Later in the day, dust-begrimed and with her hair all of a frowse, Nathalie came trudging wearily up the staircase. She had been searching for two hours in the library, a great dark room, lined with bookcases, and whose wainscoted walls were hung with family portraits,—Nathalie called them the Renwicks’ Honor Roll,—interspersed with medallions of great authors and musicians, and valuable etchings.
The girl had laughed at Cynthia for prowling about, but as she threw herself on her bed, tired and aching from stretching her arms and climbing step-ladders, in order to peer behind the pictures and cornices, she felt that she would never laugh at her again. For the more she had searched, the more her interest had increased, and with it the conclusion that her aunt, for contrariness, had really hidden something of great value, in order to try the patience of the searchers, in some eerie corner or nook.
But was Mrs. Renwick really dead? This was a question that assailed the girl whenever she passed the mystery room, whose door loomed big and dark, with its heavy crimson curtain, in the long hall. Somehow, she had confessed to Janet, whenever she hurried by that door she had a strange feeling, a feeling of nearness to some one,—the way one would feel, she imagined, if they looked up suddenly and found some one watching them with a strange, fixed stare.
Could it be that some one was hidden in that room? But she always dismissed the thought with a half-laugh, as being very silly. Nevertheless she always raced by that door, especially at night, when the hall was wrapped in an uncanny gloominess from the dark shadows that came from the big grandfather’s clock, the heavy, black-looking wardrobe at one end, and other ponderous and carved pieces of mahogany resting against the wall.
The following afternoon Nathalie set forth to return the umbrella to its owners, laden with a basket of fruit, in appreciation of their kindness to her. As she walked cheerily along, a sudden thought loomed big in her mind; she had been thinking how she was going to live up to her watchword, “Liberty and humanity—our best,” when it had occurred to her that one way would be to offer to read to Miss Whipple every day. The girl’s eyes glowed, and then she wavered. “Oh, no, I don’t see how I can do that, for I have so much to do at home, and I do not want to miss my walks.” Her face clouded as she silently struggled with herself, divided with the desire to cheer her new friend, and yet not to have to forego her walks.
She found the invalid lying back in her chair, looking pale and wan, but when Nathalie inquired if she was suffering, she hastily answered, “Oh, no, I am just pure tired, for I have been trying to read my new war-book, and it has made me ache all over.”
“Oh, Miss Whipple,” broke from the girl impulsively,—somehow she could not be selfish,—“wouldn’t you like to have me come and read to you for a little while each day?”
“Oh, you dear child, that is most kind of you,” the lady’s eyes brightened. “Indeed, I should be delighted, but it would be selfish to keep you indoors on these beautiful mountain days.” A little sigh ended the sentence.
“But you would not be keeping me in,” insisted her companion, “for I should just love to read to you, and I know I shall find plenty of time to walk somewhere every day.” And then, as an added plea to her request, she told of her mornings with Nita Van Vorst, and how their taking turns at reading to one another had been a source of great instruction to them both.
In a short time Nathalie was happily reading to her friend, who listened with keen enjoyment. After a time, fearing the girl would tire, they stopped for a little chat, and it was during one of these chats that Nathalie told of meeting their queer neighbor who lived in the red house, and how rudely she had been repulsed by the old lady, when she had tried to atone for her reception of the day before.