A MYSTERY.
All in good time Nan’s foot got better, but for a week she was kept
away from school, and during that week Augusta contrived to rivet her
chains. At the end of that time she was able to walk again, and, to
her own infinite relief, she went back to school. She learnt her
lessons just as carefully as ever; she was pronounced by her teachers
to be a remarkably clever and intelligent child; but there was a
change in her face. It had not the look that it had worn when first
she had come to the Richmonds’, but in some respects its expression
was even sadder. Then it was just grief, absolute and terrible, for
the loss of her mother; now there was a new expression in the frank
eyes and sensitive lips, which puzzled those who looked at her. In
process of time Kitty had got over the death of Pip. Her affections
were deep, and nothing would induce her to talk about the rat; but she
was a merry and happy child in other respects. She would not have a
rat again, she said—at least, not for a very long time; but she
attended to her mice, and looked after Nora’s rat, and saw that the
dogs and kittens were comfortable, and that Polly had a good time in
her cage. Not the faintest gleam of suspicion attached itself to Nan.
Jack’s share in the death of Pip was likely to remain a secret to the
end of time; so also was the true story of Nan’s sprained foot. But
what ailed Nan herself? Kitty remarked on the change in her one day to
Nora.
“She is not a bit the same, and I cannot make out what is wrong with
her,” she said. “Do you think by any chance, Noney, that Augusta has
anything to do with it?”
“Oh no!” replied Nora. “Augusta is a very nice girl, and she is
extremely fond of Nan: she often says so.”
“Well, I am not quite so sure,” replied Kitty. “I saw her two days
ago”——
“Yes; what did you see two days ago?”
“I do not like to tell tales, but I came into the schoolroom quite
unexpectedly. I slipped away, and no one saw.”
“Well, go on; you always are so mysterious, Kitty.”
“Nan was crying.”
“Yes.”
“And Augusta was scolding her. I heard Augusta say, ‘If you tell you
will be the biggest little fool that I ever heard of.’ Now, why should
she say that?”
“Are you sure you heard those words?” asked Nora in a tone of great
astonishment.
“Yes, I am certain she said them; and she meant them. And Nan’s face
was—oh, so miserable! I got out of the room, and no one knew that I
was listening; but I have a great mind to speak to Nan about it.”
“I wish you would. If Nan has a secret on her mind she had much better
tell us. She is looking so pale! She seems to have no life in her—no
interest in anything.”
“Very well; I will. I will tell her what I overheard.”
Nora and Kitty were as downright and honest as Augusta was the
reverse. But Augusta was very clever; she knew well what sort of
characters she had to deal with in the two little sisters; and whereas
she secretly bullied Nan, held her secret for her, and had her
absolutely in thrall, she was careful not to pursue any such methods
with the sisters. With them she was open and above-board, delighting
them with her apparent frankness, telling good stories, taking their
parts, laughing with them—making the schoolroom party a very merry
one indeed.
On the evening of the very same day that Kitty had made her small
confidence to Nora, Nora and Augusta were walking home together. In
consequence of Augusta’s superior age they were allowed to go as far
as the Park by themselves, and they were hastening home now to be in
time for the schoolroom tea.
“How nice it will be when I am grown-up,” said Augusta. “I shall be
fifteen before very long, and then it will not take many years before
I am out and enjoying myself. I mean to get mother to take me a great
deal into society. I should love balls and parties, and gay frocks,
and—and admirers.”
“Oh dear! it is more than I would,” said Nora. “I do not a bit want to
be grown-up.”
“You will when the time comes; and of course you are too young to
think of it at present. I expect you will look very nice when you grow
up, Nora.”
“I don’t care whether I do or not. I don’t care twopence about my
looks. I want to do my lessons well, and to learn a good bit, and then
to devote myself to natural history. I shall never care for human
beings as I care for animals. I want some day to own a complete
menagerie or a sort of Zoo. If ever I have money in the future I will
buy a great big garden, and have high—very high—walls round it; and
I will keep all sorts of animals in great cages—wild creatures, you
know—leopards and tigers and pumas. Oh! and wild-cats. And I will
have a deep, deep sunken pond with alligators. I suppose I must not
venture on a crocodile. I’ll have a snake-house, too. And of course
I’ll have lots of domestic animals. I think Kitty will share what
money she has with me, so we will make it quite a big thing. We will
not want to have anything to do with men and women; we will live alone
with our darlings. Oh! I think they are so sweet—so very, very
superior to men and women.”
“You are an extraordinary girl,” said Augusta; “but of course you will
change when the time comes. You cannot be different from the rest of
the world. When I am married, and have a beautiful carriage, and a
very rich husband, and heaps and heaps and heaps of money, I will come
and see you, and drag you out of your Zoo, and take you about and show
people what a pretty face you have; and then a prince will come along
and make love to you, and—and you will forget your animals because of
the beautiful words of the prince, and the poor animals will be
neglected and they will die off because you will have married the
prince and have gone away with him. That will be the end of your
day-dream, my dear, funny Nora.”
Nora laughed.
“We will see,” she answered. “But, talking of pretty girls, do you not
think that Nan will be very, very pretty when she is grown-up,
Augusta?”
“Hum!” said Augusta. “Well, yes, if she is happy I suppose she will.
Don’t you think there is something funny the matter with Nan, Nora?
Can you account for it?”
“I cannot,” said Nora, startled and amazed at Augusta’s words. “I wish
you could tell me. Can you throw any light on the change in her?”
“Oh! you have observed the change?”
“Of course I have. And, do you know, it all began the day you came
here. Of course, dear little Nan was very sad when first she came to
live with mother, but she had got over it, and we were all so fond of
her; we thought her such a darling! And she was so merry; she used to
laugh so heartily. And she was quite comforted because we gave her
Jack as her own special little dog; but now it seems to us that Jack
is more your Jack than hers, and Nan is very sad.”
“Poor Nan! I have noticed it myself. I am anxious about her.”
“Then you do not know what is the matter?”
“I think I do partly, but I must not say; perhaps she will tell you
herself.”
“Oh! but won’t you say? It does seem unkind to have a weight of care
on her dear little mind and not to have it relieved.”
“Why do you always talk about her as though she were such a tiny
creature? She is nearly as old as you.”
“She is the same age as Kitty, but somehow she looks and feels
younger.”
“Well, if I were you I would not take much notice,” said Augusta. “She
will come right all in good time. Of course, you know, it is not as if
she had been brought up with you; she was brought up by her mother,
who was a very poor woman.”
“It is not poverty that makes Nan so strange and queer at present,”
answered Nora.
“I know it is not. I cannot make her out myself, poor child; I am
afraid she is naturally of a very melancholy disposition.”
The girls chatted a little longer. Nora had obtained no light whatever
on Nan’s trouble, and went into the house feeling worried and
distressed.
Augusta managed to rush into the schoolroom before the sisters
appeared.
“You must try to be cheerful, Nan,” she said; “they are both
suspecting that there is something amiss. You must really rouse
yourself or the whole thing will be discovered, and where would you be
then?”
“What would happen if it were?” said Nan.
“Happen! I suppose they would forgive you; but, seeing the peculiar
circumstances under which you live in this house, I should not like to
be in your shoes. Whoever could think well again of a girl who is
deceitful?”
“But I am not. Oh! I would tell now—I would tell gladly were it not
for you.”
“It certainly would not be very kind of you to get me into a scrape
when I did what I could to get you out of one,” was Augusta’s answer.
“But come! cheer up—do. We will have some jolly games after dinner;
and, if you are an awfully good girl, I have something rather exciting
to tell you to-morrow. No, not to-day—to-morrow.”
The girls came in; Miss Roy followed. They had all high tea together
at half-past six, and immediately afterwards Augusta proposed games.
She was a splendid leader when there was anything of that sort for her
to do, and soon the children—even Nan—were laughing merrily and
enjoying themselves to their hearts’ content. It was not until bedtime
that Kitty ran up to Nan, put her arms round her neck, looked into her
eyes, and said in her sweetest, most coaxing voice:
“Nancy, I am coming into your room early tomorrow morning—quite
early. When I come, may I creep into your bed, and put my arms round
your neck, and kiss you a lot of times?”
“I should like it ever so much,” said Nan.
“I will come. Good-night, Nan darling.”
Augusta was standing near when Kitty made her petition of Nan.
As Augusta herself was going to bed she went up to Nan and kissed her.
“What did Kitty say to you?” she asked in a whisper.
“Nothing.”
“Nonsense! Tell me at once.”
“She said that she was coming to see me to-morrow morning early, to
get into my bed.”
“Oh,” said Augusta, “that sort of thing means confidences. Be careful,
Nan; be careful what you are doing.”
Nan said nothing, but went away to her room. When she got there she
fell on her knees by the open window and looked out.
It had been a lovely day in spring, and the night was clear, fine, and
balmy. Nan opened her window and let the soft air blow on her hot
little face.
“It is four months since mother died,” she said to herself; “a great,
great deal has happened, and I scarcely know myself. I have learnt to
love Mrs. Richmond and the two girls. As to Jack, I think he is the
dearest little thing in the world; and I have forgotten Sophia Maria.
I have almost forgotten Phoebe; but I still love Mr. Pryor. And, oh!
mother, mother, up in heaven, do you see Nan now, and are you pitying
her, and are you telling me what is right to do? For I am not a good
girl; and as to being the best girl that Mr. Pryor speaks about—oh
I—I am more like the worst. And I am so afraid of Augusta! I think I
do really, out and out, hate her. I do not know what she means by
frightening me and making me so unhappy. Oh! I wish I had never
yielded to her. I wish I had the courage to tell Kitty the truth.”
As Nan knelt at the window it came into her head that she might ask
God to give her the necessary courage, but then a wild sensation of
terror swept over her.
“If Augusta were not in the house I might tell, but Augusta would make
it out to be so bad; she told me she would. She told me that if I ever
told what I had done she would say that I implored of her not to tell,
and she said that her word would be believed before mine; and I know
it would, of course, because she is quite old beside me. What a
miserable girl I am!”
Nan went to bed, and after a time, wretched as she felt, she fell
asleep. But her sleep was haunted by dreams, and it was with a cry
that she woke on the following morning when Kitty touched her.
“Here I am, Nancy,” said Kitty. “Just push over to the left side and
let me get into your bed.”
Nan made room, and the two little girls lay side by side.
“Now, this is quite cosy,” said Kitty.
“Isn’t it?” replied Nan.
“You are very fond of me, are you not, Nancy?”
“Oh yes; very—very.”
“And of Nora too?”
“Very; I love you both most dearly.”
“And you love mother?”
“Not as I love you two, but I do love her.”
“And you love Augusta?”
Nan was silent.
“I thought you did; you are so much together, and you do such a lot of
things for her. Sometimes Nora and I are rather angry when we see you
trotting here and there, up and down stairs, fetching and carrying for
Gussie. It is all very well, but Gus ought not to put things on you.
If you do not like her, why do you do it?”
“Oh! never mind, Kitty. I do it because”——
“Well, because of what?”
“Because I do.”
“That is a very silly reason—and for such a clever girl to give!”
“I cannot help it; that is why I do it.”
“Then let me tell you why you do it,” said Kitty: “because you are
afraid of her.”
Nan gave a sudden shrink into herself, and the little start all over
her frame was not lost on Kitty, who lay so close to her.
“Nan,” said Kitty after a pause, “why are you afraid of her?”
“I did not say I was.”
“But I know it; and so does Nora.”
“You know it! Oh—oh! please—please do not know it any more.”
“I am going to tell you something. Two days ago I came into the
schoolroom; it was in the dusk, before the lamps were lit. You were
standing up, and Augusta was lying back in the easy-chair. Your face
was turned towards the door, and Augusta’s back was to the door, but
neither of you saw me; and I heard Augusta say to you, ‘If you tell
you will be the biggest little fool that I ever heard of.’ Yes, Nan,
those were her words; and you—you began to cry. You had been crying
before, and you cried harder than ever. I slipped out of the room; but
I want to know the meaning—yes, I want to know the meaning, Nancy.”
When Kitty finished speaking Nan suddenly flung both her arms very
tightly round her neck.
“Why, you are trembling all over, Nan; what does it mean?”
“It means this,” said Nan—“this.”
“But what? You are not saying anything; you are only just shivering
and clinging to me. What is the matter? Of course, Nora and I notice
how terribly changed you are and how unhappy you look.”
“Never mind about that; please answer me one question.”
“Yes; what is it?”
“Do you love me?”
“Of course I love you. We all do—I mean Nora and mother and I; we
love you dearly—dearly.”
“Better than the animals?”
“Oh, well! I am not sure, but in a different way, anyhow.”
“Better than your white rat that died?”
“I wish you would not talk about Pip. He is dead, poor darling. I
think of him often at night. I loved him. I love him still. Do not let
us talk about him.”
“Kitty, will you promise?”
“What, Nan—what?”
“That you will not ever say anything again about—about Augusta and
me.”
“What about you?”
“What you overheard.”
“Well, if you do not wish it. But why will you not tell? You are
afraid of her; what power has she over you?”
“I do not know. I mean I do; I want to tell you, but I don’t dare to.
Let us talk about your rat—poor Pip.”
“How very queer you are, Nan! If there is a subject that I hate
talking about it is about Pip.”
“But why?”
“I will tell you why. I have not told anybody else, not even Nora, but
I will tell you. I ought not to have gone away that day in the country
when Pip was so ill. It was awfully selfish of me! Perhaps if I hadn’t
gone he would not have had that fit, poor dear! and he might have been
alive still.”
“He might, of course,” said Nan, who knew well that he would have been
alive, for certainly Jack would not have got at him had Kitty remained
at home.
“That is why I am so absolutely miserable when I think about it,”
continued Kitty. “The poor darling died quite neglected; even you did
not go up to see him, because I asked you not.”
“And if,” said Nan, trembling very much—“if Pip had not died in the
way you think, but from a sort of an accident, how would you feel
then?”
“How would I feel if Pip had met with an accident? But he did not meet
with an accident.”
“But let us suppose,” said Nan—“it is fun sometimes to suppose—let
us suppose that he did, that that was the way he died.”
“I cannot suppose what did not happen, and I hate to talk of it.”
“But if it had, and—and somebody was to blame, how would you feel
towards that somebody?”
“You really are too extraordinary, Nan! I should hate that somebody. I
tell you what it is,” continued Kitty, “I would never forgive that
person—never, never. But there! what nonsense you are talking!
Nothing of the kind did happen. That is not your secret, is it?”
“Oh! of course not—of course not,” said Nan, frightened, and plunging
into the biggest lie she had yet told. “No, no—of course not; only I
like to wonder and think things out. It amuses me; I was always given
that way.”
“Well,” said Kitty, “you gave me a fright. You talked as if it might
be the case; and your voice was so queer and shaky! I do believe there
is a mystery, but of course it is not that.”
“No, it is not that.”
“You did not go up to see Pip?”
“Of course not.”
“I am sorry I asked, for of course you would not do it, as I told you
not. Nan darling, do please tell me what makes you so unhappy; please
tell me. Let us forget about my little Pip. He is in his grave, poor,
darling little rat, and all his troubles are over. He was so
affectionate, and I was so fond of him! But he will never feel any
pain ever again. And I love you, Nan; and Noney and I are wretched to
think that you are so unhappy.”
“It is all right,” said Nan. “I will try not to be unhappy in the
future. I have things that worry me now and then.”
“I will tell you what one of them is: you are afraid of Augusta; she
has a power over you. You will be all right again when she goes away.”
“I don’t know,” said Nan; “perhaps so.”
Kitty could get nothing further out of Nan, and as it was now time to
get up, she went slowly back to her own room.
Nora raised her head when Kitty came.
“Well,” she said, “have you discovered anything?”
“Nothing. I begin to think Nan a very strange little girl. Do you
know, she asked me such a funny question! She said, ‘Suppose Pip had
died by an accident, and somebody was to blame, how would you feel
towards the somebody?’”
“What did you say?”
“That I would hate that somebody, and never forgive her.”
“I wonder why she said it,” continued Nora.
“Oh! I am sure I don’t know. I asked her point-blank if Pip had come
by an accident, and she said ‘No,’ and that nobody had been upstairs.
She is a very strange girl, but I love her all the same.”