Nancy Of Paradise Cottage Part 18

"No, I'm not. There, isn't that the postman? You might as well see if there's anything for us before you go to French."

Alma walked down the hall toward the front door, where the maid was taking the noon mail from the postman. Nancy stood waiting, half-way up the stairs, evidently lost in thoughts which were not very pleasant, for her brown eyes sparkled with suppressed indignation and contempt, and once or twice she pressed her lips together tightly, as she always did when she was trying to make herself look calmer than she felt.

"Here's a letter from Mother," said Alma, coming back with an envelope in her hand. "I can't read it now, so you take it and save it for me."

Nancy leaned over and took it from her.

"I--I may not see you until to-night," she said, slipping the letter into the pocket of her skirt. "You know you can trust me to hold my tongue, well--quite as well as she can, and she holds hers very well indeed. Do you mind being stared at and whispered about?"

Alma only smiled, then, with a little toss of her head, made a right about face, marched off, chin up, to brave the battery of glancing eyes and whispering tongues alone.

CHAPTER XIII

NANCY HAS A GREAT ADVENTURE

There was no doubt whatever in Nancy's mind that it was Mildred who had cheated in the examination. But whether Mildred had deliberately left the book on Alma's desk, or whether she had simply forgotten it, she did not know. The fact remained, however, that so far Mildred had made no effort to clear Alma of the suspicion, and knowing Mildred's nature as she did, Nancy was not inclined to think that Mildred would ever do so of her own accord. Nancy was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt so far as believing that she had not intentionally thrown Alma into such a damaging position. In the first place, she had no motive for injuring Alma, and in the second place, she ran a very great risk of discovery herself. Leaving the whys and wherefores, Nancy regarded the simple fact; that having thus injured Alma, Mildred was not going to try to clear her, and pay the penalty herself. The thought that most wounded Nancy was that Alma was under obligations to the girl who had treated her so badly. The handsome fur neck-piece Mildred had "lent" her, was not yet paid for, and Nancy shrank from the idea of her sister's owing money to her. She had, of course, not mentioned this to Alma, although it had been the first thought that sprang into her own head, when she first became certain that Mildred was the culprit. It would have troubled Alma, who was already troubled enough, and she could have done nothing about it.

"I've got to get that money somehow," Nancy said to herself grimly. "I can write to Mother for part of it--about half, perhaps, but the other half I've got to get myself." Naturally, her first idea was to pocket her pride, and to ask her Uncle Thomas for the money. Not even that would hurt her so much as the thought of owing it to Mildred; but then she dismissed this plan from her mind. It was impossible; it would be a breach of their terms of friendship, for one thing, and for another, she felt that to explain to him her reasons for wanting it would be unjust to Alma.

While she was turning one plan after another over in her mind, she absently took her mother's letter from her pocket, and slit the envelope open with a hairpin. She glanced almost carelessly at the lines, written in Mrs. Prescott's pointed, flourishing hand, then all at once the meaning of the first sentence fixed her wandering attention.

"MY DARLING, DARLING LITTLE DAUGHTERS:

"I can hardly bring myself to write this letter. You don't know how hard it is for me--but I deserve the pain and humiliation. I am a very foolish woman, but, oh, my dears, I have made my mistakes only in trying to help you both. And now, what _have_ I done to you? There was no one to advise me, and I know nothing whatever about business, but it seemed so perfectly practical, so absolutely _sure_."

All this was perfect Greek to Nancy, and she saw that her poor mother had evidently written the letter in an almost desperate state of mind.

After two pages of self-reproach, it was gradually made clear to Nancy that Mrs. Prescott had made an unfortunate investment of her little capital, though the extent of the loss Mrs. Prescott did not explain.

In an effort to increase their meagre income, she had taken all her money, or part of it, and bought stock in some oil interest in Texas.

A Western promoter had a.s.sured her that it was the opportunity of a lifetime, he himself being either an unconscionable fraud or a self-deceiving optimist. Nancy had not the remotest idea when her mother had made the investment, but evidently the news of its complete failure had just reached her, and it was equally evident that it had been a total loss.

Utter bewilderment confused Nancy's thoughts, so that at first she could hardly realize all that the misfortune might mean; she felt no terror; only a wave of pity and tenderness for her mother, whose misery was so pitifully expressed in the letter. Then she thought of Alma.

Misfortune of that kind would hit both of them harder than herself, because they had a greater need for luxury and pleasure than she.

There was nothing terrible to her in the thought of work, and of difficulties to be overcome, because, in her quiet way, she had a great wealth of self-confidence, the ardent ambition of youth, and that zest for struggle which is characteristic of strong natures. Alma and her mother, on the other hand, saw nothing but the wretchedness of thwarted hopes in such an existence of poverty and work. They were created for ease and luxury, just as the hollyhock is made to bloom against the sunny garden wall. Poor Mrs. Prescott, who had dreamed such happy fairy tales for her daughters, and who, with her own hands, as it were, had so innocently destroyed the little they possessed; and Alma, so thirsty for pleasure and beauty,--it was only on their account that Nancy suffered. She understood that it would be impossible for herself and Alma to come back to school for the next term; but that would have been impossible anyway, Nancy thought, even with Alma cleared of the dreadful suspicion that rested on her; for Nancy's stiff pride could not brook the thought of living among people who had doubted her sister, even though the circ.u.mstantial evidence against Alma had been very strong.

"However shall I get all the money to pay Alma's debt now?" she thought, dazedly. "I can't get even half of it from Mother, because she would certainly deny herself the very necessities of life to send it. I _cannot_ ask Uncle Thomas for it." She knew that in all probability she could influence Mr. Prescott, through his increasing affection for her, to help her mother out of their present difficulty, but the thought of doing so was utterly repugnant to her, and, it seemed to her, intolerably humiliating both for Mrs. Prescott and Alma.

She was afraid that Mrs. Prescott, learning that Uncle Thomas had shown a favoritism for her, might urge her to this course, and she could not decide whether she should swallow her pride for her mother's sake and for Alma's, or whether she should insist that they fight their way courageously out of the difficulty. So far as she herself was concerned, there would have been no question; there was nothing that she would not endure rather than ask her uncle for a cent.

Her hands were trembling as she folded the letter up, and put it in her bureau drawer under her handkerchief case.

"How am I going to tell Alma?" Well, she would break the news to-night. First of all, she must solve the problem of the debt to Mildred, Only one course was possible. There was her father's ring, which she always kept, and which was her very dearest, possession. It was of the heaviest gold, and set with a large seal stone of lapiz-lazuli. She might raise perhaps thirty-five or forty dollars on it--which left about seventy still to be found by hook or crook. Never had any sum appeared so gigantic to Nancy. She could see no other possible means of getting it than by borrowing it temporarily from Charlotte, and paying it back by one way or another during the holidays. She knew that Charlotte would be glad to lend it to her, but she shrank from the thought of putting their friendship to such a use.

However, there was no help for it. In Alma's pocketbook she found enough money to pay her way into the city. Her mother would certainly be sending them a little more in a day or two for their return home.

She took the money--two or three dollars, left from the ten which Alma had borrowed from her,--and began to change into her suit, thinking, meanwhile, with a smile of incredulity, of the imprudence of sending herself and Alma to one of the very schools where their poverty would be contrasted with the abundance of Mildred Lloyds and Katherine Leonards.

When she was ready for town, she went to Miss Leland's office, and told her simply that she had just received a letter from her mother which made it necessary to go to the city without delay. Miss Leland gave the consent, which Nancy, in her excited state of mind, was ready to go with or without. She caught the next train to New York, and by one-thirty was in the Grand Central Station, wondering where on earth, now that she was there, she would be able to get the money on the ring.

She had a vague idea that the only possible place would be some p.a.w.n-shop, and she had read in Nicholas Nickleby that one can tell a p.a.w.n-shop by three golden b.a.l.l.s hanging in front of it, and also that one would be likely to find it only in a squalid section of the business district. The dealer would certainly be Jewish, and he would in all probability not give her a tenth of what the ring was worth.

None of these thoughts were likely to raise her spirits at all, and, when at length she found herself outside a dirty little shop on lower Sixth Avenue, gazing in upon a window display of dusty violins and guitars, travelling bags and tawdry jewelry, while above her the traditional golden b.a.l.l.s creaked in a sharp wind, her courage all but failed her. She was frankly terrified by the sordid strangeness of her environment, by the dirty, sodden loafers that shuffled past her, and by the thought of haggling for money over the counter of that dingy and even sinister-looking little shop. At length, however, she plucked up courage and, with her heart in her throat, entered.

The front part of the shop was empty and very dark. At the back was a swinging door, leading into another room, from which issued the sound of voices of two men. The little bell over the front door had rung as Nancy entered, to apprise the shopkeeper of a customer, and under the swinging door she saw a pair of shuffling feet moving toward it. The shopkeeper emerged, followed by the other man, who was evidently a customer come to make a purchase of some antique piece; for the p.a.w.nbroker seemed to deal in old bric-a-brac and what not, besides his regular historic business of money-lending.

"I vill gif you dat box for vun hundert dollars,--mit dat it iss a gift," the shopkeeper was saying doggedly, as he came toward Nancy, and the other man, following him, laughed.

"Well, you certainly give awfully expensive presents," he remarked. "A hundred dollars, you old rascal--no one on earth would give that for a little box."

"Vell, only try to duplicate it--you vill not find such a handsome piece dis side de ocean," returned the shopkeeper with a shrug. "Vot can I do for you, young lady?"

But Nancy had temporarily lost all power of speech. She was not sure, indeed, that she wasn't dreaming--it was all so utterly strange, and whimsical, and impossible, that surely it could be so only in a dream.

For the young man who had followed the p.a.w.nbroker out of the inner room was George Arnold! She was standing with her back to the door, but the light that came through the dirty gla.s.s shone squarely on his face, so that if she had not already recognized his voice she would have recognized his features beyond the shadow of a doubt. Her first impulse was to turn and fly, or to conceal herself hastily in one of the odd little sentry boxes, which were evidently designed to preserve the incognito of the p.a.w.nbroker's indigent customers. But already Mr.

Arnold had cast a second curious glance at the unusual sight of a well-dressed, well-bred young girl in such surroundings, and with that second glance he had recognized her. His mouth opened slightly in a repressed gasp of astonishment. Probably, with a moment's thought, he might have pretended that he had not recognized her, in order to spare her any embarra.s.sment, but he had already exclaimed, involuntarily:

"Why, Miss Prescott!" and had taken a step toward her. Nancy turned scarlet, and could only gaze at him helplessly.

"How can I serve you, young lady?" repeated the shopkeeper. Nancy hesitated, in a perfect agony of embarra.s.sment, while Mr. Arnold continued to look at her, evidently very much at a loss. On the one hand, he disliked to discomfit her by being present while she transacted her business with old Zeigler, the p.a.w.nbroker, and on the other, he was equally unwilling to leave her to be swindled, as she very probably would be. Furthermore, while he realized that he had no business to inquire into her affairs, and that, to say the least, it would be the height of bad taste to do so, nevertheless he felt that she was in some difficulty and needed advice. The squalid little shop was an odd place in which to find the niece of old Thomas Prescott; for it was not likely that she had come there as he had, to browse around in a dilettante search for curios.

Nancy read the question, "What are you here for?" in his face, and guessed his indecision. On her part she wished fervently that he would go, and was racking her brains for some excuse to leave the shop and to come back later. But her frantic efforts at evolving some plan of escape within the s.p.a.ce of fifteen seconds were fruitless. Zeigler for the third time repeated his question to her with a touch of impatience.

Then Mr. Arnold desperately took the bull by the horns, and with a touch of pretended gaiety asked with a laugh:

"Are you in search of adventure? You aren't running away from school, are you?"

"No--that is----" stammered Nancy; then, driven to take him into her confidence to some extent, and trying to put her situation in the light of a prank, she laughed mischievously, and added with an air of candor, "You've caught me."

"What are you up to, young lady? Selling the family plate?" inquired Mr. Arnold boldly, and speaking to her as if she were a mischievous youngster, though his eyes were grave and puzzled. Nancy put up her chin, as if she were being scolded, and answered with a touch of childish defiance: "Don't tell on me."

"Well, I won't--though you deserve it, ma'am," replied Mr. Arnold. "I won't--on one condition,--that you come with me, and 'fess up to all your misdemeanors, and let me give you the sage advice of a hardened sinner before you do anything rash. I realize that I'm taking a liberty, Miss Prescott, in concerning myself in what is strictly your own affair," he added seriously, "but isn't our friendship firmly enough established to allow me that privilege? What time is it?" He glanced at his watch. "Ten minutes past two, and I've had no luncheon.

Have you?" Nancy admitted that she hadn't.

"Good. I can't begin to tell you how awfully lucky I consider myself in having met you, Miss Prescott. I wish you would come with me to some nice little restaurant where we can decide the affairs of the nations. Are you in a great hurry?"

Nancy said that she wasn't. To tell the truth she was very glad that Mr. Arnold _had_ concerned himself in her affairs, which she had begun to believe she was not managing any too well. They had talked in low voices so that the shopkeeper could only have heard fragments of their conversation, and then left the shop, without even a word of explanation to the irritated old money-lender.

Mr. Arnold hailed a taxi-cab, and they rolled off in state. Mr. Arnold had given the driver the address of a little French restaurant on West Forty-fifth Street.

"It'll be fairly empty now, and we can find just the table we want.

_I_ shall order your luncheon for you, because I know just exactly what things are peculiar to this place--their special tid-bits, and I feel like ordering a regular knock-out of a feast as a sort of celebration.

Really, you've no idea how delighted I am to have discovered you." His frank, boyish pleasure in this freak of chance was so plainly written on his beaming face, that Nancy colored with a schoolgirl's nave delight in such sincere flattery. The dreaded undertaking of her trip to the city was turning into a very charming little surprise party. In some way, she felt that she had known Mr. Arnold for a very long time, and that really there was not the slightest need for concealing anything from him. His odd, attractive face was so friendly, his bright brown eyes so full of eager sympathetic interest, that almost before she had given a second thought as to whether she should or she shouldn't, she had begun to tell him the reason for her appearance at the p.a.w.nbroker's.

They had found a little table in a corner of the restaurant, and Mr.

Arnold had insisted upon ordering almost everything on the menu that attracted his fancy.

"And above all things, you must try the hot chocolate, Miss Prescott.

I suppose it's not manly, but I have the most juvenile fondness for hot chocolate, with great big blobs of whipped cream."

So hot chocolate they had, and innumerable rolls, hot and fresh from the oven, and various and sundry other delicacies, calculated to cripple a weak digestion for a month at the very least.

Drawn out by her growing confidence in him, and by her craving to talk out her troubles to some one whose advice would be sound and based on genuine sympathy, Nancy told him about her necessity for getting some money. The explanation involved a good many complications, and Nancy was as a rule unusually reserved. But Mr. Arnold was one of those rather rare people who can understand a great deal more than is said in just so many words, and she did not have to go into details as to why, for example, she hesitated to ask her uncle for the money, or why it was impossible to write to her mother for it. She told him simply that there was a girl at school to whom her sister was indebted, and who had played Alma a very shabby trick; and that, therefore, she felt that it was absolutely imperative to clear Alma of the obligation to her. He listened attentively, interposing occasionally in the friendly tone such as an older man might use to a young one, so that she felt no embarra.s.sment in making the whole affair clear to him. Nor did he seem to think that there was anything very awful in her trying to raise the money for herself with the ring as a security.