“I like it,” she replied. “Whether the children can stand this somewhat severe discipline remains to be proved.”
“I believe they can; they have all character,” replied the Captain. “I shall be deeply interested to know how this experiment progresses. I will give you your orderly-book to-morrow, and explain to you how the marks are to be put down. There is only one thing, however, Miss Roy—there must be no favouritism; you must be as strict and as severe with your favourite, Kitty, as you are with Augusta, whom I do not think you much care about.”
“I do not,” replied Miss Roy. “I do not understand her. She is popular with most people; Mrs. Richmond is very much attached to her, and Kitty and Nora are fond of her.”
“But Nan is not,” said the Captain.
“No,” replied Miss Roy; “Nan is afraid of her.”
“I have seen that from the first,” replied Captain Richmond; “and, to tell you the truth, in planning my rules I thought a good deal both of Nancy and Augusta. This thing will try them both pretty stoutly; I have no doubt that in the end all will be well. And now, one more word in your ear: I do not think I ever met a dearer little girl than Nancy Esterleigh.”
“She is a sweet child,” replied Miss Roy; “and she was very, very happy with us before Augusta came.”
The children, now all dressed for their evening’s entertainment, came into the room. Captain Richmond had ordered a carriage; it was now at the door, and the happy party, including Miss Roy, started off for their evening’s pleasure.
In the play a soldier received the Victoria Cross. He was one who had been snubbed and looked down upon, and always shoved into the cold: he had been overlooked when others were promoted; when others were ordered to the front, he was expected to stay behind in England; the girl he loved was given to a man over his head. Everything seemed to be against him, but never once through all these trying circumstances did he lose his brightness, his freshness, his courage. He had a gay and cheerful word for each comrade and for each friend, and in the end his chance came: he managed to get to the front—how, it does not matter; he rescued another at the risk of his own life—how, does not matter either; the thing that matters is that he received that decoration of all others the most thrilling, the most ennobling, the Cross of the Order of Victoria.
Nan’s little face turned white with excitement as she watched the progress of the play; and at last, when the happy soldier was decorated for valour in the field, she burst into tears.
Captain Richmond took her hand, and bent and whispered to her:
“Odds against, but he won,” was his remark. “Cheer up, Nancy; you too can win.”
“Even if the odds are against me?” she whispered back.
“Ah! of course. Look well to the front, soldier of the True Blue.”
In about a week’s time Captain Richmond went away. By then the brigade of the Royal True Blue was in full working order: the rules had been carefully drawn up, the orderly-book was given to Miss Roy, the drill-sergeant had arrived, and the soldiers were enjoying the life. The vigorous eyes of the Captain kept everything in order; he promised to come once a month to see his soldiers, and left them, having won every heart in his little brigade. It was now towards the end of June, and in a month’s time the entire party would go into the country. This was the last month of school, and the girls were busy. Nan was working with tremendous diligence for a prize; she did not much care about it before she became a soldier, but now she was keen in order to ensure the marks which Miss Roy would give her if she were successful.
“Suppose you do win the prize,” said Augusta, “what will it mean to you? Nothing whatever but a stupid book. For my part, I think the prize-books at school are all too dull for anything—a dreadful old Macaulay’s History of England, or Tennyson’s Poems, or something of that sort. I do not see why the girl who wins the prize should not be consulted.”
“But we do not win it just for the sake of the book,” said Nan, colouring and trembling a little.
“Well, I do. I am not going in for a prize this term, of course; I cannot.—Miss Roy, I am sure our captain would not like Nan to read so hard as to make her eyes ache. Do you know what I found her doing last night?”
“Oh! please—please do not tell; it is not right,” said Nan.
“I will, for I must. We are supposed not to read after we get to bed, but there was Nan reading away by the light of a night-light. She had borrowed it from nurse, I believe. She was half-sitting up in bed devouring her book, and the night-light was on a little table near. I found her.—I did, you know, Nan; and I said I would tell.”
“It was not at all right, Nan,” said Miss Roy; “and it must not happen again.”
“But I wanted to work up my lesson; I was not at all sure of my French,” replied Nan. “And the prize will be given in ten days now. There is so little time!”
“You must remember,” said Miss Roy, “that in the orderly-book, even though you do get high marks for intellect, your merit marks will go down if this sort of thing occurs again. Nan, it was a distinct act of disobedience.—But at the same time, Augusta, I would rather you did not tell tales.”
Augusta flushed with indignation.
“I thought you would like to keep the house from being burnt down,” she said. “Of course, in future Nan can do as she pleases.”
Miss Roy said nothing more, and Augusta left the room.
“What is the matter, Nan?” said her governess suddenly. “I often wonder, my dear, why you look so sad and troubled.”
“You would if you were me,” said Nan then.
“Why? Is it because your mother has died, my poor little girl? I have great sympathy for you.”
“No; it is not only that,” said Nan, making a great effort to be honest. “It is because I have a load at my heart, and I cannot ever tell you; and if all was known I ought not to be a soldier of the Royal True Blue at all—I ought not—but I cannot draw back now.”
“The past is past,” said Miss Roy. “Go straight forward in the future; try and believe that the future is yours, that you can be a very brave and a very good girl.”
“But is the past past?” asked Nan.
“There may come a day when you will be able to tell me all about it; go straight forward now into the future. And, Nancy, my dear, nothing has been said, but I cannot help using my eyes. Do not be afraid of Augusta; give her back in her own coin. Show her that you are not in the slightest degree under her control.”
“Oh, but I am!” thought poor Nancy. “And I can never tell—less now than ever—for to lose that splendid chance of winning the Royal Cross, and to be deprived of my blue ribbon, would break my heart.”
“Nancy,” said Augusta, a few evenings after this, as the two girls were alone in the schoolroom.
Nan was toiling steadily through the books which she had to prepare for her examination; she raised her eyes when Augusta spoke, and a slight frown came between her brows.
“Now, stop that,” said Augusta, petulance in her tone.
“Stop what?” asked Nancy.
“Frowning when I speak to you.”
“Oh, I will—I will! What is it? I wish I did not feel so cross.”
“You are not much of a soldier if you give way to your passions every moment. But now, to the point. I want you to read aloud to me while I am making a copy of this stupid old cast. It is too dull for anything, and I want to finish the story-book which I took from the drawing-room.”
“But I have to go on with my lessons. Don’t you see that I am awfully busy?”
In reply to this Augusta got up and put the book in question into Nan’s hand.
“Read,” she said. “I will let you off in half-an-hour; in half-an-hour I shall have done as much as I can of this horrible drawing. I do positively hate drawing. Now then, start away. If you do not read, there is something I can tell you which you will not at all like to hear.”
“You are always frightening me. I do not see why I should be under your control,” said Nan.
“Get out of it, then, my dear, your own way. Remember what will happen if you do.”
“What?”
“I shall be obliged to tell all that occurred in the attic when the white rat died.”
“All? But you won’t leave out your own part, Augusta?”
“Yes, but I shall. I shall tell that you implored and begged of me to keep it a secret, and that I listened to you. You know what this means, Nan. Your blue ribbon is given back; you are a soldier without his sword, disgraced for life. Now then, do not fret; I am not going to be too hard, but I must be read to, for I am suffering from irritation of the nerves, and nothing soothes me like a real jolly story-book.”
“If I must, I must,” said Nan. She opened the book languidly. “Where is the place?” she asked.
“Page 204. Read from the top, and go straight on until I tell you to stop.”
Nan began. She could read well when she liked, but now her voice was little more than a gabble, for she was thoroughly annoyed and also decidedly cross.
“That will not do at all,” said Augusta. “Read as if you enjoyed it. Is it not a splendid scene? Does not Rudolf speak up to Bertha? Now then, go on. I am sure he will propose to her in the end; I am certain of it.”
Nan read to the bottom of the next page; then she put down the book.
“Where did you get this book from?” she asked.
“What does it matter to you, Nancy? Go on reading—do. Oh, I am just dying to hear what will happen! I adore Rudolf; don’t you?”
“No; I do not like him at all. I don’t like the book. I don’t think Uncle Peter—I mean Mrs. Richmond—would want me to read this book; it is not a nice book.”
“And what do you know about books, whether they are nice or nasty?”
“I don’t like this book. I am sure Mrs. Richmond would not like you to read it. May I go down and ask her?”
For answer to this Augusta rose and snatched the book from Nan’s hand.
“You troublesome little thing!” she said. “You really rouse me to be provoked with you. There! go back to your stupid lessons; but remember, you shall pay for this.”
“I wonder how,” thought Nan. “Oh dear! oh dear!”
She sighed deeply.
“Really, Nancy, your sighs and groans are past bearing. What is the matter with you?”
“You make me very unhappy.”
“I make the house too hot for you; is not that it?”
“No, Augusta, that is not it. I have a right to be here; Mrs. Richmond says so.”
Augusta gave a taunting laugh.
“A right to be here!” she said. “A pretty right; but still, if you like to think so, I am not going to interfere. If you are unhappy in the house with Aunt Jessie and Kitty and Nora you can say so; you have the remedy in your own hands.”
“I! How? What do you mean?”
“You can go to the Asprays, of course.”
“But who are the Asprays?”
“You little goose! don’t you know?”
“No. Please, do tell me.”
“Well, I will, for it is only fair that you should know. Have you never heard that there are other people who would take care of you, and pet you, and adopt you, and bring you up as one of the family besides my poor, darling aunt Jessie?”
“Yes, I have heard of it. Mr. Pryor spoke of some people, but he said they did not live in England.”
“But they do; they live close here. Their name is Aspray. They are Virginians, and have just settled in London. They live within a stone’s-throw of here.”
“And are you certain I could go to them?”
“Certain? Of course I am certain. You can really go any day, but you have a right to go when a few months are up—six or eight months, or something like that. You have a right to go and stay with them, and to make your own choice as to whether you will be Mrs. Richmond’s child or Mr. Aspray’s child in the future; it rests with you altogether.”
Into Nan’s cheeks now there had come a very brilliant colour, and her eyes were large and bright. She stood still, thinking deeply. After a time she got up and left the room; she left her lesson-books behind her. She entered her bedroom and shut the door. In this tiny room Nan often battled out her troubles, and struggled hard to know what was right to be done. She felt much puzzled on this occasion. As to Augusta’s sharp words and tones of authority, she was accustomed to them by this time; she saw there was no chance of her ever getting away from her influence.
“And she is ruining me,” thought the child. “I did hope a fortnight ago that I should do better, that I should be a worthy soldier. But I must write to Uncle Peter; I cannot do right with Augusta always near. What is to be done? What is to be done? Oh, it would kill me to leave the Richmonds now! But what does this mean about the Asprays? I know what I’ll do; I’ll go down and see Mrs. Richmond, and ask her straight out to tell me the truth.”
No sooner had this resolve come to Nan than she ran downstairs.
It was Mrs. Richmond’s at-home day; callers had stayed until late, but they had all gone now. She was preparing to go upstairs to dress for dinner when Nan appeared.
“Ah, Nancy!” said the good woman. “Do you want me, darling?”
“Please, Mrs. Richmond, may I say something?” asked Nan.
“Of course you may, dear.”
Mrs. Richmond sat down and drew Nan towards her.
“Well, Nancy,” she said, “you look well; you have grown, and have got more colour in your cheeks.”
Here she bent forward and kissed Nan on her forehead.
“Oh, I love you so much!” said Nancy; and she put up both her soft arms, and kissed Mrs. Richmond with passionate fervour on her cheeks.
“That is very pleasant to hear, my dear little girl; and I think we may all say with truth that we love you. Now, what is the trouble, dear?”
“Oh, there is a trouble!” said Nan; “and I must ask you a question.”
“You are going to tell me about the trouble?”
“I wish I could, but I cannot. I have only just heard something, and I want you to explain, please, oh, so very badly! Who are the Asprays, Mrs. Richmond?”
“The Asprays!” said Mrs. Richmond. “What Asprays?”
“The Asprays who have the right to adopt me.”
“No, darling—no. You are my little girl, adopted by me. They have no right over you unless you will it.”
“But who are they?”
“Rich people from Virginia.”
“And are they living near us?”
“I believe so; but I do not know them—I mean, we do not visit.”
“And I can go to them if I like?”
“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?”
“Please, I would rather not tell.”
“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.”
“What questions, Nancy?”
“How is it that I can go to them if I like?”
“They are friends of your father’s.”
“And you are?”
“I am a friend of your mother’s.”
“But are they related to my father?”
“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.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I owe your mother a debt which, even with you in the house, I can never repay.”
“Won’t you tell me what it is?”
“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.”
Mrs. Richmond patted Nan on her cheek, and rising, she dismissed her with a good-natured nod. Nan went slowly upstairs.
For the rest of the evening she was a very sad and silent little girl, and during the night which followed she dreamt of the Asprays. After all, in that house she might have a chance of doing right; and they ought to take her. If Mr. Aspray owed her father money, it was but fair that he should bring Nan up; and there would be no Augusta there to taunt her and keep her from doing right.
“Oh! even being a soldier in Captain Peter’s regiment does not make me do right,” thought the child. “I am always going to the side of the road. I shall never, never be the best girl. What is to become of me? What am I to do?”
The four girls in Mayfield Gardens were very busy just now. From morning to night there was not a moment to spare, for the holidays were drawing near, and the prizes were to be competed for. It is true that Augusta was not competing for any prize, but somehow in this busy, energetic, lively household she did not count for as much as she herself believed she ought. Nan was trying hard, with all her might, with every scrap of energy she possessed; and so was Kitty trying, and so was Nora. Nora was perhaps less energetic than Kitty, but she was a very honourable, downright, straight sort of girl. She knew her mother wished her to bring home a prize after the final examinations at her school, and she was determined, if girl could succeed, to do so.
Immediately after the school broke up, Mrs. Richmond was going to take the four children to her country place in Devonshire. This was a lovely place within a hundred yards or so of the seashore. Mrs. Richmond kept boats, and even a little yacht, and Kitty and Nora were never tired of telling the other two of the happy, happy time which lay before them. But Nan, although she was working so hard, had a care on her mind; never, day or night, did it leave her. It is true her reports in the orderly-book were first-rate; she seemed, as far as Miss Roy could make out, to do everything not only well, but with spirit. Her drill was splendid; she held herself erect like a real soldier; she understood her drill-sergeant’s directions as if by magic. Then there were other exercises to be gone through, and Nan never failed in her early rising. No one could be more attentive and earnest over her lessons than Nan Esterleigh; and as to her morals, Miss Roy could find no fault with them. Sometimes, it is true, as night after night she put down most justly and fairly the marks of each young soldier, she would look up after her invariable question, “Well, any special thing on your consciences, or may I mark ‘Good’ against your character for to-day?”
A wild light would come into Nan’s eyes, and her face would turn pale; but ever and always, before she could say the fatal word, Augusta would manage to fix her bold, bright eyes on the little girl’s face, and Nan would drop her head and say:
“Oh yes—at least, I mean, I have tried.”
Nevertheless, she was anything but happy, and she thought of the Asprays as a possible means of relief. She made up her mind to see them for herself before she went to the country; not to speak to them—oh no! she would not do that for worlds: that time would not come until she had fully made up her mind that she would give up the Richmonds, whom she so dearly loved, and would cast in her lot with the Asprays. But she must see them.
One day, with her heart beating, and with great outwardsang-froid, she asked Mrs. Richmond if she knew where they lived. Mrs. Richmond told her.
“Quite close to this,” she said; “just at the corner turning into the square. It is a very large house with green railings round it; but, my darling, you need have nothing to do with them.”
“Oh! I know. I only wanted to be sure where they lived,” answered Nan.
By-and-by, when tragic things happened, Mrs. Richmond remembered this remark of Nancy’s.
That day the little girl was sent out for a message with Susan. Susan the housemaid was very fond of Nan; she had quite a respect for her since that interesting time when she went with her to see Mr. Pryor and Phoebe and Mrs. Vincent gave her tea in the kitchen.
“I am so glad we are out together, Susan!” said Nan. “You need not hurry back very soon, need you?”
“No, miss—that is, I expect not. I don’t think there is anything very special doing this afternoon. I can stay with you for a little—an hour or so, anyhow.”
“Oh! that will do splendidly,” said Nan. “You know, Susan, I like you very much.”
“And so do I like you, Miss Nancy; but it is more than I do Miss Augusta. We none of us can bear her—nasty, sly young lady!”
Poor Nan felt a fierce desire to corroborate these words, but she remembered her duty as a soldier prevented her speaking evil even of her enemies, and she restrained herself.
“We need not talk about Augusta now, need we?” she said.
“No, my dear Miss Nancy; but anybody with half an eye can see that she worries you almost past bearing. Dear, dear! there are things I could tell of her if I liked; but I don’t want to be spiteful.”
“It would be very wrong indeed to tell tales, Susan.”
“I ain’t telling them,” said Susan somewhat tartly. “Now miss, hadn’t we best do our messages first?”
Nan agreed to this. They went to one or two shops for Mrs. Richmond, and Susan put her purchases into a bag which hung upon her arm.
“Now then, Miss Nancy, shall we go home, or what shall we do?”
“I know what I want to do,” said Nancy. “I want to walk up and down outside a house.”
“Oh, lor’, Miss Nancy! that do sound queer.”
“And there is another thing,” continued Nancy, speaking very eagerly, and a spot of bright colour coming into each of her cheeks; “I want you, Susan, not to tell anybody what we are going to do. Do not gossip about it when you get back to the servants’ hall. You won’t, will you?”
“Not me,” said Susan; “I ain’t that sort.”
“I know you are not,” said Nancy in a sweet tone of voice, touching Susan’s arm for a minute with her hand; “and because I know it, that is why I like you so much. Now then, this is the house.”
Nan found herself outside the Asprays’ dwelling. She looked up with a beating heart. The house was handsome, large, and commodious; compared with the Richmonds’ house, which was also a very handsome one, it looked palatial. There were balconies to most of the windows; and awnings were put up now, and sun-blinds, and a lot of people were seated in the drawing-room balcony chatting and laughing. Their laughter was borne down on the breeze, and it reached Nan’s ears. They were having tea on the balcony, and a couple of girls were seated close together talking eagerly. One of them turned to her companion and said:
“Do you see that odd-looking child? She keeps walking up and down just outside our house. I suppose the person with her is her maid. Don’t you recognise her, Flora?”
“No, I am sure I do not, Constance.”
“Well, you have a very short memory. Don’t you know that time when we were at the florist’s round the corner, and a nasty, horrid bull-terrier came and pulled your skirt? It belonged to that child. Oh, see! oh, see! She has raised her eyes and is looking at us. Of course it is she.”
“Of course; I remember quite well now,” said Constance. “How funny! She is a strange-looking little girl! I do not admire her at all. I trust we may never see her again.”
Down in the street, Nancy said in a faint voice to Susan:
“I have walked up and down long enough now, Susan; I should like to go home.”
For she, too, had recognised the girls with golden hair and handsome faces. They were the Asprays! Would she exchange to a better fate if she threw in her lot with theirs? She felt very sad and lonely.
But the busy time was at hand; the very next day the school examinations began. These continued for nearly a week, and then came the prize-day, when all the parents and friends of the girls were invited; and Nan had the extreme felicity of winning a prize for her French studies. Oh, how proud she felt as she walked up to receive the handsome volume from the hands of her mistress! She trembled all over as she clasped it to her heart, bowed to her mistress, said “Thank you” in a tremulous voice, and went back to her seat. She was so happy and pleased that she even forgot Augusta in her joy. Kitty and Nora had also won prizes, and three happy, almost riotous schoolgirls assembled in the schoolroom that night. Augusta came in with her head in the air.
“Hoity-toity!” she cried; “what a noise! Well, let me see the books. I trust they are novels, for I have read through all my own store, and want some fresh ones to amuse myself with.—Nan, you come and show me yours. Why, child, you look as if you were standing on your head; what is the matter with you?”
“I am so awfully delighted,” said Nan, “that I did get it.—Oh Kitty, Kitty, I almost wonder if it is true!”
“It is true enough, Nan,” said Kitty. “Don’t be over-excited, darling. Oh! I know you want to write to Uncle Peter.”
“Indeed I do: and I will, too. I expect he will be pleased.”
“He will,” said Kitty. “He will be extra pleased with you, for you worked so very hard.”
“Well, show me the book, and do stop talking,” said Augusta.
Nan put her treasured volume in Augusta’s hands. It was a beautifully bound copy of the works of Racine. Augusta tossed it back.
“Beyond words tiresome,” she said. “Who wants to read that stupid thing?”
“But I do; I mean to read every word of it. And, oh, it is so beautifully bound! And see—do see where they have put my name—‘Nancy Esterleigh, Prize I. for’”——
“Oh! don’t go on,” said Augusta.—“Show me your book, Kitty.”
“You need not be so ungracious,” said Kitty. “I do not think I will show you my book. Nancy has got a darling, lovely prize.—Have you not, Nancy pet?”
Kitty’s prize consisted of a vellum-bound copy of Macaulay’s History, and Nora had the works of Shakespeare in several small volumes. Augusta pronounced all the prizes not worth considering, and ensconcing herself in a low chair in the window, continued to devour a volume which she had secreted from the drawing-room. Nan was not the only one who had noticed this habit of Augusta’s. Miss Roy was also aware of it; but she had made up her mind to say nothing yet.
On the very day before the little party were to go to the country, Augusta received a letter from her mother. It was written from South America, and evidently caused the young recipient a good deal of consternation.
“My dear Augusta,” wrote her mother, “I have been wishing for some time to send you a really serious letter. I am leaving you at present in Aunt Jessie’s care, and I have no doubt that all has been done for your benefit. My dear, we left home in a great hurry, and a quick change had to be made in all our plans. You know, Augusta, that one or two things occurred at home before we left which displeased your father and me very much. I allude to a certain matter when you were not quite straight with us. If there is one thing more than another which your father and I would break our hearts over, it is that you, our precious only child, should be guilty of want of openness or want of regard for the truth. Now, my dear, I wish to say that we intend to put you on trial during your stay with Aunt Jessie. I have not breathed a word to her of that fault which, alas! most undoubtedly lies in your character—you are arrogant and selfish, and if it were to further your own interests you would not hesitate to tell a lie. It is terribly painful to me to have to write like this to you whom I so dearly love; there is a dreadful pain in my heart, and I could cry over it. But now, Augusta, your father and I have made up our minds. If during your stay with Aunt Jessie you are discovered to have swerved in the very least from the path of truth and honour, we will not send you to school in Paris, which it is our present intention to do on our return to England; on the contrary, we will keep you at home with a very strict governess. My dear, I am obliged to say this, and you must take what comfort you can out of this letter. It remains with you whether you go to Paris or not; all, all depends on your conduct while we are away from you. Pray to God to help you, my dear girl. I write in great sorrow of mind.—Your affectionate mother.”
Augusta read this letter over twice; then she took it to her room and put it away in a little drawer, which she locked. That night as she lay down to, rest she thought a good deal over what her mother had said. She was quite determined, at any cost, to go to Paris. If her conduct with regard to Nan were ever known she would lose her chance of this delightful plan being carried out. Far from going to Paris, she would be immured at home with a dull, old-fashioned, and tiresome governess to look after her. Augusta knew by past experience what such a life would mean. She had more than once already tried the patience and half-broken the hearts of different governesses who had been engaged to instruct her. She was fully resolved to have nothing more to do with so dull an existence. At any cost, therefore, Nan must be silenced. For if Nan brought herself to confess what lay so heavily on her conscience, Augusta must be implicated; therefore Nan must keep silence.
“What a tiresome little girl she is! I have met no one like her. How swiftly she fell! and ever since she has been in a wretched state of mind—making my life quite a misery. Well, I have her pretty much in my power. I will cosset her up a little when I get to the country, and make a fuss over her. With all her faults, she is affectionate, and if I coax and flatter her a bit she will come over to my way of thinking. But I do wish one thing, and it is this—— Why did that tiresome Uncle Peter propose that extraordinary plan of his? I am sure I don’t want to be a soldier. Tiresome, stupid man! But I have promised, and I must go on with it. To be degraded from the ranks now would be as good as a failure; to have bad marks in the orderly-book would stamp me for ever in mother’s eyes. Captain Richmond’s plan is just what would delight the mother; and father too would be pleased. Of course, when they both come back they will hear all about it. Yes, I see what must be done: Nan must be encouraged and petted and fussed over, and I must take my laurels modestly; and then, when the good parents come back from America, hurrah for Paris and a good time!”
A few days later the four girls went into the country. At first Nan was so delighted with the change that she forgot all her trials and worries; the air was so fresh, and the gardens round the house so beautiful; the woods, which were near by, were so fragrant, so shady, so delicious to roam about in; and last but not least came the walks by the seashore, the long rambles on the yellow sands, the hours when the girls floated away in their little boats on the surface of the blue waters. But still happier hours were those when the yacht carried them like a white bird over the dancing waves. Oh! all day and every hour was perfect with bliss. Nan sometimes wondered what had happened to her. Was she indeed the little girl who had lived a sad and anxious and lonely life in a back-street in London; who had wanted for clothes and for nourishing food; who had been satisfied with the delights of her doll, and who had known no better joys? Indeed, she was very far from being the same. It is true that in the old days she had mother, and mother counted for a good deal in Nan’s loving heart. But mother had suffered sorely, and God and the good angels had taken her away. Yes, Nan was happy now. She did not mind confessing it—she was happy; and the world was good, and all the friends she had made were very kind to her.
Miss Roy accompanied the children into the country, and for the first fortnight all went well. Night after night the marks were put down in the orderly-book, and day after day the Captain’s scheme for the improvement of his little band of soldiers was carried out, and at the end of each week Miss Roy sent to the Captain a report of progress. But the good-natured, kind-hearted governess was going for her holidays, and Mrs. Richmond was coming to the country to take her place. On the day before Miss Roy left Augusta came into the pretty room which was used as a schoolroom at Fairleigh. Miss Roy was just closing the orderly-book; she raised her eyes as Augusta advanced.
“Well, dear,” said the governess, “can I do anything for you?”
“I have been wondering,” Augusta answered, “who will put down our marks in your absence.”
“I believe,” said Miss Roy, “that Mrs. Richmond will undertake that duty.”
“But why trouble Aunt Jessie? I could do it so nicely if you would entrust it to me.”
Miss Roy looked full up at Augusta.
“I think not,” she said slowly; “it would not be fair to the others.”
“But why? I should be absolutely fair to them and to myself.”
“It is not to be thought of,” said Miss Roy a little sharply. “Mrs. Richmond must undertake this responsibility.”
Augusta said no more, and early the next morning the governess went away. A week or so after her departure Uncle Peter was expected. If Nora and Kitty had been wild with delight at the thought of his visit when he came to London, now there were four eager and anxious girls waiting to welcome him. What would he say? How would he look? What expeditions would he plan? In what manner would he add to the fascination and happiness of these long summer days?
Mrs. Richmond raised her eyes from the letter which announced his arrival, and looked at the four eager faces.
“Well, dears,” she said, “it is a great relief to me that your uncle should be coming. You see,” she added, “I call him your uncle indiscriminately, for I am given to understand that Peter has adopted you all as nieces.”
“I love him fifty times better than an ordinary uncle,” cried Nan, with extraordinary fervour.
Augusta gave her a spiteful glance, and Mrs. Richmond, for a wonder, noticed it. She noticed it, and it disturbed her. She had a great affection for her sister’s child, and believed fully in Augusta, having never yet encountered any of that young lady’s acts of deceit; but the look on her face was arresting and disturbing, and she thought about it when the children went out for their “morning walk.
“What could it have meant?” thought the kind-hearted woman; and then she rose and went slowly to the secretaire in her study, and opening a drawer, she took out her sister’s last letter. The sentences which her eyes rested on ran as follows:
“I am very loath, my dear Jessie, to put any suspicious thoughts into your head with regard to my darling and only child, but her father and I both feel that you ought to know that there have been times in her life when she has not been quite straight. Say nothing of this, Jessie, but perhaps in dealing with her character you will be more just to her, more fair to her, and more able to influence her if you get a hint of the truth.”
“Not quite straight,” murmured Mrs. Richmond; and she put the letter back into its envelope and locked the drawer in which she kept it. An hour afterwards she went out. She was walking slowly through a shrubbery which ran at the back of the house when the sound of voices fell on her ears. There was a high-pitched voice which undoubtedly belonged to Augusta, and there were the low and sweet tones of Nan.
Augusta was holding Nan by both her hands. She was a great deal taller than the little girl, and a great deal stronger, and she had drawn the child close to her.
“I would kill you if you told,” she said, with extraordinary passion. “But there! you know you daren’t. Go—I hate you!” and she pushed Nan from her, who ran fast and quickly out of sight.
Mrs. Richmond waited for a moment, too stunned to move or to speak. Then she went quickly round the tall holly which had hidden her from Augusta’s view, and putting her hand on the girl’s shoulder, turned her round.
“My dear,” she said.
“Yes, Aunt Jessie,” said Augusta; “what is it?” She had managed to control herself, and her face looked almost as usual.
“I happened to overhear you just now, Gussie, and I must say that your words displeased me very much. I do not understand what you were talking about, but you used the most cruel and unjustifiable expressions. I wish to say, my dear, that I cannot permit you to bully little Nancy. The child is an orphan, and I should be very angry if any one were unkind to her. As to the meaning of your words, Augusta, I think they demand an explanation.”
“Oh, Aunt Jessie!” said Augusta, “Nan is terribly provoking; she is such a peculiar little thing that she sometimes almost drives me wild. She has been fretting and fidgeting about a trifling matter for days.”
“Something she wants to tell?” interrupted Mrs. Richmond. “And why should she not tell? Why should you be so violent as to terrify the poor child by informing her that you would kill her if she told? How dared you say anything so wicked?”
“I lost my temper, Aunt Jessie, and that is the truth. The whole thing referred to a little matter with regard to myself which I do not want any one to know. You surely would not encourage Nancy to be a tell-tale!”
“I feel it is my duty to speak to her,” said Mrs. Richmond.
“Oh no, no, Aunt Jessie! I beseech you not;” and going close up to her, Augusta raised her hand to her lips and kissed it.
“Please—please, Aunt Jessie, don’t say anything about it. I will make it up with Nan, and I promise never to be so nasty again. You cannot speak to her, you know, for you happened to overhear us; and it would not be fair, would it?”
“No; perhaps not,” said Mrs. Richmond a little doubtfully. “Well, my dear, I don’t want to be hard on you, and you know I have always loved you very much.”
“And I am away from my parents, too,” said Augusta, eager to take advantage of Mrs. Richmond’s softening mood. “And I am really awfully sorry that I lost my temper that time. I will go this very minute to Nan and make it up with her. You won’t speak to her about it, will you, Aunt Jessie?”
“I suppose not; but I hope very much that I am doing right.”
“Why, Aunt Jessie, you have never found me out in any meanness yet, have you? Why should you doubt me now?”
“I will try not to doubt you, dear. I will try to believe in you. Only, one thing, Augusta, your unkindness to Nan will have at least to undergo this punishment—you will receive a bad mark in the orderly-book for your conduct tonight.”
Now, up to the present Augusta’s marks in the orderly-book had been good, and she had done her utmost to fulfil the letter at least of Captain Richmond’s conditions. She had abstained from rudeness or roughness in her manner. She had—to the Richmond girls at least—been good-natured. Her private cruelties and unkindnesses to Nancy were not known to the rest of the party. Nancy herself never told. Augusta had therefore received good marks for conduct as well as for general intelligence and physical discipline. Her great hope was that Captain Richmond would bestow upon her what he called the Victoria Cross of his scheme; for after having received so valuable a proof of her excellent conduct, her father and mother would be abundantly satisfied, and would send her, on their return, to the longed-for school in Paris. But a bad mark for conduct just the day before the Captain’s return would seriously interfere with Augusta’s schemes. She walked down the shrubbery in deep thought and very much disturbed in her mind. Through the shrubbery there was a winding and very pretty path straight to the seashore. On the shore the Richmonds had arranged a tent. The tent was placed above high-water mark, and it was not only used for bathing purposes, but was also a favourite resort of the children’s for all kinds of picnics and pleasure expeditions. They used to sit there with their work and storybooks. They often brought their tea there. It was their favourite place of retirement, too, be the weather wet or fine. Augusta now approached the tent, wondering if Nancy were there. Nan had withdrawn far back into its darkest corner; she was not reading, although a story-book lay at her side. She had evidently been crying very bitterly, for her face was disfigured and her eyes swollen. Augusta looked at her with great dislike; then it occurred to her that Nancy might be very useful to her, and in short that there was no use in making her unhappy. She sank down on a cushion near the little girl’s side, and said in a voice which she tried to make very sad and sympathetic:
“I am awfully angry with myself, Nancy. I know I ought not to have spoken to you as I did. I hope you will forgive me and let bygones be bygones.”
Nancy was naturally of a forgiving temperament; she looked up at Augusta now, and said in a low tone:
“Why do you say such dreadful things to me? Why must I keep my conscience burdened because of you?”
“Now, listen, Nancy,” said Augusta; “I am speaking quite frankly to you. I will be as open to you as you are to me.”
“Well, what are you going to say?” asked Nancy.
“This: it might do me great harm if you were to tell now, but if you will only wait until the holidays are over and we are back in town, why, I will give you leave to say anything you please.”
“Why would my telling now injure you? I need not mention your name. I just want to tell dear, kind Mrs. Richmond about my own part. And of course I want to tell Uncle Peter. It is so dreadful to look into his eyes and to know that I am not what he thinks me! May I not tell my part and leave yours out? Please—please let me, Gussie. You can’t know the pain of the burden I am bearing, and how miserable I am.”
“You couldn’t tell your part without telling mine,” said Augusta, “and I don’t wish mine spoken about at present. You will have to be silent. But never mind, Nancy; you—shall tell, as I promised you, when we get back to London. Won’t you be kind to me and keep the secret until then?”
“And may I positively—certainly—tell when we get back to London?” asked the child.
“Yes; have I not said it? And now, let us talk no more of the matter.”
“But, Augusta,” said Nancy, rising, “will you do something for me—if I agree to this, will you do something definite?”
“Oh, what a queer child you are!” said Augusta. “What am I to do?”
“Will you write it down?”
“I write it down! Why should I do that?”
“Will you give me the words in writing?Nancy may tell when she gets back to town: just those words, and sign them ‘Augusta’.”
Augusta had her own reasons for wishing to please the little girl.
“And here is some paper,” said Nancy, “and here is a pencil. Write the words down, Augusta, and let me keep the paper.”