NAN'S VISITOR
She knew what was coming when the bell rang. She had been expecting it
all the afternoon. But in spite of that her heart beat fast and her
breath came hard as she heard the familiar sound. Not that she was
afraid. She had nothing to be afraid of, she assured herself
defiantly, and besides, fear was one of the things she despised.
Whatever else she was, she was certainly not a coward. Still she sat
in her room and waited in a state of mind that was not precisely what
one would call tranquil.
She heard Delia mount the basement stairs and then she heard her ask
the new-comer into the parlor. A moment later there was a tap upon
Nan's bedroom door.
"Come in," she said carelessly, and pretended to be searching for some
article lost in the confusion of her upper drawer.
"You're wanted in the parlor, Nan," began Delia at once. "It's a lady
who says she lives on the block and she wouldn't give her name, but I
think she's the one moved into Leffingwell's old house last spring--has
that little girl with the long curls, you know the one I mean. Shall I
help you put on another dress and braid your hair over? It's fearful
mussy-lookin'. Or will I just go and say you'll be down in a minute
while you do it yourself?"
Nan cast a glance at her torn dress and towzled head in the mirror.
"No, Delia, I'll go as I am, and if the lady doesn't like it she
can--oh, well, I'll go down as I am."
Delia pressed her lips together, as though trying to hold back the
words of advice on the tip of her tongue. She knew it was worse than
useless to try to argue with the girl. She had not lived in the house
since Nan was born without learning better than to try to reason with
her when she had once declared her mind. She stood beside the door,
and allowed Nan to pass through it before her, without saying a word.
Then she followed her quietly down stairs. At the parlor door Nan
paused a moment, and Delia, who thought she was about to speak, paused
too, but the girl only turned sharply into the room, pulling the door
shut behind her. Once across the threshold she halted and stood
irresolute. Whatever the result of this meeting might prove, depended
not so much on Nan as on her visitor.
Nan, though standing in awkward silence, as stiff and as straight as a
soldier on parade, was ready to be influenced by whatever course her
caller chose to pursue; a kind word spoken at the start would melt her
at once, where a harsh one would raise in her every sort of sullen
hostility and obstinate resistance. She was, as Delia often said to
herself, "as hard to manage as a kicking colt." Sometimes she was
wonderfully docile, but her moods were variable, and oftenest she was
headstrong and wilful, with a fierce repugnance to curb, or what she
considered unwarrantable interference.
But it would have been difficult to convince the stranger at that
moment that Nan could ever be won, or, in fact, that she had any
tenderness to be appealed to. There she stood, looking as erect and
impassive as a young Indian. Her brown hair was in a state of thorough
disorder, and gave a sort of savage look to her sun-browned face. Her
gray eyes were anything but soft at this moment; her mouth was set, and
her whole attitude seemed to be one of imperturbable indifference. In
reality, the girl was apprehensive and embarrassed. She set her lips
to keep them from trembling. Her first impulse would have been to make
a clean breast of everything, frankly and truthfully, but--something in
her nature held her back. Was it obstinacy, or was it reticence?
Her visitor did not wait to discover. She decided the result of the
interview in the first words she spoke.
"Is your name Nan Cutler?" she asked in a voice of stern authority.
"Yes, it is!" acknowledged the girl, instantly on the defensive.
"Then it is you who are accountable for the accident to Ruth Newton?
You urged her to go with you, and when she fell--oh, you are a coward!
It was detestable!"
Nan made no reply, but stood the picture of inflexibility, facing her
accuser squarely.
"I have come to see you, not because you can undo the mischief you have
done to my child, and not because I think I can affect you in the
least, or make you sorry or ashamed, but simply to tell you that I
intend to see that you are punished, as you deserve. I have put up
with annoyance you caused me long enough. Your influence is bad. All
the neighbors complain of you. You are noisy and careless, and rough
and rude. When any one reprimands you, you give a pert retort, or else
pretend not to hear--which is impudent. Unless we wish our children to
be utterly ruined we must see that they are put beyond your influence
at once. You do things that are absolutely vulgar and unbefitting a
girl of your age; you must be fourteen, at least, you look older, you
are certainly old enough to know better. You are not a proper playmate
for our children. You are boisterous and unladylike. You--you--are a
perfect hoyden!"
The stranger paused for breath, while Nan surveyed her with a look of
calm indifference; an air of unconcern in anything she might say or
think that seemed as insolent as it was exasperating.
"You are a perfect hoyden!" repeated the stern voice in rising anger.
"Whatever you do is done in such a loud, violent fashion that it
becomes perfectly unbearable. You play ball with boys. You climb
fences and trees. You are continually flying up and down the street on
your detestable roller-skates and shouting until the neighborhood seems
like Bedlam, and you don't appear to have the vaguest idea that
people's rights need not be infringed on in such a manner; that they
have the right to peace and quiet in their own homes. Even if you
would content yourself with your own disorderliness! But you are not
satisfied with doing what you know must annoy others; you seem to take
a malicious delight in bringing the little children under your
influence and making them long to follow your example. You cannot have
the first shadow of generosity or bravery in your nature, or you would
not urge them to do what you know their parents would disapprove of.
You teach them to disobey. My daughter never told an untruth in her
life until the other day. I have no reason to doubt that you taught
her to tell that untruth!"
Nan's cheeks suddenly became white, but she did not open her lips.
"If you cannot be restrained by your own people at home you shall be by
some other means. They say your own people are respectable; how can
you disgrace them so?"
Nan deigned no reply, but her lip curled contemptuously.
"They say your mother is dead."
Again no answer.
"Where is your father?"
"My father is in India. He is in Bombay," announced Nan, deliberately.
"Who has control of you in his absence?"
"No one!" declared the girl with decision.
Mrs. Newton surveyed the lank, overgrown, girlish figure with
unconcealed scorn.
"Do you know," she said with bitter distinctness, "that you are the
most shameless, unfeeling girl I have ever beheld? Any one else would
show some remorse for what she had done, but you--young as you are, you
are the hardest creature I have ever known. Hard, cruel, and cold.
How can you stand there and look me in the face when you know how you
have injured me? Tell me, does it not touch you at all that Ruth is
hurt? Do you know or care that such a fall as she has had is enough to
cripple a child for life? Many children have been hopelessly crippled
through far less."
The mother's voice broke, and she set her lips to keep down a sob.
"How much is she hurt?" whispered Nan after a moment. She was
trembling all over and cold and hot by turns, and she could not command
her voice. It was almost more than she could do to keep from bursting
into a violent fit of sobbing from her sense of injury and shame and
indignation. But she simply would not permit herself to break down.
No one should be allowed to think they intimidated her. But she could
not hide her anxiety about Ruth.
"Is she much hurt?" she repeated.
There was a shade of softening in her visitor's face. "We can't tell
yet. She has had a severe fall, and the chill coming after it may have
very serious consequences, but we can tell nothing yet. However, I did
not come here to inform you of her condition," the voice growing stern
and the face severe again. "I came to tell you that if Ruth is injured
I will hold you responsible. And not only that, but I warn you that I
mean to take matters into my own hands now and see that you are
permitted to do no further mischief. You shall be controlled. Who has
charge of your father's affairs? Who has any sort of authority over
you in his absence? He must have left you in somebody's care. He
can't have gone away leaving you with no one to look after you. Who is
your guardian? Tell me? If you don't I shall find out for myself, you
may depend."
"I'm perfectly willing to tell you," declared Nan, with what seemed to
be complete coolness. "It's Mr. Turner. He gives Delia the money to
get me things and to keep the house. He comes here every once in a
while to see me. My father has him for his lawyer. He's a friend of
his. When Delia writes to him for money for me she sends the letter to
101 Blank Street. That's his office. I don't remember where his house
is. Delia never writes to his house. He doesn't attend to me--that
is, he isn't my guardian, but I guess he would do if you want to see
some one."
Nan delivered herself of this information as casually as though it had
been a report of the weather. As a matter of fact she was inwardly
quivering, and every moment found it more and more difficult to control
herself. Never in all her life before had she been so relentlessly,
harshly accused. In trying to conceal her emotion she only gave
herself the appearance of rigid inflexibility.
Her visitor regarded her stonily for a moment and then abruptly brushed
past her toward the door. Nan made no attempt to intercept her, but
suddenly the hard lines about her mouth relaxed, her eyes softened, and
she held out her hands with an imploring gesture.
"Won't you please tell me where Ruth is hurt?" she cried. "Won't you
let me do something for her? Let me--please let me! If you'll only
listen a minute I'll tell you--"
But it was too late now. She was given no reply; permitted no chance
to vindicate herself. Her visitor's hard lips quivered, but she
uttered no syllable. In a moment she was gone.
After the door had closed upon her and it was quite certain that she
would not come back, Nan turned and rushed headlong, like a young
savage, upstairs and into her own room. What took place there it would
have been impossible to discover, for the shades were jerked fiercely
down, the door sharply shut and locked, and Delia, coming up some time
later, could not make out a sound within nor get a reply to her
requests to be admitted, though she stood outside and pleaded for an
hour.
At twilight the door was opened and Nan came out quite composed, but
bearing on her face the unmistakable traces of tears which, however,
Delia was wise enough to let pass unremarked.
"Time for dinner?" asked the girl, curtly.
"No, not yet. It ain't but just six," replied the woman. "Are you
hungry? I'll get you something if you are."
"No, I'm not hungry. But I feel kind of queer, somehow. There's an
empty feeling I have that makes me uncomfortable. But I'm not hungry.
O Delia!" she burst out, vehemently, "I wish--I wish--I had my mother.
A girl needs--her mother--sometimes--"
"Always," declared Delia, with conviction.
For a little time there was silence between them. Then Nan said, "Look
here, Delia--I want to tell you something. I feel just horribly. I
never felt so unhappy in all my life. That lady who was here this
afternoon is Ruth Newton's mother. She came to see me because this
morning Ruth fell from the tree in Reid's lot and hurt herself, and
Mrs. Newton thinks I made her do it. I didn't. Honestly, I didn't. I
had climbed the tree myself, and it was fun and I liked it. Ruth would
come. I tried to make her stay away, but she wouldn't, and when she
teased to climb the tree too, I told her not to. She's so little and
young, and her mother doesn't think it's ladylike, and I said if she
wouldn't come with me in the first place I'd give her five cents. But
she would tag on, and later she tried to climb the tree in spite of
everything. She put a board up against the trunk and got on it and
then scrambled up a little way, but she didn't get far, for the board
slipped, or something, and down she went--smash! I guess she must have
hit herself on the edge or somewhere, for when I dropped down she was
lying on the ground, and she had her eyes closed and wouldn't speak.
Then I didn't know what to do. I wanted to lift her, but it was awful
work. There was no one in sight. At last I managed to tug her to the
fence, but, of course, I hadn't the strength to get her over that
alone. I couldn't leave her and run for help, and for a long time I
did nothing but scream, in the hope that some one would come along and
hear. And by and by I heard wheels. It was a milk cart, and I got the
man to help me get her home. I went right to the Newton's as fast as I
could, but when Bridget opened the door and saw who it was she was
simply furious. They wouldn't let me in, and Mrs. Newton sent down
word she wouldn't see me, but she'd attend to me later, and this
afternoon when she called she just called me names and things, and I
couldn't explain to her, I felt so choked. She talked to me so, I
couldn't say a word. You don't know. When people say such things to
me something gets in my throat, and I feel like strangling and doing
all sorts of things. I seem to shut right up when they go at me like
that. I can't speak. I just feel like--well, you don't know what I
feel like. Mrs. Newton asked me where father is, and I told her, and
then she asked about Mr. Turner, for she wants to have things done to
me, and I told her about him. I wouldn't have her think I wanted to
get out of it. She called me names and she thinks I taught Ruth to
tell untruths; she said so. She says if Ruth doesn't get well it will
be my fault. O Delia! I didn't do it. Honestly I wasn't to blame.
But if Ruth is going to be sick and they think I did it--I want my
mother! How can I bear it without my mother?"
Delia gently patted the dark head that had flung itself into her lap.
Her heart ached for the girl, but her simple mind was not equal to the
task of consolation in a case like this. She could not cope with its
difficulties. She knew Nan was to blame for much, but she thought in
her heart that Mrs. Newton had no right to vent her wrath upon the girl
without first having heard her side of the story. She could not
console Nan, she thought, without seeming to convict Mrs. Newton, and
if she "stood up for" Mrs. Newton, Nan would think her lacking in
sympathy for herself. But in the midst of her wondering, up bobbed the
head from under her hand.
"Mrs. Newton says I teach the children to do wrong. She says I'm a
hoyden. She says I left Ruth in the cold and that I was a coward. She
didn't give me time to tell her about how I tried to get Ruth home
myself, and that when I couldn't, how I just howled for help. At least
she didn't want to listen when I got so I could speak. She says
everybody thinks I'm bad, and they want to have me attended to. She
thinks I taught Ruth to tell lies. Think, Delia, lies! When she said
that it was like knives! O Delia? I know you've been awfully good to
me always, and taken care of me since mamma died and all, but if it is
so dreadful to play ball and skate and do things like that, why did you
let me in the first place? I hate to sew and do worsted work and be
prim, but perhaps, if you had brought me up that way I might have got
so I could stand it. Don't you think if you had begun when I was a
baby I might have? I don't want to have people hate me--honestly, I
don't. When they talk to me, and say I'm rowdyish because I walk
fences and play ball with the boys and climb trees, I try not to show
it, but it hurts me way deep down. I try to say something back so
they'll think I don't care, and sometimes, if it hurts too much, I
pretend not to hear, and that makes them madder than ever. They don't
know how, when it's like that, I can't speak. Perhaps if you'd brought
me up so, I might have liked dolls and thought it was fun to sit still
and sew on baby clothes. But I don't like to, and I can't help it.
Mrs. Newton thinks because I whistle and make a noise that I'm just
mean and hateful and everything else. She thinks I don't care. Why,
Delia! if anything happened to Ruth I'd feel exactly as if I didn't
want to live another day. I--I--O Delia!"
For the first time she gave way, and, hiding her head in her arms,
sobbed heavily.
By this time Delia had risen to a point of burning anger against her
child's detractor. Her heart beat loyally for Nan, and she could
scarcely restrain the words of resentment that rose to her lips, and
that it would have been such unwisdom to have uttered.
"Never mind, Nannie lamb!" she said. "It'll be all right in the
morning. The child will be all well in the morning. You'll see she
ain't so bad as they think. And to-morrow I'll go and tell them all
about it. And perhaps they'll see then it's better to be slow accusin'
where the guilt ain't proved. Come, come! Don't cry so! Why, Nannie,
child, you haven't cried like this since you were--I can't tell how
little. You never cry, Nan. You're always so brave, and never give
way. You'll have a headache if you don't stop. Dry your tears, and
to-morrow it'll be all right."
So, little by little, she soothed the girl, and by and by Nan ate her
dinner, and then, when it was later, she went to bed. But when
everything was hushed and still a dark figure crept noiselessly down
stairs and on into the outer darkness. Down the street it stole until
it had reached a house, which, alone in all the row of darkened
barrack-like dwellings, showed a dimly lit window to the night. There
it halted. And there it stood, like a faithful sentinel, only
deserting its post when the gray light of early morning rose slowly
over the world and the city was astir once more.