THE MIDDLE WAY.
On the following Sunday Nan came to Mrs. Richmond with a request.
“I do so want to see Mr. Pryor!” she said. “I have not seen him for two
or three months; and he said that he was always at home on Sundays.
May I go there this afternoon with Susan? Do, please, let me, Mrs.
Richmond.”
“Certainly, Nan dear; I am always glad that you should see your
mother’s dear old friend.”
So after early dinner, Nan, dressed in her pretty and neat mourning,
started off, accompanied by Susan, to visit Mr. Pryor. She had not
ventured to the house where her mother had died before, for on the
last occasion of their meeting Mr. Pryor had come to see her. The door
was opened by Phoebe, who, in her delight at seeing Nan, forgot all
decorum, and shocked Susan almost out of her wits by flinging her arms
round the little girl’s neck and hugging her tightly.
“Oh, Miss Nan! it is good to see you; and my missus, Mrs. Vincent, will
be that pleased! You will come down, miss, and have a cup of tea with
my mistress before you go back, won’t you? Oh! it is elegant you look.
What a pretty frock, miss! It ain’t cut by our pattern, be it, miss?”
“No,” said Nan. “Please, Phoebe, can I see Mr. Pryor?”
“It is delighted he will be to see you, darling. I’ll just run up and
ask him. Won’t you come into the parlour, dear? The parlour lodgers
has gone, and there is no one there at present. Wait a minute, love,
while I inquire whether Mr. Pryor is in. Oh! of course he must be; but
I’ll go and find out.”
Nan and Susan went into the parlour, and presently Phoebe rushed
downstairs.
“Mr. Pryor says you are to go up this very minute, miss. And he has
ordered tea for two, and muffins and cream. And perhaps this young
person would come to the kitchen.”
Poor Phoebe glanced with admiring eyes at Susan. Susan’s manners were
staid and of a rebuking character. She did not think Phoebe at all the
sort of girl she would care to associate with; but as Nan said in a
careless tone, “Yes, Susan, go downstairs,” and then ran by herself to
the drawing-room floor, there was nothing for it but to obey.
“What an elegant young lady Miss Nan has grown,” said Phoebe. “Come
downstairs, won’t you, miss? My mistress will make you right welcome.”
So Susan had to make the best of it, and tripped down, accompanied by
Phoebe.
Upstairs a very hearty welcome had taken place. Mr. Pryor had kissed
Nan, and taken her hand and made her seat herself in the most
comfortable armchair in the room; and then he had stood in front of
her and looked her all over, from her head to the points of her neat
little shoes.
“Well, Nancy,” he said, “and how goes the world?”
“I am very unhappy,” replied Nan at once. “For a time I felt better,
but I am unhappy now. I have a great big secret, and it weighs on me
and gets heavier and heavier every day; and I can never tell it, not
to you nor to anybody; and I can never, never, never now be the best
girl that mother wanted me to be.”
“That is very sad indeed, Nancy,” replied her friend; “and I cannot
understand it, my dear. Nobody ought to be in the position you have
just described yourself to be in, far less a little girl who is
treated with such kindness and love.”
“It is because I am loved, and because they are so sweet, that I am so
dreadfully unhappy,” said Nan. “I have told a lot of lies, Mr. Pryor,
and I can never unsay them. I can never tell the truth, for if I did
those whom I love would cease to love me. When it began I did not
think it would be such a big thing, but now it has grown and grown,
and I can think of nothing else. My lessons, and my play, and my
walks, and even dear little Jack, are not a bit interesting to me
because of this big Thing. There is no way out, Mr. Pryor; there is no
way out at all.”
“That is not true, Nancy, my dear.”
Mr. Pryor sat down and looked thoughtful. The little girl’s face, the
tone of her voice, the suffering which filled her eyes, showed him
that her sorrow, whatever its nature, was very real.
“Suppose we ask God to help us out of this,” he said after a moment’s
pause.
“I don’t want to ask God, for I know what He will say, and I cannot do
it.”
“What will God say, Nancy?”
“That I must tell—that I am to tell the people what I did. And they
will never, never forgive me, and I cannot tell—I cannot tell, Mr.
Pryor.”
“Then, my dear Nancy, why did you come to see me?”
“Because I thought perhaps you would find the middle way.”
“The middle way, Nancy?”
“The way between the very naughty and the very good. There must be a
middle way, and I want to get into it and to keep in it. Cannot you
find it for me?”
“I have never heard of it, Nancy—never. I am afraid there is no
middle way. You have done, I take it, something wrong; and you have,
I take it, told a lie about it.”
“That is it.”
“And one lie, as is invariably the case, has led to another, and to
another, and to another.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Pryor, that is certainly it.”
“And each lie makes your poor little heart feet more sad, and each lie
shuts out more and more of the beautiful sunshine of God’s love from
your spirit. Nancy, there is no middle way. You must go on telling
those lies, and adding to the misery of your life, and getting lower
and lower and your heart harder and harder, until after a time that
happens which”——
“What?” said Nan. “You frighten me.”
“That happens which is the result of sin. You do not suffer any more
pain; your conscience ceases to prick you; that voice within you is
tired, and will not speak any more because you have treated it so
badly. That is what will happen in the lower path on which you are
preparing to walk.”
“You terrify me. I am sorry I came. I will not stay any longer. I
could not tell.”
“Come here, Nancy, and let us talk it over.”
“I cannot—I do not want to say any more. Let us forget it.”
“My dear child, you would not have come to me if you had not
hoped”——
“Yes; I hoped that you would show me the middle path.”
“There is none. Nancy dear, will you not confide in me if I faithfully
promise that I will not tell any one what you have done.”
Nan paused to think.
“I should like to,” she said, “but I have promised not to tell.”
“Who did you promise?”
“I cannot even tell you that. Perhaps I will some day; perhaps I will
get the person to allow me to tell you. It is a dreadful thing, and it
seemed so small at the beginning! I am a very unhappy girl.”
“It requires a little pluck to get out of this dilemma, Nancy. But the
strong hand of God would help you over this crisis in your life, and,
lo and behold! the darkness would go, and sunshine and joy would be
yours again.”
“I hoped so once, but I spoke to Kitty the other morning. I made up a
sort of case, and I tried to find out what she would feel; and she
said that if anybody had done such an awful thing, that person would
be her enemy, and she would never, never forgive her. And then she
asked me what I meant, and if anybody had done it; and I told a lot of
fresh lies, and said no—nobody had done it; and I cannot go to Kitty
now and tell her that I did it after all.”
“You are very mysterious, Nancy, and you make me very unhappy; but if
you have quite made up your mind to go on being a naughty girl and
adding to this burden of lies, I will not talk about it any more just
now. But I will pray a great deal for you, and beg of God not to let
your conscience go to sleep.”
“Oh, please, do not, for I am so miserable!”
“Here comes the tea. Will you pour me out a cup?” was Mr. Pryor’s
answer.
Phoebe, with her beaming face, brought in the tray.
“If you please, miss, Mrs. Vincent would like to see you very much
before you go away. Susan is having an agreeable time in the kitchen
with a new-laid egg and buttered toast to her tea; and Mrs. Vincent
will be so glad to see you once again, miss!”
Nan murmured something. Phoebe left the room. Even Phoebe noticed the
shadow on the little face.
“Now, come,” said Mr. Pryor; “you know exactly how I like my tea; pour
it out for me. One lump of sugar and a very little cream. Ah! that is
right.”
Nan ministered to the dear old gentleman, and as he chatted upon every
subject but the one closest her heart, she tried to cheer up for his
sake.
By-and-by her visit came to an end. She bade Mr. Pryor good-bye. He
told her that he would be in any day if she wished to speak to him,
but he did not again allude to her secret. Mrs. Vincent was enraptured
with Nan’s appearance, and made her turn round two or three times in
order to get a good view of the cut of her dress.
“I declare, Phoebe,” she said, “you could take the pattern of that in
your mind, so to speak. It is a very stylish little costume; most
elegant it would look on my little granddaughter, Rosie Watson.”
Phoebe sniffed in a somewhat aggressive way; she did not consider that
Rosie Watson had any right to the same pattern as Nan. Soon afterwards
Susan and Nan left the house and went back to Mayfield Gardens.