Chapter 12

THE NECKLACE

Nancy could not help making friends with the white cat, and it purred with delight at being noticed. Sue slipped a key into the lock, and opened the door. They entered the tiny hall, and the white cat followed them, as they walked towards a little room at the rear.

"Is that you, Sue? Did ye see her? Did she come?" called a thin, tired voice.

Sue opened the door of the sitting-room and Nancy ran in, all sympathy now for the aunt who was really ill.

Mrs. Ferris lay upon an old carpet-covered lounge, and she raised herself upon her elbow to look at Nancy as she stood before her.

"Set down on that little stool, Nancy," she said, "so I kin look at ye better. My! But ye look well an' strong 'side er what ye did when I last seen ye, whilst I've grown sick an' tired. But seein' ye'll do me good, an' ter-morrer I'll talk with ye. They's some things I _must_ say, but I'll rest ter-night, an' tell ye ter-morrer."

Nancy looked the fear that she felt, and Mrs. Ferris hastened to reassure her.

"Ye're safe here, Nancy," she said. "There ain't nobody here ter harm ye. Like 'nough Sue remembered ter tell ye 'bout yer Uncle Steve."

Nancy nodded, and was about to speak when Mrs. Ferris continued:

"I don't want ter speak hard 'bout him now, an' I don't hev ter. Ye was with us long 'nough ter know what yer Uncle Steve was like, but I will tell ye one thing: we didn't hev no luck after ye left us. Steve kept ye dancin' at the theatre, an' they paid well fer dancin', too. Then ye was sick, an' them two ladies come an' took yer home. After that we went from one place ter another, Steve workin' when he felt like it, an' not workin' when he _didn't_ feel like it, which was most er the time. Since he's went, I've worked hard at sewin', an' with a few boarders I've managed ter save 'nough ter buy this little house. It didn't cost much. It's in a out-er-the-way place, an' they's only four rooms in it, but ef I kin git well agin I'll earn 'nough ter git along."

She lay back against the pillow as if telling the story had tired her.

The clock upon the little mantel ticked loudly, and the white cat blinked at it a moment, then sprang up into Nancy's lap. She clasped her arms around it, and bending, laid her cheek against its head.

Mrs. Ferris opened her eyes, and lay watching Nancy, as she caressed the cat.

"I like ter see ye here," she said, "an' ter-morrer I'll tell ye why I sent fer ye."

The kitchen door opened, and the scent of brewing tea came in with Sue as she entered with a little tray which she placed upon a chair near Mrs. Ferris.

"There's yer tea an' toast," she said, "an' ye kin help yerself while me an' Nancy has some in the kitchen."

And while Nancy sat beside Sue, and tried very hard to like the coarse food offered her, her friends at the great stone house found it impossible to taste the tempting dishes which graced their table.

Mr. Dainty was away from home on important business, and Mrs. Dainty had asked Aunt Charlotte to come to the house with Nancy, and stay with her until he should return.

So when Mrs. Dainty's shopping was finished, and Aunt Charlotte had left the house of her friend, they had met at the station, and had found seats in the first car of the train. Their carriage was waiting for them when they arrived at Merrivale, and all the way up the avenue Dorothy talked of the gift which she had bought for Nancy, and of Nancy's delight when she should see it.

But no Nancy ran out to greet them, nor was she in sight when they entered the hall.

In sudden terror Dorothy had thrown herself down into a cushioned chair, and no words of comfort could stop her sobbing or stay her hot tears. That Nancy was stolen, never to return, she earnestly believed, and although Mrs. Dainty tried to quiet her, and to assure her that her playmate would doubtless soon be found, she only shook her head, and cried at the thought that her Nancy was not with her.

The maid was sent to the cottage to see if any accident had befallen her which kept her there, while the butler, in the interest which he felt, forgot his dignity and begged permission to call at the homes of her little friends to learn if she were there.

He soon returned with the news that Mollie and Flossie had played with her all the forenoon, and had promised to go over to the cottage after lunch; that they did so, but they found no one to play with, and after waiting for some time, they ran unable to understand why Nancy had not been waiting to greet them.

Then the maid entered.

"If ye please, Mrs. Grayson, I found this paper on yer table. I do'no' what it is, fer I'd not be readin' what wa'n't writ ter me, but wonderin' if it was writ by Miss Nancy, I've brought it ter ye."

Dorothy sat with wide eyes and pale cheeks, her slender fingers tightly clasping the arms of the chair. Could the note be from Nancy? Would it tell where she was?

Mrs. Dainty leaned over Aunt Charlotte's chair, and together they read the hastily pencilled note.

"Dear Aunt Charlotte:--I guess you remember Sue, I've forgotten what her other name is, but she's the girl that worked for Uncle Steve, and was so good to me when I was sick. She called to-day, and says my aunt is sick and thinks she _must_ see me, and you needn't think I'm stolen, because Uncle Steve is dead, so he couldn't steal me again.

"My aunt doesn't live in the city. Sue meant to ask you if I could go, but you were away, and she said I ought to go so I did. I'll be right home as soon as my aunt has told me what Sue says she's _got_ to tell.

"Lovingly,

"NANCY."

"The dear child has not told us _where_ her aunt lives, only that she is _not_ in the city. What are we to do?"

Aunt Charlotte's face was pale as she asked the question, and the hand which held the note shook so that the bit of paper rustled like a leaf as it lay against her silk gown.

"We can do nothing to-night," Mrs. Dainty replied, "but to-morrow at daybreak the search must commence. I try to find comfort in the fact that the girl, Sue, seemed to be honest, and certainly she was straightforward if she intended to ask us if she might take Nancy to her aunt, and to insist that she write a note explaining her absence."

"I am sure that the girl's intentions are honest, but I am _not_ so sure of the woman who sent her to get Nancy. Steve Ferris is dead, but while it was he who once stole Nancy, it was his wife who helped him to keep her. I am frightened, and I can not believe that she has sent for her only for the pleasure of seeing her."

Mrs. Dainty turned quickly to see if Dorothy had heard what Aunt Charlotte had said, but Dorothy was questioning the maid to learn when she had last seen Nancy. Aunt Charlotte's words, which surely would have frightened her, had passed unnoticed. It was late before any member of the household could think of sleeping, and when at last Dorothy lay dreaming of Nancy, her long lashes were wet with tears.

Mrs. Dainty had tried to comfort and cheer her by telling her that _this_ time they knew with whom Nancy was staying, and that Sue, who had once before helped them to find her, would, doubtless, bring her back.

Dorothy had listened patiently, but when Mrs. Dainty kissed her and said "good night," Dorothy threw her arms about her neck.

"Oh, mamma, I know we have Nancy's note," she said, "and Sue _was_ good to her once, but how do we know what her aunt will do? What if she means to make her dance at a theatre, just as her Uncle Steve did?" And Mrs. Dainty could find no words with which to comfort her, because her own heart was filled with that very thought which made Dorothy so unhappy.

And when the bright sunlight streamed in through the windows of the stone house it found every one wide awake and full of excitement, eager to be doing something towards finding Nancy, but in doubt as to what to do first.

It was Mrs. Dainty's calmness that stilled their excitement, her cool head that directed their efforts, her firm will which chose to guide, rather than command.

And while every effort was being made to find Nancy, and to learn if she were safe, Nancy lay upon an old bed in the little house in the country lane, and slept soundly, after having cried herself to sleep the night before. She awoke with a start when a stray sunbeam came in through the tiny window and touched her cheek.

For a moment she stared at the glint of light which danced upon the wall, then a puzzled look came into her brown eyes, and she rubbed them as if in that way she might better see, and understand her strange surroundings.

Then suddenly she remembered all about it. Why she was in so shabby a room, and why she was there at all. Ah, yes, Sue had brought her, and she had thought that she should return that night.

Now the morning had come, and with it the hope that before night she would be again in her own home, and with those who were dear to her.

She listened. There was not a sound of any one stirring, nor was there any slight noises out-of-doors which told of busy people up and about at early morning. She had forgotten that they were not on a public highway. In the little lane there was continual quiet whether at dawn or at high noon, so that one might have thought the whole town asleep, or at least napping.

And shabby as the bed was upon which Nancy lay, it was far more comfortable than the old lounge which Sue had chosen to occupy.

She had tried to honor Nancy as her guest, and so had given her the best resting-place which the cottage afforded.

Nancy wondered if Sue were yet awake.

"Sue!" she whispered. "Yes," whispered Sue in reply.

"Isn't it time to get up now?"

"Not yet," said Sue, "fer Mis' Ferris don't hev her breakfast till 'bout ten, an' it ain't pleasant ter wander 'round a cold house when there ain't no reason fer it, an' she don't want wood burned fer a fire until I use it ter git breakfast with. Ye might try ter git ter sleep agin; they's nothin' else ter do."

One glance around the dingy chamber would have told any one that much could be done before a ten-o'clock breakfast, but Mrs. Ferris wished the house to be quiet during the early hours of the morning.

And in spite of the fact that she was very wide awake, Nancy did go to sleep.

At first she amused herself by staring at the odd-shaped scrolls and blossoms upon the paper. There were blue and yellow flowers with bright green leaves, supported upon latticework of a queer shade of brown.

Nancy thought the vines looked as if they were crawling, and that the yellow blossoms were shaped like huge bugs. The longer she looked at it the more it seemed as if those vines did really move upon the wall. While she watched them she dropped to sleep and dreamed that she was trying to dance, but could not do the graceful steps which she so well knew, because those vines had come down from the wall, and were tangled about her feet.

When she again awoke the sun was shining brightly, and she could hear the rattling of dishes down in the little kitchen.

She sprang up, and hurriedly dressed, wondering why Sue had not called her. There was frost upon the window-pane, and she shivered. Each garment which she put on seemed colder than the one before.

She searched the room for a button-hook, and finding none, ran down to the kitchen.

"Thought I wouldn't call ye till we got a bit warmed up," said Sue.

"What's that? No. I ain't seen no button-hook in this place, but ye jest set on that chair an' I'll fasten yer boots fer ye."

She took a huge, crooked hair-pin from her hair, and buttoned Nancy's boots with wonderful speed, when the tool which she worked with was considered.

And what a breakfast that was, which Nancy ate from a blue-edged pie-plate that was badly crackled.

A small piece of very tough ham, an egg fried for ten minutes, until it looked and tasted like leather, a boiled potato the color of lead, and a biscuit of about the same hue.

"I don't s'pose ye're used ter drinkin' tea, but I guess I'll give ye some ter wash yer bread down. That biscuit's kinder dry," and she offered Nancy a cup of drink, which, from its flavor, might have been tea--or anything else.

The little kitchen was dingy, and the food not at all like the appetizing fare which she usually enjoyed, but she was hungry, and Sue felt flattered that Nancy ate the breakfast which she had served.

And after breakfast how the hours dragged!

Nancy was anxious to be starting for home, yet she could do nothing to hasten the time when she could go. Sue was busy with the ordinary work of the morning, and Mrs. Ferris had told her to tell Nancy that she would talk with her after dinner. That she felt too ill to see her until afternoon.

"'Tain't no use ter fret, Nancy," said Sue, "she ain't good fer much till after dinner, but I guess shell talk with ye then fast 'nough."

"But I'm wild to get back to the cottage," wailed Nancy.

"Ye couldn't git there ter-day, fer this is Sunday, and we don't hev but two trains that stop here Sundays. One leaves here at half-past seven in the morning, an' the other stops here at half-past nine at night, but that one goes ter the city, an' that would be going right away from Merrivale."

Nancy made no reply, but turned to look from the window.

"To-morrow will be Monday, and I _must_ get back to school," she thought.

It was late in the afternoon when Mrs. Ferris called Nancy to listen to what she had to say.

"I kin talk ter ye now," she said, "an' first I'll ask ye ef ye remember the old house in Merrivale where ye used ter live before Mis' Dainty give ye a home?"

"I guess I _do_," said Nancy.

"Wal, 'twa'n't much of er livin' ye had, an' the woman what took keer of ye was only yer _stepmother_. Did ye know that?"

"Some of the children told me," Nancy replied.

"Wal, did any one ever tell ye 'bout yer _own_ mother?"

Nancy stared in round-eyed surprise.

"Why, if she was my _stepmother_, of course I must have had an own mother once, but I never thought of it."

"She was a beauty, an' ye'll look like her when ye're a young lady. Her hair was dark an' curly, an' her figger was graceful. Her big dark eyes was melting, an' she could dance, oh, how she could dance!"

"My mamma danced?" questioned Nancy.

"She danced like a fairy. She was a stage dancer; there's where ye got yer nimble toes, but she died when ye wasn't a year old, an' yer father married that other woman who wa'n't nobody at all. Yer own ma was called 'Ma'm'selle Nannette' on the play-bills, an' she was a good woman, a sweet woman as ever lived."

"I wish I'd known her," Nancy said, her eyes filled with tears at the thought of the beautiful young mother whom she had never known.

"An' one thing I sent fer yer fer was this," and Mrs. Ferris took a small box from beneath her shawl. "What's in this box belonged ter yer own ma, an' how Steve got hold of it I don't know. I found it 'mong his things, an' when I see yer ma's name on to it, I knew he'd no right ter hev it. I took an' hid it, an' Steve tore 'round like mad a-tellin' that he'd been robbed, but he didn't say anything ter the perlice, 'cause he knew it didn't b'long ter him in the first place."

She opened the box and held up a slender gold necklace set with tiny brilliants.

Nancy clasped her hands together, and gasped, "Oh-o-o," in admiration.

"There's the name on the clasp," said Mrs. Ferris.

"When I found it I wondered why he hadn't sold it when he was hard up, which was often 'nough, goodness knows, but after I hid it, he said he'd kept holdin' on to it fer the time when he'd need the money more, but I think he was _'fraid_ ter sell it. Knowin' 'twa'n't his'n, he thought he _might_ git 'cused er hevin' stolen it."

Nancy took the pretty necklace, and held it so that it sparkled like dewdrops.

It was truly a charming bit of jewelry, not costly, but tasteful, and just what one might think would have shone resplendent upon the white throat of the beautiful Nannette.

"It's yours by good rights," Mrs. Ferris said, "an' I ain't like Steve was; I don't want nothin' that don't b'long ter me.

"Now I've given that ter ye, I feel some better. I've felt like a thief ever since I found it, an' knew who it b'longed ter. They's a note in the little box, an' when ye've puzzled over the flourishes done in fancy ink, ye kin read that that necklace was presented ter Ma'm'selle Nannette by, I forgot who, fer her beautiful dancin'."

Nancy looked as if she listened in a dream.

"An' one thing more I want ter tell ye. I never approved er Steve's stealin' ye. I told him 'twa'n't right, but he wouldn't listen, an' I couldn't help ye. I was as 'fraid er him as ye was, an' he was so headstrong, I had ter let him do as he wanted ter. I'm tired now, and ye'd better run out ter the kitchen with Sue. I know I'll feel better now I've freed my mind."

Nancy hurried to Sue to tell the wonderful story, and to show the necklace.

"And here's her name on the large flat side of the clasp," she said.

Sue's eyes sparkled with delight.

"And I didn't like to ask her how soon I could go home, just when she'd given the pretty thing to me, but, Sue," she continued, "don't you think she means _surely_ to let me go as early as to-morrow?"

"I do'no' what she means ter do, that is, not _exactly_, but p'raps ye won't hev ter ask her. Maybe she'll tell ye 'thout any teasin'."

Those who would like to see Dorothy and her many friends again, and to learn what became of Nancy, may meet them all again in "Dorothy Dainty in the Country."