
Nancy came back to where Sue was standing. "Is it _true_?" she asked.
"Honest an' true," said Sue, "an' all yer aunt wants me ter git yer fer
is because she's sick, an' she wants ter see yer. Oh, if yer could see
her, Nancy, ye'd hate ter say 'no.' She keeps askin' fer yer all day,
an' when I told her I'd find yer, an' ask yer ter come an' jest let her
look at yer, she looked brighter'n she had fer days."
"But I'm afraid to go to the city to see her," said Nancy.
"She ain't in the city. She's in a town only a little ways from here. Ye
could go with me in just no time, an' ye'd do her so much good."
"Why?"
Nancy asked the question in wonder. It seemed strange that her aunt, who
had never loved her, should now long to see her.
"She's got something she wants ter give yer, an' she's got something
she wants ter say, an' she says she can't rest till she sees ye. It's
her worryin' that won't let her git well. Ef she could see ye fer a
little talk, an' tell ye what she wants ter tell, I guess she'd git well
right off. Seems ef ye'd _ought_ ter come with me, ef it'll do so much
good."
Nancy's eyes were full of tears, and her sensitive lips quivered.
"Oh, I _wish_ I knew what to do!" she cried, clasping her hands together
very tightly.
"Why, ask 'em ter let ye go," said Sue; "they'd let ye ef they knew yer
Uncle Steve wasn't there, an' yer aunt was jest pinin' ter see yer."
"I'm '_most_ sure they would if they _knew_, but everybody's away. If
only Aunt Charlotte or Mrs. Dainty were here, I'd ask them."
"Can't ye write a note, an' leave it at the cottage where yer Aunt
Charlotte'll find it as soon's she gits home? Ye kin tell her I took yer
ter yer aunt what's sick, an' ef ye tell her 'bout yer Uncle Steve, she
won't worry."
Nancy hesitated.
"An' I hate ter hurry yer," Sue urged, "but I'll _hev_ ter be gittin'
back ter yer aunt, so I must go with yer, er else leave ye here, an'
tell her I couldn't coax ye ter come."
[Illustration: "I'll go if you'll promise to bring me back."]
"Oh, don't tell her _that_. If she's wanting so much to see me, I guess
I _ought_ to go," Nancy said, but her voice trembled. Even although Sue
had assured her that Uncle Steve was not living, the old fear of _any_
member of his family made her hesitate.
"I'm so glad ter see ye agin, Nancy," coaxed Sue, "an' ye'd ought ter
feel reel safe with _me_."
"I'll go," Nancy said, "if you'll _promise_ to _bring_ me _back_!"
"Why, of course I will," said Sue, and after a moment's hesitating,
Nancy ran over to the cottage, wrote a hasty note, which she left upon
the table, and then, with her heart beating fast, and her lashes still
wet with tears, she walked swiftly down the avenue with Sue.
Sue was delighted to be with Nancy again, and she had no idea that she
was doing anything which could possibly cause Nancy's friends any
uneasiness.
She had intended to call at the house, and ask permission to take Nancy
to her aunt.
Having met Nancy at the gate, she had learned that there was no one at
home, but she had urged Nancy to leave a note at the cottage telling
where she had gone, and with whom, and she felt that that made the whole
affair open and honest. Nancy's loving little heart was less light. She
thought that it must be right to go with Sue, and if her aunt was so
_very_ sick, why surely she ought not to delay going to her, but if only
dear Aunt Charlotte had been at home she could have _asked_ her; could
have just asked her.
Sue talked all the way, but Nancy said little, and when they had nearly
reached the depot she looked back, and as she looked, wondered if, even
then, she ought to run back to the cottage. Then the thought of her aunt
calling constantly for her caused her once more to think that it must
be right for her to go.
There were not many minutes in which to think about it, for when Sue had
bought their tickets, the whistle of a locomotive was heard coming
around a bend of the road, and almost before Nancy knew it they were
seated in the car, and spinning over the rails towards the little town
where her aunt was now living.
It was all like a dream. She saw the tall trees, the broad fields now
brown, yet bare of snow, because the warm sun had melted it, the church
spires of other villages standing out clearly against the blue sky, but
they blurred and became indistinct, because she could not keep back the
tears. She was not really crying, but as fast as the tears were forced
back, others would come, and she turned from the window to hear what Sue
was saying. "I say it's only three stations more, an' then we'll be
there, an' when ye see how much good it'll do yer aunt, ye'll be glad ye
come," she said.
Nancy's eyes brightened. If it was to do so much good, then she had done
right. It must be that she really ought to be on her way towards the
little house, and Sue had promised to return with her.
And now the train, which had been flying along, slackened its speed, and
a frowzy-haired brakeman thrust his head into the car doorway, shouting
something, Nancy could not tell what.
"Here we are," said Sue, as she rose to her feet.
Nancy slipped from the seat, and together they left the car and stepped
out upon the platform. "I didn't ask ye ef ye wanted ter bring
anything with yer?" said Sue. "Ye could hev packed a little bag with
anything ye'd want while ye was here."
"Why, what should I want to bring in a bag?" Nancy asked in surprise.
"I didn't know but you'd want a apron, a night-gown, or something," Sue
replied.
Nancy stood still in the middle of the road, and stared at Sue.
"A _night-dress_! Why, aren't you coming back with me to-night?"
"Why, Nancy, don't stop there. I thought I told ye that yer aunt wanted
yer ter visit her."
"You said she wanted to look at me, and that she had something to give
me, and something to tell me, but that wouldn't take long, and I ought
to go home to-night."
"But there's no train home ter-night, Nancy. This is a little town, an'
there's only two er three trains a day. Ye _must_ hev told in yer letter
that ye was goin' ter _visit_ yer aunt, didn't yer?"
"I don't know whether I _said_ visit or not, but truly I didn't think
you meant to stay over night," Nancy replied.
"Wal, I guess ye said so, an' here's the street. It's only a lane, an'
that little bit of a house where the cat sits on the step is the one
where yer aunt lives. It's kind er cosy, ain't it?"
Nancy did not notice Sue's question. She was looking at the little
house, the tiny fruit-trees in the yard, and the white cat that sat upon
the upper step, washing its face in the sun.
The place looked very poor and small after the Dainty mansion and the
trim stone cottage. But small though it was, it looked far better than
the old house in the city where Steve Ferris had taken her, when he had
stolen her from her home and friends.