THE BEST GIRL.
Immediately after the funeral Mrs. Richmond took Nan’s hand.
“Now, dear,” she said, “you come home with me.”
Nan turned first red and then very white. She was just about to reply
when Mr. Pryor came forward.
“Madam,” he said, “may I make a request? I want to ask a very great
favour.”
“If possible I will grant it,” replied Mrs. Richmond.
“I have known Mrs. Esterleigh, this dear little girl’s mother, for two
or three years; and on the whole, although I am not specially fond of
children, I think I also know Nan well. Now, I want to know if you
will grant me the great favour of allowing me to take Nan home to my
rooms until this evening. I will promise to bring her to you this
evening.”
“Oh yes, I will go with you and with Phoebe,” said Nan. She clasped
hold of Mr. Pryor’s hand and held it to her heart, and she looked round
for Phoebe, who in her shabby frock was standing on the outskirts of
the group.
Phoebe was nodding to Nan and making mysterious signs to her. Mrs.
Richmond looked full at Mr. Pryor.
“I do not wish to make Nan more unhappy than I can help to-day,” she
said; “so if you will bring her to my house by six o’clock this
evening I will be satisfied.”
She turned away and entered her own carriage, and Mr. Pryor looked at
Nan.
“It is only two o’clock,” he said; “we have four hours. A great deal
can be done in four hours. What do you say to our spending the day out
here in the country?”
“Oh,” said Nan, “in the country! Is this the country?”
“This is Highgate. I have a carriage, and I will get the man to drive
us quite out into the country parts—perhaps to Barnet. The day
happens to be a lovely one. I have a kind of desire to go into the
Hadleigh Woods with you; what do you say?”
Nan gave a vague nod, and looked round for Phoebe.
“You would like your little friend Phoebe to come too?”
Nan’s whole face lit up.
“Oh, very, very much!” she said.
“Well, she is standing there; go and ask her.”
So Nan rushed up to Phoebe.
“Phoebe,” she said, “shall we go into the country with Mr. Pryor? I
need not be back till six o’clock.”
“I don’t know if my mistress would wish it,” said Phoebe.
“I will take upon myself to say that Mrs. Vincent will not be angry
with you,” said Mr. Pryor, coming up at this moment. “Now, children,
get into my carriage; I will give the driver directions.”
So they left the cemetery and drove away and away into the heart of
the country. It took them some little time to reach it, but at last
they got where the trees grew in numbers and houses were few and far
between; and although it was winter the day was a lovely one, and
there was a warm sunshine, and it seemed to Nan that she had come out
of the most awful gloom and misery into a peace and a joy which she
could scarcely understand.
Mr. Pryor dismissed the carriage when it set them down at a pretty
little inn, and he took Nan by the hand and led her into the parlour,
and asked the landlord for a private room; and there he and Nan and
Phoebe had dinner together.
It was a simple dinner—the very simplest possible—and Sophia Maria
sat on Nan’s lap while she ate, and Mr. Pryor talked very little, and
when he did it was in a grave voice.
Phoebe looked somewhat awed; and as to Nan, the sense of grief and
bewilderment grew greater each moment.
“Now, Phoebe,” said Mr. Pryor when the meal was over, “I want our
little party to divide. There are four of us, for of course I consider
Sophia Maria quite one of the family.”
“Oh, she is quite, the darling!” said Nan.
“Will you take charge of her for a little, Phoebe,” said Mr. Pryor,
“while Nan and I go for a walk?”
“Oh, must we?” said Nan, looking full at him.
He smiled very gravely at her.
“We will not be long,” he said. “There are a few things your mother
has asked me to say to you. I would rather say them to you alone,
without even Sophia Maria listening.”
Then Nan’s little white face lit up.
“Phoebe,” she said, “Mr. Pryor and I have something most important to
say to each other. Be sure you take great care of Maria, and don’t let
her catch cold.”
Phoebe promised, and Mr. Pryor and Nan, hand in hand, walked in the
direction of the Hadleigh Woods.
They walked in absolute silence until they reached the woods, and then
their steps became slower, and Nan looked up into the face of her
companion and said:
“I wish you would tell me. What did mother say?”
“My dear Nan, your mother knew very well that the day was soon coming
when God would send for her. She did not like to talk to you about it,
although she often tried to; she was anxious about you, but not very
anxious.”
“I wonder mother was not very anxious when she thought of leaving me
so far, far behind,” said Nan.
“You see, she did not think that, for in reality those who go to God
are not separated very far from those they leave.”
“Then is mother near me?”
“You cannot see her, nor can you realise it, but I should not be
surprised if she were quite near you.”
“She knows all about my black dress and my crape?” said Nan. “Phoebe
said she would be so glad about the crape!”
“Well, Nan, the fact is that the crape could not make her glad, nor
the black dress; but the thought that you, her little girl, made it
and wore it for love of her would make her glad. It is not the colour
of the dress makes her happy; it is the love you put into it.”
“Oh! I don’t quite understand,” said Nan.
“You will when you think it over. You see, she is in white; she has a
crown and a harp. That is what we have learnt about those who leave
us—that if they have loved God they go into His presence, and their
dress is white and glistening, and they have harps to sing to and
crowns to wear; and we know the more we love the nearer we get to
them. So, Nan, the message your mother has left me is this: ‘Tell Nan
to be as good as girl can be—to be the best girl she knows. By being
the best she must be the most loving, she must be the most unselfish.
She must not wish to be the best to be thought well of by her
fellow-men, but she must be the best because God loves those who try
to follow Him.’ Do you follow me, Nan, when I say these words?”
“I follow you,” said Nan. “You want me to be good, but I do not think
I can; and as to being the best, that I can never be. You want me to
have a great deal of love, and I only love mother and Phoebe a little
bit. And to-night everything is to be changed; I won’t even have you.”
“I am going to ask Mrs. Richmond to send you to see me
sometimes—perhaps once a fortnight or so.”
“Will you?” said Nan. “I think if I could like anything I should like
that.”
“I will arrange it then; and perhaps although you do not exactly love
me now, you will regard me as your friend and love me presently. But
there is something else I want to say. Your mother wished all these
things for you, but she knew that you would have certain difficulties
in your life. I am sorry to have to tell it to you, my dear little
girl, but it is the fact: your mother left you without any money.”
“But mother could scarcely do that, because we had something to live
on,” said Nan. “Has mother taken our money away with her up to God?”
“No, dear. In the home where she is now money is not needed; but the
little money she had was only to be here during her lifetime. It was
what is called an annuity; that means, she could have the use of it
for her life, but only for her life. So, my dear little girl, you have
no money.”
“Then I expect,” said Nan, drawing herself up and fixing her eyes full
on Mr. Pryor’s face, “that I had best go to the workhouse. I can go to
the workhouse until I am old enough to take a place as servant; and I
would like, please, to go into the same house with Phoebe. Perhaps Mrs.
Vincent would have me as her little servant, and Phoebe could teach
me.”
“That is not necessary; you are not suited for that kind of life, and
God does not require it of you. Mrs. Richmond is very well off; she has
more money than she knows what to do with, and she always loved your
mother, so she is going to take you to bring you up with her two
little girls. You will be trained and educated, and have everything
that a little girl can require, and all Mrs. Richmond wants in return
is your love and your obedience.”
“But I don’t think I can love her. I wish—oh, I wish she would not do
it!” said Nan.
“Now, Nan, the first proof of your love for your mother has arrived,
for she wanted you to go to Mrs. Richmond. She would be dreadfully
pained—far, far more pained, if trouble could reach her in heaven, by
your not going there than even if you still wore a coloured frock.”
“Oh, how puzzling it is, and how difficult!” said Nan. “I shall quite
hate to go to Mrs. Richmond. I never liked her much, and now to think
that I owe everything to her!”
“I have something more to say. There is a man who owed your father
money long ago, and he has promised to adopt you in case you are not
happy with Mrs. Richmond; but you must spend quite a year with her
before you go to him. You would have a different life with him—freer,
wilder. Your mother preferred the idea of your being with Mrs.
Richmond, but if you are unhappy with her you are to go to the
Asprays; when last I heard of them they lived in Virginia, in the
States of America.”
Nan pressed her hand to her forehead.
“That does not seem much better,” she answered; “and I think my head
aches, but I am not sure. Shall we go back again now, Mr. Pryor?”