  Half an hour later Nan heard the automobile returning and she sighed resignedly. The gypsy girl’s heart was rebellious, yet she would bear with it a little longer for Miss Dahlia’s sake. The door was opening, but Nan, with folded hands still gazed out of the window. A severe voice spoke: “Anne, when I enter the room, I wish you to rise.” “Yes, lady,” was the listless reply as the girl arose. “And one thing more. I do not wish you to call me ‘lady’ in that gypsy fashion. If you wish to say Lady Ursula, you may do so. My English ancestry entitles me to that name.” Miss Barrington and Miss Dahlia then seated themselves, but Nan remained standing. “Why don’t you sit down?” the former asked impatiently. “Sister,” a gentle voice interceded, “Nan can’t know our parlor manners, when she has been brought up in the big out-of-doors.” “She will soon have the opportunity to learn them, however,” Miss Barrington said coldly, “for I have decided, since this morning’s performance, to place Anne in a convent school. I find the task of Christianizing and civilizing a heathen more than I care to undertake.” “Oh, Sister Ursula, don’t send Nan away,” the other little lady implored. “Let me teach her. I will do so gladly.” “You!” The tone was scornful. “Do you suppose that you can succeed where I fail? No indeed, Anne shall tomorrow depart for a convent school which is connected with our church.” Then rising, she added: “We will now descend to the dining room and we will consider the subject closed.” Had the proud Miss Barrington glanced at the girl who was keeping so still, she might have seen a gleam in the dark eyes which showed that her spirit was not yet broken. As they went down the wide stairway, Miss Dahlia slipped her hand over the brown one that hung listlessly at the girl’s side. Nan understood that it was an assurance of the little lady’s love, and her heart responded with sudden warmth. * * * * * * * * All that afternoon Nan sat in a sheltered corner of the garden with a beautiful story that she was trying to read, but her thoughts were continually planning and plotting. She could not and would not be sent to a convent school. She was only staying to keep her promise to Miss Dahlia, but now that Miss Ursula was sending her away, she was freed from that promise. Just then a maid appeared, saying: “Miss Barrington wishes to see you in the library at once. She’s got a telegram from somewhere and she’s all upset about it.” When Nan entered the stately library, she saw Miss Barrington standing near Miss Dahlia’s chair, and the younger woman was saying: “But, Sister Ursula, it would be of no use for me to go. I know nothing of law and of things like that.” “I am quite aware of the fact,” the older woman said, “and I had no intention whatever of requesting you to go, but it is most inconvenient for me to spend several months in the East just at this time. I am president of the Society for Civic Improvements, and an active and influential member in many other clubs, as you know.” Then, noting that Nan had entered the room, she turned toward her as she said coldly: “Anne, I shall be obliged to leave for New York on the early morning train. A wealthy aunt has passed away, leaving a large fortune to my sister and myself, but unfortunately, the will is to be contested, which necessitates the presence of an heir who has some knowledge of legal matters. I may be away for several months, and so I will have to leave you in my sister’s care, trusting that she will see the advisability of sending you to a convent school as soon as a suitable wardrobe can be prepared. That is all! You may now retire.” It had been hard for Nan to quietly listen to this glorious and astounding news. She did glance for one second at Miss Dahlia, and she was sure that she saw a happy light in those sweet grey eyes. The next morning the household was astir at a very early hour, and at nine o’clock the automobile returned from the station and Miss Dahlia was in it alone. Nan joyously ran across the lawn and caught the outstretched hands of the little lady. “Oh, Miss Dahlia,” the girl implored, “you aren’t going to send me to a convent, are you? Because, if you do, I am going to run away.” “No, indeed, dearie,” Miss Dahlia replied, as she sat on a marble bench near the fountain, and drew the girl down beside her. Then she laughed as Nan had never heard her laugh before. There was real joy in it. “Dearie,” she said, “I begged my sister to permit me to do what I could to try to civilize you while she is away, and, because her mind was so much occupied with other and weightier matters, she gave her consent, but she made me promise that you would attend service with me wearing proper clothes, and that I would teach you to sew and also lady-like manners.” “Oh, Miss Dahlia, I, will civilize fast enough for you, because I love you,” the girl said, impulsively, as she pressed a wrinkled hand to her flush brown cheek. “And I love you, Nan, you don’t know how dearly, and you needn’t civilize too much, if you don’t want to. I love you just as you are. I am going to engage masters to come and teach you piano, singing and the harp or violin as you prefer.” The girl’s dark eyes glowed happily as she exclaimed, “Oh, Miss Dahlia, how I love music; everything, every-where that sings; the brook, the bird, the wind in the trees! How glad I will be to learn to make music as they do.” Two wonderful weeks passed. A little French lady came to teach Nan languages, for which she had a remarkable aptitude, and when she began to sing as sweetly and naturally as the wood birds, Miss Dahlia was indeed delighted, and in the long evenings she taught the gypsy girl the songs that she used to sing. Too, there had been a shopping expedition to the village, and Nan had chosen a soft cashmere dress, the color of ripe cherries with the sun shining on them. At the beginning of the third week something happened which was destined to do much toward civilizing Nan. |
|
