“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!”