PIP.
The sunshiny morning brought a still more lovely afternoon in its
train. Nan felt cross and discontented. She had looked forward for
long to that happy day in Shirley Woods; she had a passionate love for
all flowers, and for primroses in especial. She had gone
primrose-hunting when quite a little child with her mother in the
happy, happy days when they were not so poor, and mother was not so
ill, and their home had been in the country. As she lay in bed at
night for the past week she had thought of the intense joy of picking
primroses.
“Even if mother is dead,” she had said to herself, “I shall love to
hold them in my hands; and if it is true that mother is in a beautiful
country where there are spring flowers that never wither, perhaps she
is picking primroses too.”
But now everything had come to an end. She had been good-natured
although disobedient, and her punishment had come. Her foot did not
ache very badly except when she walked on it; still, she felt very
impatient alone in the schoolroom—forgotten, doubtless, by every one
else in the house, for even nurse had taken the opportunity to go and
visit an old friend, and Susan the housemaid just peeped in once to
see if there were enough coals to put on the fire. But the day was too
warm for Nan to need much fire. Her book did not interest her; she
knew her lessons already by heart. She did not care to practise on the
piano. Even Jack tired her by his constant and officious attentions.
“Oh dear!” she said to herself, “was there ever such a long afternoon?
How I wish Phoebe would come to see me! How I wish that I had my
darling Sophia Maria again! I might make some more clothes for her;
there are all kinds of odds and ends in nurse’s basket, and she would
not mind my rummaging in it. But there! I really have not the energy.
How dull it is! I wonder if Kitty will bring me a special bunch of
primroses, and if they will be big ones with long stems, the sort
mother used to love. Oh dear! I am tired.”
She yawned, shut up the book which she had already read, and taking
Jack into her arras, kissed him on his little round forehead.
Just then a memory came to her. Kitty had been anxious about one of
the white rats that morning. It was her favourite rat, Pip. Pip had
not been well; he had refused his breakfast—an almost unheard-of
thing in the annals of the rat world. Even a nut did not tempt him,
and he had turned away from a piece of cheese. Kitty adored Pip. He
was a large, rather dangerous rat. Nan as a rule kept a wide berth
when she was asked to visit the rats and mice, for Pip had very sharp
teeth, and a vicious way of darting at you and giving you a sharp
bite. But Nan now thought of him with much interest. The very last
thing Kitty had said before she went out was this:
“I sha’n’t enjoy myself very much after all, for Pip is not well. I
cannot think what is the matter with him. I should just break my heart
if anything happened to my darling Pip.”
Nan had asked one or two questions, and Kitty had turned round and
looked at her.
“Oh! you can do nothing,” she said. “I have put him away from Glitter
and Snap. I think he looks very bad indeed; he must have eaten
something poisonous. No, please, do not go near the room, Nan,
whatever you do, for you know you have not the slightest control over
the rats and mice.”
Now Nan thought of the sick rat, and a curious and ever-increasing
desire to go and look at him, to find out if he were better, if he had
eaten the cheese which Kitty had last tried to tempt him with, took
possession of her.
“It can do no harm,” she thought. “I will just go and have a peep; it
certainly can do no harm. I shall be very careful; I will just open
the door and look in.”
Notwithstanding the pain in her foot, Nan contrived to limp up to the
attics. There were five or six attics on the next floor—large rooms,
all of them. The smallest one, that facing the stairs, had been given
over to the girls for their pets. They owned several boxes of mice,
different kinds of breeds—harvest mice, dormice, Japanese mice, white
mice. Nan considered all the mice most fascinating. At the opposite
side of the room were the cages where the rats reposed.
Nan knew Pip very well by appearance. He was snowy white, had a long,
hairless tail, and a little patch of black just behind his left ear.
It was a tiny patch of black, and Kitty considered it one of his
beauties. Nan opened the door softly now and went in. She had left it
a little ajar, not thinking much of what she was doing. When she
entered the room her dullness vanished on the spot. She could examine
one cage after the other; could poke in her hand and draw it away
again when the mice tried to bite her. There were a lot of little baby
mice in one cage. She thought it would be nothing short of bliss to
examine them, to count them, and to see what they were really like.
But of course the sick rat, Pip, must have her first attentions. He
was in a cage all alone—by no means a perfect cage, for it was broken
at one side. Kitty, however, had secured it against the chance of the
rat’s escape by leaning a bit of board up against the broken side. Nan
knew nothing of this; she moved the cage so as to get it into a better
light, and peering down, looked at the sick rat. He was lying curled
up in the bottom of his cage, but the sudden movement and the sight of
Nan’s comparatively unfamiliar face gazing at him caused Pip to become
wide awake. At that instant a thrill of fear shot through his rodent
heart. Nan, without knowing it, had caused the piece of wood to slip.
The very next instant the rat was out of his cage, and was scuttling
as fast as ever he could rush across the floor.
Now, this was bad enough—for nothing would induce poor Nan to catch
him—but worse was to follow; for Jack, grown a large pup now and full
of spirit, had followed his little mistress, unknown to her, into the
attic. The next moment there was a cry, a scuffle, and Jack had caught
the sick rat by the neck. Nan screamed, rushed at the dog and rat, and
tried to separate them. Alack and alas! the spirit of his ancestors
was in Jack’s veins at that moment; his hairs bristled in excitement.
It did not take him long to shake the life out of poor Pip, who lay
dead and torn on the floor of the attic.
Nan’s consternation exceeded all bounds.
“What shall I do? What shall I do?” she exclaimed.
She said the words aloud. A light, low laugh falling on her ears
caused her to turn quickly, and she saw, standing in the doorway, a
fair-haired girl with large blue eyes and an exceedingly amused
expression on her face.
“Oh!” said Nan, giving a jump.
“What is the matter?” said the girl.
“Who are you?” said Nan.
“I am Augusta Duncan. But what have you been doing? You are a funny
girl, ratting up here all by yourself.”
“Oh! you don’t know what it means. It is perfectly awful! I came up to
see Kitty’s sick rat, Pip. She just worships Pip. She has had him
almost since he was born; and he was ill to-day, and she put him into
a separate cage, and while I was looking at him he escaped, and my
bull-terrier killed him.— Oh Jack! oh Jack! what have you done?”
The smile on the strange girl’s face became a little broader; she
slowly crossed the room, looked at the rat, and then going away, came
back with a pair of tongs. With the tongs she lifted the rat and laid
him on a shelf.
“He does not look bruised,” she said; “at least not much—a little
perhaps. His fur is wet, but I do not suppose Kitty will know what has
killed him. Have you courage to put him back into his cage?”
“Why should I do that?” asked Nan.
“Well, have you courage? I could not touch the horror.”
The laughing, curious eyes were fixed on Nan’s face. She did not know
why—she often wondered afterwards what had ailed her during that
miserable day—but the next instant she had slipped the rat back into
his cage.
“That is all right,” said the girl. “You need not tell; I will not.
Come, let us lock the door. Have you done any further mischief in the
room? I see not. Come downstairs to the schoolroom and amuse me.”
Nan followed the girl as though she were mesmerised, Jack trotting
behind her heels. They went into the schoolroom; the girl turned full
round and looked at Nan.
“Now, who are you?” she said.
“I am Nan Esterleigh.”
“Oh! And has my aunt adopted you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know that I am tired? I have had a very long journey; I have
come all the way from France. Aunt Jessie is very busy, and said that
I might come up to the schoolroom and amuse myself. She did not know
that you were here; she said nothing about you. Now, what I want to
say is this: if I keep your secret, will you make things pleasant to
me?”
“But—but,” said Nan, “I don’t know that I want it to be kept a
secret.”
“Oh! you would like Kitty to know that you had stolen into her
preserves when she was out, and that your dog had killed her pet rat?
It would be so pleasant for you, would it not?”
“It would not be pleasant at all,” replied Nan. “Why are you speaking
in that tone?”
“I only thought that perhaps you were going to enjoy it. And what good
would it do making Kitty unhappy? The rat was ill when she left; she
would take its death as a matter of course. She would not know that
Jack had killed it.”
“But suppose—oh, suppose she ever finds out!”
“How can she find out if you do not tell and I do not tell?”
“You tempt me,” said Nan; “but it does not seem right.”
“Never mind whether it is right or not; do it.”
“Very well,” said Nan.
She sat down on the hearth-rug and began poking up the fire.
“That is right. If I do it, you must do things for me. Build up that
fire to begin.”
Nan looked round at the insolent young figure stretched out in the
easiest chair which the room contained. She built up the fire without
a word.
“That is right; you can make yourself very useful. Now, run downstairs
and ask one of the servants to bring me up some tea and toast, and a
new-laid egg, and a little marmalade. Do not forget—toast, butter,
tea, new-laid egg, and a little marmalade. I must say I think it was
very thoughtless of Aunt Jessie not to order any food for me when I
arrived.”
“Oh! did not she? Of course I will go and order the tea,” said Nan in
a good-natured voice.
She left the room. Her heart was beating loudly. She did not like the
position of things a bit, but she seemed to be whirled along by an
influence stronger than her own.
“I am not even trying now to be one of the best girls,” she said under
her breath.
When she came back to the schoolroom, Augusta was curled up close to
the fire with Jack in her lap.
“What a nice little dog!” she said. “I should rather like to have him
for my own.”
“Oh! but you can’t,” said Nan. “He is mine.”
Augusta gave her a quizzical glance.
“You can call him yours,” she said. “While I am here he is to be my
dog—hey, you little beauty?” and she caught up Jack and pressed his
head against her cheek.
Presently Susan appeared with the tea, which was nicely prepared,
Augusta’s instructions being carried out to the letter.
“Here, Jack,” said Augusta; “stand on your hind-legs and beg. You
shall have some sugar.”
“Oh! please, sugar is not good for him at all,” said Nan in a tone of
entreaty.
Augusta laughed, picked out the largest lump, and presented it to
Jack. He crunched it with appetite; when he had finished she gave him
another, and another.
“You will ruin him. He will get to be a horrid dog at this rate,” said
Nan.
“Well, when I leave here you can do what you like with him. While I am
on the spot it is my will and pleasure to treat little Jack exactly as
I think best.”
Nan turned away. She felt a strange, sick sensation round her heart.
“I cannot allow myself to get into the power of this horrid girl,” she
said to herself. “It would be better to have Kitty quite furiously
angry with me for an hour or two; yes, it would be much better than to
have that girl spoiling Jack, and ordering me about just as though I
were her slave.”
“I wish you would get me something to read,” called out Augusta.
“There is a shelf full of books there,” replied Nan. “You can choose
which one you like. I am not allowed to walk much because I have hurt
my foot.”
“How did you hurt it?”
“I was out to-day getting flowers for Mrs. Richmond, and I fell.”
“Oh, how stupid! Did you go out by yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Hum! Where did you go?”
“Not very far off; just round the corner. There is a beautiful
florist’s shop just at that corner.”
“I dare say; but you are rather young to go out alone. Did Aunt Jessie
say you might?”
Nan coloured and bit her lips. Augusta noticed the expression on the
little girl’s face.
“Perhaps you would rather I did not say anything about this either,”
she remarked. “I won’t, you know, if you tell me not. I never make
mischief. I would not do so for all the world.”
“Well,” said Nan, “I did disobey Mrs. Richmond; but I was in such a
hurry because we were all going to the country—we were to have such a
lovely, lovely afternoon! I was very sorry afterwards that I did not
insist on Susan’s coming with me.”
“We are mostly sorry when we do wrong things,” said Augusta. “I am;
but then, you see, I do not get into scrapes. I would not for all the
world. I am the sort of girl who gets other girls out of scrapes. I
sometimes think that is my mission in life. What a lot of wrong things
you have done to-day! Gone out without permission, and been the cause
of poor Kitty’s favourite rat’s death. I would not be in your shoes
for a good deal—that is, unless I had a girl like me to help me. Now,
like a good child, bring me the least objectionable of the books on
that shelf.”
“Augusta,” said Nan.
“What a portentously solemn voice! Well? Augusta is listening.”
“I think it is better to say that—that I do not want you to keep
secrets for me.”
“Oh! all right, my dear—all right; you can please yourself exactly.
I’ll be able to explain just how I saw you with the dog in the room,
and the dead rat. Kitty will think you did it on purpose.”
“She could not think such a thing.”
“Well, you must admit that it looks like it; you up there, and the rat
dead, and Jack—_your_ Jack—having done it. However, please
yourself. We will see when the time comes what you will choose. We
will not decide at present. Now then, which is the best of the books?”
“I don’t know. Here is _The Fairchild Family_.”
“Never heard of it. It sounds goody-goody.”
“It is rather nice,” said Nan. “And here is _Ministering
Children_.”
“Oh! I do not want anything of the religious order.”
“And here is—oh! here is a charming book—_The Heir of Redclyffe_,
by Miss Yonge.”
“I have read it before, but I will glance through it again; just toss
the volume across to me.”
Nan brought it in a meek fashion to Augusta, who took it, raised her
eyes to the little dark face, and smiled.
“You are not a bad sort,” she said; “and you can be useful to me. I
mean to make you useful. Now sit down, Nan, and do not make a noise.
Read anything you like, only don’t disturb me.”
Augusta buried herself against some comfortable cushions, opened her
book, and was lost in its contents. Nan, feeling sick and miserable,
her ankle aching terribly, took the next most comfortable chair.
By-and-by there came a message for Augusta to go downstairs to Mrs.
Richmond.
“That is right,” she said, jumping up. “How do I look, Nan? Hair
tidy—eh?”
“Oh yes,” said Nan; “it is pretty well.”
“Pretty well! If you talk in that tone I shall send you for a brush
and comb and glass. Let me look at myself through your eyes. What big,
dark eyes you have! They are very pretty. You will be a handsome girl
by-and-by.”
“Shall I?” replied Nan, much comforted, not to say charmed, by these
words.
“Of course you will. And you are a nice little thing—quite nice. Now,
keep the fire alive, and look after _my_ Jack until I return.”