IN MISS BLAKE'S ROOM
Nan never forgot that scene. It seemed to her afterward, that even in
the midst of the horror that almost stupefied her and made her blind,
it had been indelibly photographed upon her brain to the merest detail
with torturing distinctness.
She could see Mrs. Newton's drawn, livid face, and the stern, set
expression of the men who gathered about in knots here and there
discussing the accident in whispers, or arranging the best means of
getting back to town. A doctor, who happened to be near at hand, had
sprung forward at the first moment of alarm, and he and a strange,
kind-faced woman were together bending over the prostrate form between
them, while over all arched the high dome of the blue October sky,
beyond them stretched the level road, narrowing in the distance to a
point that seemed to pierce the sea, and on either side spread the
branches of bordering maple trees, each shining brilliant and gorgeous
In the autumn sunlight.
Presently, in response to a demand from the doctor, a low-hung carriage
drew out from the ranks of waiting vehicles, and into it was lifted,
oh, so carefully! the inert form of the governess, and her head laid
upon Mrs. Newton's lap.
Nan pressed close to the wheels.
"Can't I go with her?" she whispered.
Her companion gazed at her blankly for a moment. Then she seemed to
realize the question, and answered it.
"No," she replied. "Get my machine, and--and hers, and see that some
one carries them back for us--some man will do it."
Then without another word she turned her head away, and slowly, slowly
the carriage moved and began its snail's-pace journey townward.
Nan looked helplessly about her.
"Won't some one take the bicycles home?" she pleaded.
She never knew who performed the office. She never cared. She gave
some stranger her address without the slightest interest as to whether
he was trustworthy or no, and then, mounting her own machine, she sped
home as fast as the wheels would turn.
Thus it was that when the dreary little cavalcade reached home at last
everything was in readiness for its reception.
There was no difficulty nor delay in getting upstairs, and in an
incredibly short time the place had assumed the air of hushed solemnity
that always seems to overhang the spot where illness is.
Nan crouched outside the threshold of the sick-room and listened to the
low sounds within with a feeling of overwhelming guilt at her heart.
She dared not go in.
At last the door was opened, and the physician stepped forward. He saw
Nan cowering in the gloom.
"What is this?" he asked kindly.
Nan dragged herself up painfully, as though her limbs had been made of
lead.
"Have I--have I--killed her?" she managed to gasp.
The doctor bent on her a pitying look.
"Killed her?" he repeated. "I do not know what you mean. Do you mean
will she die? No, my child, not if we can help it--and God grant we
may. But it may be long, very long, before she is well. She has been
badly hurt, poor little soul!"
Then followed a term of harrowing suspense. Nights when Nan thought
the sun had forgotten how to rise--so long they seemed and never ending.
The fever that followed the first season of lethargy raged fierce and
hot for many a day, and the delirium that accompanied it was difficult
to quell. It seemed at times as though it must burn the patient's very
life away. It was during these days that Nan learned how much she had
caused her friend to suffer. What, in her moments of consciousness,
she had never permitted to pass her lips, now in these hours of
delirium she dwelt on and repeated over and over. It was of Nan,
always of Nan that she spoke.
Nan must have this; Nan must not do that. It was her duty to protect
Nan and guard her. She followed the girl in perilous journeys; she
tried to guide her from dangerous courses. She betrayed her anxious
care for her in every word she uttered. And then sometimes she would
say something that Nan could not comprehend.
"Florence's child!" she would murmur. "Florence's child!" and then she
would catch herself back with a sudden look of fear as though she had
betrayed a secret.
"My mother's name was Florence," Nan would say brokenly. "But I don't
know what she means. She never knew my mother."
At last came a change, and then Nan was excluded from the room.
"You might excite her, and she must be carefully guarded against any
chance of that," the doctor said in explanation.
But Nan was almost too happy to care. The first sound of the low,
sweet voice speaking intelligently sent a thrill of passionate
gratitude to her heart.
How she and Delia plotted and planned for the invalid. How Nan made
the room to fairly blossom with the flowers that daily came pouring in
from all manner of strange and unexpected sources.
"I never knew she had such lots of friends," the girl said one day to
Delia.
The woman looked down at her with a flash of superior understanding in
her eyes.
"She's a wise one," she said. "She goes her own way, and it's little
she asks of any one and it's less she says. But what she does ain't
little, I can tell you, Nan. I know of many a thing she's done for
those who, if they haven't got money, have the grateful hearts in them
to remember kindness and to love the one that shows it to them. Some
day you'll know her for what she is, and then you'll never strive
against her any more and you'll love her as many another has done
before you."
The girl gazed straight into the woman's eyes. "I love her now,
Delia," she said. "I've loved her from the first minute--only I didn't
know it some of the time and the rest I was a horrid--little--beast, so
there!"
Oh, the happy days that Nan spent in that quiet room above stairs. How
she grew to love it! The sunshine coming through the curtains and
making great patches of mellow light upon the floor seemed more bright
here than anywhere else. If it rained, this place was less dreary than
any other, and in sun or storm it was the only spot that Nan felt had
the power to quell her wayward mood when it rose against her will and
urged her back to her hoydenish exploits once more.
Miss Blake, lying back against her snowy pillows, had a look of such
inexpressible sweetness to Nan that often and often the girl would
fling herself beside the bed with her arms about the fragile figure,
crying:
"Oh, you dear, you dear! how I love you!" and then the other, with a
very happy smile would invariably answer, "And I you, Nan."
It was all understood between them now. Pardon had been humbly asked
and freely granted, and there was now only the remaining regret of
impending separation; the dread of the parting that was to come.
At one time they had thought that it would occur within a few weeks'
time, and the joy that Nan felt in her father's return was overshadowed
by the grief she experienced in the coming loss of her friend.
But now the date of Mr. Cutler's home-coming had been postponed. He
would leave Bombay as he had at first intended, but business would
detain him in London, and he could not expect to reach home until that
was completed--so Mr. Turner said.
Thus Nan had to reconcile herself to her disappointment and the
indefiniteness of her father's return, in the thought that if her
meeting with him was deferred, why, so was her parting from Miss Blake.
The weeks that passed before the governess was fairly convalescent had
brought them well into November. They had been busy, helpful weeks for
Nan. In her thought for her friend's comfort she had unconsciously
learned a lesson in gentleness and patience that nothing else could
have taught her. Her voice grew lower, her step lighter, and the touch
of her fingers more delicate. All this could never have been
accomplished in such a short space by ordinary means, but Love is a
magical teacher and he instructed her in his art.
As the dear invalid grew stronger Nan tried to beguile the long hours
by reading aloud to her from her favorite authors, sage philosophers,
wise poets, and tender tale-tellers. Sometimes she did not at all
comprehend the meaning of the pages she read, but Miss Blake was always
ready to give her "a lift" over the hardest places, and to her surprise
she grew really to love these serious books, and to get an insight into
the beauty of their character.
Once in awhile she would take up the daily paper to give her friend an
idea of "what was going on in the world," seriously reading discussions
about this "bill" or that "question" with absolutely no conception of
what the whole thing was about.
One day, it was during the last of November, she sat before the fire in
the governess' room feeling especially contented and placidly happy.
Miss Blake, safely ensconced among her cushions, was cozily sipping a
cup of bouillon.
The room was very still.
Suddenly Nan jumped to her feet, and, clasping her hands high over her
head, said, with a luxurious sort of yawn:
"Oh--my! How I'm liking it nowadays. Things are so sort of sweet and
cozy. Do you s'pose it's too good to last? Do you s'pose it has
anything to do with my trying to be good and not letting my 'angry
passions rise'?"
The governess nodded her head, but made no other reply and after an
instant Nan slipped to the floor again, and, sitting Turk-fashion
beside her companion's knee, considered how possible it would have been
for Miss Blake to have taken that occasion to lecture her on the past
error of her ways. But she had learned that it was not the governess'
way to preach. That nod was as eloquent as a sermon to Nan, and she
understood it perfectly.
"Shall I read you something from 'The Tribune'?" she asked, after a
moment's musing. And she took up the paper and began searching for the
editorial page. When she had found it she set about reading the first
leader that came to hand, quite regardless of whether it would prove
interesting to her auditor or not. The fact that it was unintelligible
to her seemed a sort of guarantee, in her mind, that it would be
interesting to Miss Blake. She read on and on until both her breath
and the column itself came to a stop.
"You poor child," said the governess affectionately. "Don't read
another word of that. How stupid it must be for you. Here, take this
book of dear Mary Wilkins. We can both of us understand her, and she
will do us both good. You need not victimize yourself a moment longer,
dear Nannie."
But Nan, radiant with good humor, felt a sort of glory in just such
self-victimizing. She searched through the page for further
unintelligible text.
All at once she paused and read a few lines to herself. Then she burst
into a laugh.
"Here's something about a man who has such a funny name. It's James
Murty, alias Dan Divver, alias Shaughnessy. What a last
name--Shaughnessy! And why was he called alias twice over, Miss Blake?
I didn't know one could have the same name more than once. It seems
awfully expensive--I mean extravagant." Miss Blake laughed.
"You are thinking of Elias, Nan. This man's name is not Elias. Alias
is pronounced differently, and is not a name at all, but a word
signifying otherwise, or otherwise called. It means that the man has
gone under those different titles. And I don't think I care to hear
what it has to say about the gentleman, dear. He probably isn't just
the sort of person whose exploits would make fair reading."
"Is he bad?" asked Nan.
"I should gather, from his names, that his existence had been somewhat
checkered," replied the governess with a twinkle in her eye.
"Is it wicked to go under other names than your own?"
Miss Blake flushed as she bent forward to place her empty cup upon the
table by her side. She was far from strong yet; the slightest exertion
brought the blood to her cheeks.
"Not necessarily," she said. "But as a general rule people whose lives
have been simple and upright do not need to live under an assumed name.
Of course there might be exceptional cases--and there is a difference
between an alias and an incognito."
"What's an incognito?" questioned Nan.
"Why, if a person of rank or importance travels through a country and
wishes to escape publicity, he often does so incognito--that is,
unknown. He will drop his official title and take his family name or
part of his family name with a simple prefix. For instance, a king
might care to be known as the Duke of So-and-so; a Duke as Mr. ----,
whatever his surname chanced to be. That would not be wicked and it
would not be an alias. And sometimes people who are not nobles find it
desirable to remain unrecognized for a time. Take it for granted that
I was not, in reality, a governess at all; I mean that I was not forced
by circumstances to take such a position, but that I for some reason
chose to assume it. That I cared to come here and be with you because
I had known and loved your parents long ago and wished to do my best
for their child. Then suppose I did not care to disclose my identity
to--to--people because of--well, no matter--I simply came here giving
you but part of my name--not the whole, why it might not be a wise
course, but it certainly could not be called a wicked."
"Oh, how I wish you had," cried Nan. "It would be splendid fun. Just
like a princess in disguise and things. Say you aren't a governess and
that your name isn't Blake. Oh, please do. It'll be just like
fairy-stories if you will."
"How can I, dear, when I am and it is?" replied the governess, slowly.
"I am no princess in disguise, I assure you. I am simply a very
prosaic little woman and your devoted friend. I don't think I could
possibly discover anything at all resembling a fairy-tale in my life.
But some time, perhaps, when you are older, and when--I mean, if we
meet again, I will tell you all there is to tell about myself--that is,
if you care to listen. It will not be exciting--but you might care to
know it."
"Oh, I would, I would!" the girl exclaimed heartily. "But I hate to
have you talk of 'if we meet again.' Why, we must, Miss Blake. Don't
you know I couldn't live and know I wasn't to see you any more? It's
like the most awful thing that could happen to have you go way at all,
and the only way I can bear it is thinking of how we'll see each other
often and often. Why, my father will be so thankful to you for taking
such care of me! I guess he won't know what to do. And when you see
him and find how good he is, you won't be afraid a bit. You'll just as
lief stay here as not. He's the best, the dearest--oh, you couldn't
help but like my father."
A soft hand patted her head in loving appreciation, but not one word
said the governess, and the two sat together in silence for some time
thinking rather sober thoughts, until the sound of the door-bell broke
in upon the stillness and brought Nan to her feet and sent her flying
to the balusters to peep over and discover who the late caller might be.
"It's Mr. Turner, and he asked for you," she said, coming back into the
room and bending to gather up the scattered news sheets that strewed
the floor. "He looked as solemn as an owl, and he asked for you in a
voice that made me feel ever so queer--it was so trembly."
"He may be cold," suggested Miss Blake.
She rose and settled the pillows upon the divan. She would have to
receive her guest up here. She was not yet permitted to venture below.
She and Nan stood ready to receive him as he entered the room, and
after the first greetings the girl was about to sit down beside her
friend when the lawyer said abruptly:
"My dear, I must ask you to permit me to talk to Miss Blake alone
to-day. I have some private business to transact with her. You will
pardon me for asking you to leave us."
Nan rose immediately with a smile of good-natured understanding, but as
she turned to leave the room she saw that the face of the governess was
deathly white, and she ran back to her, crying:
"What is it; oh, what is it? Are you faint? Let me get you something."
She was in a sudden bewilderment of alarm. Miss Blake gently put her
aside, saying calmly,
"Why, nothing is the matter, Nan. Nothing at all, my dear. I am
strong and well now, you know. Quite strong and well. You must not
make Mr. Turner think I am ill, else he will go away again, and I shall
not know what he has to say to me. I am quite able to hear--whatever
it is. So go away, dear."
The girl obeyed, and the next moment the door had closed behind her,
and only the sound of her voice from without, singing in happy
reassurance, broke the stillness of the room where the lawyer and the
governess stood facing each other silently.