“I believe so; but I do not know them—I mean, we do not visit.”
“That is true; but then, you would hardly like to go away to strangers—to strangers from those who love you.”
“No,” said Nan in a smothered sort of voice; “I should hate it—hate it.”
Here she squeezed up closer to Mrs. Richmond, who put her arm round the child’s waist and drew her up tightly to her side.
“Who has been talking to my little Nancy? Who has been troubling you in this matter?”
“I cannot force you to speak, my darling; but I want you to put the Asprays out of your head.”
“Perhaps I will after you have answered me a few questions.”
“How is it that I can go to them if I like?”
“No; but Mr. Aspray once made your father a promise that if you were really in difficulties or thrown on the world he would adopt you, because your father had lent him a very considerable sum of money when he was in great difficulties. He could not pay back the money during your father’s life-time, so he gave him a letter instead, which your mother left with me. That letter promises to adopt you, if necessary. That, I understand, is the story. Mr. Aspray made the promise, and if you ask him you could claim it and go to him as his adopted daughter; but from the little I have heard of the family I do not think they would suit you.”
“But still,” said Nan, puckering her brows and looking very anxious, “I should have a sort of right there, should I not?”
“Nancy, my dear, have you no right here?”
“No, no, Mrs. Richmond,” said Nancy—“no right at all, because there is no money, and you have just taken me out of kindness.”
“Now, Nancy, listen. I have not taken you out of kindness. I have taken you, it is true, because I am fond of you, and because I loved your mother, but I take you also to relieve my own mind. I should be quite unhappy if you were not with me.”
“Because I owe your mother a debt which, even with you in the house, I can never repay.”
“I will when you are old enough—not now. You must take it on trust for the present. Now, dear, this sort of conversation is very bad; you are my happy little girl, a child of the house, petted and loved by us all. Cease to fret, my dear; rouse yourself to do your duty and to be happy. Kiss me, darling, now, and go upstairs. Forget about the Asprays. I should be sorry if you went to them.”