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 assured 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 circumstantial 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 pawn-shop, and she had read in Nicholas Nickleby that one can tell a pawn-shop by three golden balls 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 balls 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 pawnbroker seemed to deal in old bric-à-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?"