A voice below shouted Augusta’s name, and she ran off. Miss Roy attended to the suffering bird, giving him seed and water and a nice bunch of groundsel. He began to eat and drink at once, and before she left the room she had the satisfaction of seeing that he was much revived.
“I will see to this matter myself,” she said under her breath. “There must be no dumb creature in this house liable to such neglect. Alas, how little one knows any one! Mrs. Richmond may have given that bad mark for just such another act of carelessness. It seems to explain things. But who would have thought it of Nancy?”
At lunch that day Augusta suddenly looked up and fixed her bright eyes on Nancy.
“I have a crow to pluck with you,” she said.
“What is it?” asked the little girl.
“Come, Augusta,” said the Captain, “none of this! I am sure Nancy has not done anything wrong.”
“Oh, hasn’t she? You ask Miss Roy.—Miss Roy, don’t you think the little favourite wants a word of caution?”
“You ought not to call Nancy by that silly name,” said Miss Roy; but she looked uneasy and troubled.
Augusta said nothing more, but nodded in a very knowing way to Nancy. Immediately after dinner she rushed up to the child, slipped her hand through her arm, and pulled her aside.
“Well, Nancy,” she said, “it will be all up with you if you are not careful.”
“What do you—what do you mean, Augusta?”
“Listen. I don’t think Miss Roy is going to tell. She really is kind, and I don’t fancy she will tell; and if she doesn’t, the Captain, who has now charge of the orderly-book, will know nothing about it.”
“Oh Augusta, you are so mysterious! What are you talking about?”
“I am surprised at you,” said Augusta. “I hate cruelty myself.”
“And you think that I am cruel!” said Nancy. “What next?”
“I don’t trouble myself to think about what I know,” said Augusta. “A girl who had any love for dumb creatures would not starve her pet bird.”
“My canary! I starve my canary! What do you mean?”
“Ask Miss Roy. She went into your bedroom and found poor old Sunbeam anything but sun-shiny—all ruffled up and dull and drooping. The reason was not far to seek. There was no water in his trough and no seed in his drawer. Now then, Miss Nancy, what do you say to that?”
“That it is a lie—an awful lie,” said Nancy, her gentle face quite transformed with rage. “What do you mean? I fed my bird this morning. I gave him water, and plenty of seed, and a lump of sugar. What are you talking about?”
“Ask Miss Roy, my dear, if you don’t believe me. I happened to come into the room with some groundsel. I had been getting some to give the birds in the aviary downstairs, and I thought of Sunbeam. Miss Roy was in the room, and before she could stop me I had discovered what was wrong. Make what use you can of my information. Speak to her about it. She saw with her own eyes. Who else is responsible for the bird? Why, what is the matter, Nancy? Where are you going to?”
“To Miss Roy. I cannot stand this. I have an enemy, and I can’t make it out. Oh, I am a very unhappy girl! Augusta, what have I done to you? Why do you make my life so miserable?”
“Make your life miserable!” said Augusta, who by no means wished to bring things to a crisis. “I am sure I am very far from doing that. Do you think I would really tell the Captain? You may be sure Miss Roy won’t; and I will go to her this minute, if you like, and beg her not to. Now, am I not kind?”
“Don’t go; I would rather speak to her myself. I would rather brave things out;” and Nancy suddenly rushed away from Augusta. She went into the house and looked for Miss Roy, whom she found in the schoolroom.
“Miss Roy, I want to say something,” cried the little girl, the colour mantling her cheeks.
“What is it, Nancy?” said Miss Roy just a trifle coldly, for the incident of the starving bird had troubled the governess a great deal.
“Augusta told me,” continued Nancy; “and it is not true. There is not a word of it true. Oh, what is to be done? I did feed my canary this morning. I gave him water and seed, and cleaned out his cage. I have never neglected my bird yet—never.”
“My dear Nancy, I am sorry even to appear to doubt you, but I saw with my own eyes that the bird was without seed. Seeing is believing, you know.”
“And you believe that I could be so cruel?” said Nancy.
“Seeing is believing,” repeated Miss Roy.
“I didn’t do it. Oh, you will drive me wild! I did not think that you would turn against me.”
“No one attends to the bird except yourself. Who in this house would be so wicked and malicious as to take away the seed and water? No, my dear Nancy; you forgot. It was unlike you, and I am disappointed in you. But I have decided not to tell Uncle Peter; I will give you another chance. Had I been in charge of the orderly-book I should have been obliged to enter this circumstance in the book; but as I am not I do not hold myself responsible. Go away now, dear. Don’t keep me. Try and be more careful another time.”
Nancy stood perfectly still. Her face, which had been red with anger, was now white. She turned abruptly and walked out of the room.
“It is all most unaccountable,” thought the governess to herself. “But to suppose for a single instant that any one could have removed the seed and water is not to be thought of. Yes, I am sorry for Nancy. She forgot the bird: such things have happened even with tender-hearted and considerate children. She forgot the bird, and has not the courage to own to her fault. Poor, poor child; I fear that remark in the orderly-book is correct.”
Meanwhile Nancy went up to her room. Never before had such mad passion seized her. She felt like a wounded creature in a trap. But of one thing she was resolved.
“My dicky-bird, my darling, shall not run such a risk again,” she thought. “Oh, of course it must be Augusta! No one else could do such a fiendish thing. But my darling shall not suffer. I know who will care for him.”
She put on her hat, took the cage down from the hook, threw a handkerchief over it, and went out.
About a mile away there lived a woman with a sick child. Nancy and the two Richmond girls had visited this woman once or twice. And Nancy had spoken to little Grace of her bird. Grace had been deeply interested.
“Oh, if only my poor little Grace could have a bird all to herself!” said her mother. “But there! I cannot afford it. I offered to buy her a linnet—one can get linnets quite cheap—but she would not have it. ‘No, mother,’ she said, ‘I would not take the liberty from an English bird. It is a canary I want. I’d like to have one more than anything else in the world.’”
Nancy had made up her mind now to give her treasured bird to Grace. She was relieved to see that no one was about. She walked slowly for fear of spilling the water in the cage. Presently she entered the woods, and setting the cage down on the ground, she removed the handkerchief, and threw herself on her face and hands close to the bird. She pressed her pretty, gentle face up against the bars of the cage, whistling softly to Sunbeam. He sidled up to her, and presently printed a soft kiss from his beak on her rosy lips.
“They say that I starve you, darling,” said Nancy. “You know better, don’t you? But you sha’n’t ever run such an awful risk again, my own little bird. You sha’n’t be at the mercy of any cruel girl. I would sooner part from you. You will soon forget me, my little dicky-bird, but I will never, never forget you. Come, you shall go to a good home—to a little girl who will be kind to you.”
She walked on through the wood holding the cage, and presently she reached Mrs. Hammond’s cottage. The day was hot with a languorous sort of heat. There was little or no wind, and thunder rumbled in the sky.
Grace had been very tired all that morning; her back ached, and life seemed weary. She had refused her dinner, and had turned away from all her mother’s attempts at consolation. When Nancy’s tap was heard on the door, Mrs. Hammond threw down her sewing and went to open it. A pale little girl with bright eyes, holding a cage in her hand, stood without.
“Why, if it ain’t one of the dear little ladies from Fairleigh!” cried the widow. “My Grace is very poorly to-day, but a sight of you will do her a lot of good, miss.”
“I have brought a bird for her—my own bird. May I go in and see her at once?” said Nancy.
“I have brought a bird for her—my own bird. May I go in and see her at once?” said Nancy.
“A bird!” cried the mother. “Oh, won’t it be just heaven to her? Yes, she is very poorly, and so dull; but a bird all her own—— Oh, I say, miss! come this way at once.—Grace, here is somebody to cheer you up,” continued Mrs. Hammond.—“Come right in, miss; I will stay in the kitchen while you talk to her.”
So Nancy entered with Sunbeam in his pretty coloured cage.
Grace, who had been lying down, started up in her delight.
“For me! It can’t be,” she exclaimed. “You have brought him to see me, miss. Oh, ain’t he just pretty?”
“I have brought him to give him to you,” cried Nancy. “He is your very own from this minute. You will be kind to him, won’t you?”
“Kind to him! Oh miss—oh miss!”
“You will never forget his water nor his seed?”
“As if I could, miss!”
“And you won’t let the cats get to him?”
“We ain’t got a cat, miss. He shall stay with me morning and night. Oh, Miss Nancy, I’ll get well now; I feel that I will. Oh, the joy of having him! How can I thank you? But there! I can’t even try to.”
“Don’t try, Grace; your face is thanks enough. No, I won’t stay. He will want lots of water; and here is a whole canister of seed—every sort. You must dry his cage after he has his bath. I give him his bath every morning before I clean and feed him.—Good-bye, my Sunbeam.”
Nancy bent towards the cage. Her curly hair fell across her face, and even the little sick girl did not notice the tears in her eyes. She ran out of the cottage before Mrs. Hammond could interrupt her.
CHAPTER XXVII.—“WAS THAT THE REASON?”
After breakfast the next morning Miss Roy felt a strong desire to go into Nancy’s bedroom. The fact was, she had dreamt of the starving bird the night before. She quite longed to see for herself that the little prisoner was attended to, that he was bright and cheerful and happy. But she scarcely liked to do this, for it seemed like doubting Nancy.
Nancy was avoiding Miss Roy. She was spending most of her time in the open air, and very often she would go away quite by herself. As she complained of nothing, however, and ate her meals all right, no one remarked on her strange conduct. Miss Roy said to herself that Nancy was repenting of what she had done.
“I shall try to find out from her if she has ever neglected the bird before,” she thought.
The morning pursued the even tenor of its way. The four girls went out on the water with Captain Richmond; and Miss Roy, at last overcome by her desire to see the canary, went into Nancy’s bedroom. She uttered an exclamation when she saw the hook on which the cage used to hang. What could have happened? Where was the bird? She went downstairs to see if it had been removed to the schoolroom. It was not there. She then questioned the housemaid, but beyond the fact that she had not seen the bird when she went to draw down the blinds on the previous evening, the girl could tell her nothing.
“This must be inquired into,” said Miss Roy to herself; and when the girls came in she spoke to Nancy, doing so openly before the others.
“Nancy,” she said, “I happened to go into your bedroom, and I could not see your bird there. What have you done with Sunbeam?”
Augusta immediately fixed her bold eyes on Nancy’s face. The other girls looked up, wondering. They knew how passionately Nancy adored her bird.
“Well, Nancy, why don’t you speak?” said her governess.
Just then Captain Richmond appeared.
“Why, Miss Roy,” he said, “what is this solemn conclave? I heard you ask Nancy something.—What is it, Nancy?”
“You asked me about my bird,” said Nancy, raising her head and speaking bravely. “I have given him away.”
“Nancy! you have given Sunbeam away?” cried Kitty.
“Yes. I took him yesterday to a little girl—you know her, Nora—you remember her, Kitty—Grace Hammond. She wanted a bird, and I gave her Sunbeam. He was my own, and I could do what I liked with him. Don’t keep me, please.”
She pushed past the girls. Her manner was almost rude. Before any one could utter an additional word she had left the room.
“What does this mean?” said Captain Richmond.
“I think it is very generous of Nancy,” here exclaimed Augusta.
But no one else applauded Nancy for her generosity. There was a weight in the air which every one felt.
Immediately after lunch Captain Richmond went away to pay a round of calls. Miss Roy retired to her own room—she happened to have a very acute headache—and the four girls were alone.
Kitty fixed her eyes on Nan. Nan shuffled uncomfortably with her feet.
“Where are you going?” cried Nora. “It is such a lovely day,” she continued, “can we not all go for a ramble on the seashore?”
“I am not going with you,” replied Nancy. Her tone was almost rude. She left the room, slamming the door after her.
Augusta raised her brows. Getting up daintily, she went out by the open window. The two little Richmond girls thus found themselves alone.
“Oh Kit,” cried Nora, “what can be happening? I am quite unhappy; I don’t like this at all.”
“Come out, Nora,” answered Kitty; “we can talk better in the open air.”
They went out, linking their arms round one another, and paced slowly up and down. Augusta was lying lazily in a hammock near by. She watched them.
“How they love each other!” she said to herself. “I never saw such affectionate sisters. But they are a dull little pair all the same. They are the sort of girls who will never do anything very wrong, and perhaps, on the other hand, never do anything very good. I know the sort. They will be medium all their days—medium pretty, too. Even Nan is better fun than Kitty and Nora. Now they are discussing her. I see it by the way Kitty nods her head, and Nora looks at her and then looks away again; and they are twining their arms tighter round each other. They are very sorry for Nan, but they don’t understand her. Even I understand that poor, miserable mite better than they do. I have a hold over my little lady, and I must tighten the knot—and very quickly, too, for Miss Nancy must help me to-morrow night. But now to find out what they are really saying, for Nancy will have to be protected by me in one sense in order that I may use her in another.”
So Augusta slipped out of her hammock, and approached the little girls.
“What a wonderful confab!” she said. “Shall I guess what it is all about?”
“Oh no, Gussie; I wish you would go away,” exclaimed Nora. “Kitty and I are having quite a private talk all by ourselves.”
“But do let me guess what it is about,” answered Augusta. “Now then, see if I am not right. You are talking about the little favourite and her pet canary.”
“Yes; but what has that to do with you?” answered Kitty.
“My dear Kit, what a way to speak to your cousin! Now, let me tell you that it has a great deal to do with me. If I were you I would not worry Nancy; she has reasons for what she has done.”
“But why give her canary away?” said Kitty. “Nora and I subscribed together and gave it to her, and she seemed so pleased. It was rather difficult to get enough money, but when we saw how awfully delighted she was, we felt that that made up for everything.”
“It was good-natured of you,” said Augusta. “I forgot that you had given it to her. Poor old Nan!”
“But why do you call her poor old Nan? I don’t see that she is to be pitied at all. We have always been very fond of her, but we cannot see that she has done right in giving away her bird.”
“Dear me,” said Augusta, “what a fuss! If you gave her the bird it was her own, to do what she liked with. She took a fit of pity for that poor sick girl, Grace Hammond, and gave her the bird. Grace wants the bird far more than Nancy does, for she lies on her back most of the day in a shabby little room. I think it was extremely kind and self-sacrificing of Nan, and she ought to be petted, not scolded.”
“I never thought of that,” said Nora. “Of course, Gussie, you are right. Dear old Nan! Yes, it was sweet of her, and I suppose she felt it awfully.”
“Couldn’t you see for yourselves? Why, she scarcely ate any lunch, and ran off to her room soon afterwards. Oh, for goodness’ sake,” added Augusta, “don’t make a mystery out of nothing! She gave the bird because the girl was ill and wanted it, and there the matter ends.”
Augusta ran off, and Kitty and Nora owned that they felt considerably cheered.
When they saw Nancy next, Kitty ran up to her, kissed her, and said:
“We are neither of us angry now.”
“What do you mean?” answered Nancy.
“About the bird, you know.”
“But were you angry with me, Kitty?”
“Why, yes, Nancy; we both were a little. We gave it to you, you know, and we had to save up a good bit to get a really nice one.”
“I forgot about that,” said Nancy.
“But you did quite right, Nancy,” said Nora; “and we are not a scrap angry now. We are so glad that the little girl should have it; she must have wanted it far more than you did. It was very brave of you to give it to her, Nan, and we both love you more than ever.”
“But I didn’t give it to Grace to comfort her—not for a single moment,” said Nancy; and then she stopped short and faced the two little Richmond girls, and said emphatically: “Don’t let us talk any more about Sunbeam, for if you do I shall break my heart. Oh, how you do stare, Kitty! You look quite silly with your mouth open. Come, who will race me to the end of the avenue?”
Away the three went, flying as if on the wings of the wind. They came bang up against Captain Richmond, who was returning from his calls.
“Hullo!” he said. “Well won, Nancy; you are considerably ahead of the others. Is it a race or what?”
The three were now all laughing heartily; but when she got back her breath, Nancy’s face looked paler than its wont. The Captain noticed it, and holding out his hand, clasped hers.
“Come here,” he said. “Are you fretting about your bird? What is wrong?”
Tears filled Nancy’s eyes; she could not speak.
“Don’t question her, please, Uncle Pete,” said Kitty. “She has been quite, quite darling and sweet about Sunbeam. But she must not be questioned. Only if you stoop down I will tell you in a whisper.—Go on, Nancy; walk on with Nora.”
“Please don’t talk about it,” said Nancy in an imploring voice; but she took Nora’s hand and walked on in front.
“Stoop, Uncle Pete; she must not hear,” said Kitty. “She gave her darling Sunbeam, whom she loves so passionately, to that little sick girl in the wood—Grace Hammond—because the little girl wants the bird more than she does.”
“Was that the reason? Oh, how pleased I am!” said the Captain.
CHAPTER XXVIII.—“IS WRONG RIGHT?”
The day arrived when Augusta was to go to the Cinderella dance at the Asprays’. All her plans were made. She was to go unknown to her family. She was to return equally unknown. As far as she was concerned, not a single member of the Richmond family was ever to discover this escapade.
How delicious the whole thing sounded! How she would enjoy herself! She was to be daring and disobedient: she was to defy all the laws which ruled her life. She was to slip away under cover of the darkness, and come back again in the small hours, and no one was to know. She was to wear her prettiest dress, and dance, and be merry; and no one was to find out. And all the time she would pose as the best of girls—the noblest member of Captain Richmond’s battalion—the soldier who on the great day of the prize-giving would be presented with the Royal Cross.
“Some day, perhaps, I will tell them,” she said to herself—“some long, happy, delicious day in the future, when I have been to Paris and got all my fun out of that; when I am engaged to a sort of prince, when my trousseau is being made, when my wedding presents are arriving. When life can scarcely present me with anything more, then, perhaps, I will tell how I slipped out and went to a dance in the dead of night, and came back, and no one ever found out. I will tell then of my pleasure. But, oh, the present fun—the present fun!”
Now, for a long time Augusta had made up her mind that she would tell her secret to no one; but on looking into matters she feared it would be absolutely impossible for her to get back again into the house if she had not a confederate. The right person to share it—the only one, indeed, who could possibly help her—was Nan. Nan must make things possible for her. She thought she knew a way of making her do this.
Accordingly, after breakfast on the auspicious day, Augusta called the little girl into her room.
“Come here, Nancy,” she said. “Come close to me; I want to look at you. Do you know that you are an extremely pretty girl? When you are grown-up you will be very much better-looking than either Kitty or Nora. I only wish I had a face like yours. Such splendid eyes, and such thick hair, and—— Why, what is the matter?”
“Only I hate being flattered,” answered Nancy.
“Oh, as to that,” replied Augusta, giving her head a toss, “I am the last person to flatter any one; but you are so strange, Nancy, one doesn’t know how to take you. However, to the point. I am in reality, although you don’t think it, your very good friend. I am always taking your part—always, Nancy. Oh! it is useless for you to shake your head and look so glum and obstinate; it is a fact. And now—— Why, child, how you stare!”
“What do you want me to do, Augusta?” said Nan.
Augusta could not help bursting out laughing.
“What a cute young un it is!” she said. “You are quite right, Nancy mine; I do require a little favour, which I hope you will grant—just a tiny thing, Nancy. Will you grant it to your own poor Gussie who loves you so much?”
“Tell me what it is, Augusta.”
“Oh, how downright we are! Well, listen; it is for your private ear, little Nan. Your dear Augusta is disposed to have a bit of a spree—just a tiny morsel of adventure on her own account—something not a bit wrong, but something that no one in the house, except sweet Nancy, is to know about. Will Nancy help Augusta, or will she not?”
“I would rather not, Gussie. I would rather not, really. I know it is not right. I am so tired—oh, so dreadfully tired!—of doing naughty things for you. Please don’t ask me; and please don’t do it, Gussie—please, please don’t.”
Augusta laughed again.
“What a sweet, touching little plea!” she said. “But just too late, my dear. Augusta is going to have her fun, and whether you help or not, she intends to go through with it. You can make things easy for me, and I shall get into no scrape, and be your humble and devoted servant for ever after; or you can refuse, and I shall still do the naughty thing—although, in that case, with a certain amount of risk. Will you subject me to that, Nancy, when you alone can make it quite safe?”
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t,” replied Nancy. “If you choose to be very naughty, why should I be naughty too?”
“Oh darling, you are quaint; you really are the most naïve creature I have ever come across. Now let me explain. I shall really not be naughty at all. It is not as if my own father and mother or Aunt Jessie were here. I owe no oath of fealty to that delightful model, Uncle Peter; if he disapproves, that is his own lookout. In short, Nancy, this is it (I will let the cat out of the bag): I want to go to-night to a small dance—the most harmless, childish little dance—at the Asprays’. Flora and I have arranged everything, and I am to meet her at the other side of our wood. She drives me to their house in a dogcart, and will bring me back again. And what I want you, sweet Nancy, to do is to open the door for me—the hall door, darling—yes, no less. I shall fling some gravel up to this window—for you must sleep here to-night, Nancy—and when you hear it you must patter, patter, patter downstairs on your ten little pink toes and open the door for your darling, who will slip in and bless you ever after.”
“I am not going to do it,” said Nancy. “It is very, very wicked indeed, and I won’t do it.”
“Oh, come, how high and mighty we are!”
“I won’t do it, Gussie. I won’t tell, of course; but let me go, please. I don’t want to be in the room with you. I don’t like you at all, Augusta. I don’t want to have anything more to do with you.”
Nancy backed away; her eyes were full of fear. Augusta’s eyes flashed with downright anger.
“It doesn’t matter to me,” she said, “whether you like me or not. Before long now our dealings with each other will be at an end. But I should like to keep in the good graces of the family till after prize-day. Nancy, I could make it worth your while. You have done a good many wrong things since you and I made each other’s acquaintance. You have been unhappy about it. Do you remember that paper you made me write, in which I promised to give you leave to tell your own story when we got back to town?”
“Of course,” said Nancy, “I remember all about it; it is the comfort of my life.”
“I thought so, and that is why I saved it for you.”
“You saved it for me! You! I have it myself in my desk in my room.”
“Once that little desk was left open,” said Augusta, “and a bird of the air came and informed somebody of the fact; and somebody, guided by that mischievous little bird, went to see, and found that the songster was right. Behold!”
As she spoke Augusta opened a drawer and took out a sheet of paper, and held it high above Nancy’s head.
“Oh, how mean and dreadful you are!” said Nancy. “Give it back; give it back.”
“Certainly—to-morrow morning, after you have let me in.”
“Gussie, what am I to do? I cannot”——
“Now listen. I will give this back to you to-morrow morning. I will do more for you—to-morrow morning. You are in trouble about your bird Sunbeam. The supposition all over the house is that you neglected it—forgot its water and its seed—in short, that but for Miss Roy your pretty bird would have died of starvation. Now, I can put that right for you—to-morrow morning. And there is another thing. Has it never occurred to you to wonder why Mrs. Richmond, who is no relation at all, is so good—so very good—to you? I can tell you that story, and I can also explain about something with regard to the Asprays which will put you into such a comfortable position that you will literally have two homes to choose from, having absolute and complete right to live in either. Few girls are as lucky as that. You can hold up your head very high, Nancy Esterleigh, after I have told you what I shall tell you—to-morrow morning. Now, having had several little escapades with your conscience, will you have one more—the last—and so put yourself into such a position that the worries of the past need be worries no longer?”
“Is it true that you can tell me all these things?” said Nancy.
“True as I am standing here.”
“All about Mrs. Richmond?”
“All about Mrs. Richmond.”
“And the true story about my darling, darling bird?”
“I can clear you as regards the charge of cruelty; is not that sufficient? There, Nancy, you are yielding; I thought you were.”
“I don’t know whether I am yielding or not,” said Nancy, “but you are tempting me;” and she ran across the room to the window. She looked out. Kitty was going past with her apron full of corn; she was about to feed the fowls in the farmyard. Seeing Nancy, she called out to her:
“There is a fresh brood of the downiest and sweetest little chicks out, Nancy; won’t you come and see them?”
“Yes,” called back Nancy; “in five minutes.”
“I will wait for you under the window if you will be quick,” cried Kitty.
Nancy turned with an eager face to Augusta.
“Tell me exactly—exactly what you want me to do,” she said.
“Oh, you little duck, you darling!” said Augusta. “How happy you will be this time to-morrow! And how obliged to you I am!”
“Only tell me quick, Augusta.”
“Well, it is this, you little love—this, and this only. You must be pretty loving to me to-day. You must, as it were, fawn on me, come close to me after dinner and snuggle up to me, slip your hand inside my arm, and all that sort of thing—you understand. And you are to say to me before the others—Uncle Peter and all the rest—you are to say, ‘Gussie darling, may I sleep with you to-night?’ And I am to say ‘No;’ and you are to coax and coax me, and in the end I am to yield. You are to do it in your very, very prettiest way, Nancy, and the others are to hear you. Then, to-night I am going to pretend to have a bit of a headache, and go to my room quite early. And you are to say, ‘Poor Gussie, her head is bad; I think I will go and bathe it with aromatic vinegar;’ and you are to slip up to my room, and you need not come out again as far as the others are concerned. Then, after I am gone, if any one comes to the door, you are to say, ‘Hush! Gussie’s head is very bad;’ and of course the some one will go away. And then, oh! you are not to sleep, for that would be fatal; you are to lie awake thinking over the wonderful things I am going to tell you to-morrow. And at about half-past twelve, or perhaps nearer one o’clock, I will throw a little gravel up to the window; and then you are to slip down, softly, softly, and open the door and let me in. Afterwards we will have a time. I will tell you about my partners, and how much Mr. Archer, that distinguished American, admires me; and I will even repeat to you the compliments they have made to me. And then in the morning you will have your reward. This is simple enough, isn’t it, Nan?”
“Yes,” said Nan.
“And you will do it, darling—you will do it?”
“Nancy, Nancy,” shouted Kitty from below, “the five minutes are up.”
“Yes, I’ll do it,” answered Nancy. “It is very wicked—awfully wicked—but I’ll do it;” and she walked out of the room.
“How flushed your cheeks are, Nancy!” said Kitty when the little girl joined her.
“Never mind, Kit,” answered Nancy in an almost cross tone for her. “Come and let us look at the pretty chicks. I am so sick of being flattered!”
“Has Augusta been doing that?”
“Oh yes—no—I mean I don’t know; but don’t let us bother about her.”
“You are getting quite fond of Gussie, aren’t you, Nan?”
Nan opened her eyes very wide. An emphatic “No” was on her lips, but instead she said, “Yes—of course.”
They went to the farmyard and spent an hour of what was perfect bliss to Kitty, examining the birds. Then they each occupied a hammock in the garden. Kitty read a new story-book, and Nancy lay with her eyes shut, thinking of the dreadful thing which had befallen her.
“I was wicked before,” she said to herself, “but never as wicked as I shall be to-night. Oh, how I hate myself! But she has got my paper which has her promise that I may tell. She can put things right about my darling bird; and she can tell me the story which Mrs. Richmond has promised to tell me some day. Oh! she has tempted me, and I will do it; I must, for I am too miserable to stay any longer as I am.”
“Nancy,” said Uncle Peter’s voice at that moment, “will you come for a walk with me? I want to go down to the seashore; will you be my companion?”
“Won’t you go, Kitty?” asked Nancy, for the Captain’s society was by no means to her taste just then.
“I can’t,” answered Kitty, “for I have promised to go to the village with Miss Roy and Nora.”
“Do you refuse me?” asked the Captain, putting on his most quizzical expression.
“No; of course not, Uncle Peter. I shall be delighted,” she answered.
He took her hand and helped her out of her hammock, and they were soon going by their favourite walk in the woods to the seashore.
“How silent you are, Nancy! Are you not going to cheer me up and make my walk pleasant?” asked Uncle Peter.
“I think I have a headache,” replied Nancy. “Anyhow, I feel rather dull.” Then she looked suddenly up at the Captain, and said with eager emphasis, “I know what I really want. I want to ask you a question.”
“Certainly, my dear little girl; what is it?”
“Will you answer it without thinking that it has anything to do with me?”
“I will try, Nancy.”
The Captain’s eyes were dancing as he fixed them on Nancy’s flushed face.
“Oh! please don’t look at me like that; it is just an ordinary question. Perhaps I was reading a book and came to it; anyhow, that explanation will do.”
“Yes, as a preface; now for the question.”
“Is it right,” said Nancy—“I mean, could a boy—say a boy, or perhaps a girl, or a man, or a woman—could they, any of them, be put in the sort of position that they must do wrong to make things come right? Would it be possible?”
“I have never heard of the occasion where wrong could be put right by that means,” said the Captain. “Can you give me an instance? Then, perhaps, I could explain better.”
“No, I can’t give you any instance. I was just thinking about it.”
“And it has made you very grave.”
“It—oh no, it hasn’t made me grave.”
“Nancy, it has troubled you.”
“Please, Uncle Peter, I was telling you, you know, because of the book.”
“The book of your heart, Nancy; why don’t you confide in me altogether?”
“There is nothing to confide; indeed there is not.”
“Only if you had known of such a case you would be quite happy?”
“I should be happier.”
“Then let me tell you quite frankly that I don’t think there is such a case. When people do wrong they have got to turn round and do right in future. But it is impossible, at least to my way of thinking, to do further wrong in order to make the old wrong come right.”
“I see,” said Nancy. Her brow cleared; she took the Captain’s hand and pressed it warmly. “I am very glad I belong to your battalion,” she said—“very, very glad.”
“Has the fight been difficult, Nancy?”
“You don’t know—you will never know—— Difficult! Oh yes.”
“I am your captain, and again I say you ought to confide in me.”
“I will, whatever happens, when we go back to town. And thank you so much, Uncle Peter!”
“You will be able to go on reading that book now with a sense of satisfaction.”
“The book is the story of a fight,” said Nancy very slowly. “I think,” she added, “the poor, mangled soldier won’t cave in to the enemy.”
CHAPTER XXIX.—DOWN BY THE WISTARIA.
Augusta came down to lunch in high spirits. All was going swimmingly. She would have no difficulty now in carrying out her daring scheme. The point of danger was practically passed. Nancy sat during lunch at the same side as Augusta, so that astute young lady could not manage to see her face; but after lunch the beginning of the little programme which she had sketched out for Nancy’s benefit ought to have been begun. The endearing words, the suggestion of the night to be spent together, ought to be spoken. But immediately after the meal was over Nancy jumped up and ran out of the room.
“Tiresome little thing, is she forgetting?” said Augusta to herself. “Oh! perhaps it will do equally well at tea-time.”
But at tea-time Nancy was not there, and when Augusta inquired in solicitous tones where the little favourite could have hidden herself, Nora said:
“Oh! Nancy is not coming back to tea; she has gone for a walk in the woods with Miss Roy. She has gone, I think, to see little Grace Hammond, and to find out how her bird is.”
“Did you want her for anything?” asked Kitty.
“No,” replied Augusta crossly; “I just asked where she could be. I am very fond of little Nancy.”
All Augusta’s plans had now to be rearranged. Having got over her first wild anger against Nancy, she determined to ignore her, to do exactly what she pleased in spite of her, and trust to the little girl’s promise not to tell unless she were obliged to.
“Of course, she will never be obliged to,” said Augusta to herself; “I shall take good care of that.”
She then sat down and thought over matters. Yes, there was nothing whatever for it but to get out of her window, to climb down by the wistaria, and at night to return the same way. She could not possibly risk the chance of a window being open downstairs.
Fairleigh was an old-fashioned house, with shutters to all the lower windows, which were fastened by iron bars. It was situated quite by itself, and in a somewhat lonely part of the country, and these precautions were considered advisable. Night after night the servants closed the shutters and barred them, so there was no possible ingress by any of the lower windows.
Augusta considered herself in luck to have a room practically in a wing all by herself. She went to the window and looked down. Neither Nora nor Kitty would have thought anything of descending to the ground and climbing up again by the thick arm of the wistaria which ran all round this part of the house. But Augusta was not athletic, and had she been less set upon her evening’s amusement, she might have hesitated at the peril of letting herself down and of returning again by such romantic means.
“Nothing venture, nothing have,” however, and to go to the party she was resolved. She went downstairs, saw Kitty, and said in a voice which she rendered quite hollow:
“I am very ill indeed, Kitty; I have one of my desperate headaches. Do say good-night to the others, and forget all about me until you see me to-morrow morning.”
“Are you going to bed?” said Kitty. “It is not seven o’clock yet.”
“I must lie down; I cannot hold my head up another moment.”
“But can’t I do something for you? May I come and bathe your head, Gussie? I should like to, really.”
“No, thanks,” replied Augusta. “I would far rather be alone; quiet is all that I require. Don’t send me up anything to eat. Don’t have me disturbed on any account whatever. Good-night, Kitty, and say good-night to the others for me; what I want is quiet.”
“You do look bad,” said Kitty in an affectionate tone. She kissed her cousin, and then ran into the grounds. Nora and Uncle Peter were enjoying themselves under the shade of a big elm tree.
“I am so sorry about poor Augusta!” said Kitty.
“What about her?” said Uncle Peter.
“She has gone to bed with a bad headache; she says she is not to be disturbed. Oh! there is Nancy.—Come right over here, Nancy, and tell us about the bird.”
“The bird is quite well,” answered Nancy.
Her pretty face was pale, and there were big dark shadows under her eyes. Uncle Peter stretched out his hand and made room for her to seat herself near him.
“Has the wrong been put right?” he whispered.
She coloured and looked up at him.
“No,” she answered slowly, speaking almost into his ear. “But the wrong is not more wrong than it was this morning.”
“What a conundrum!” he said, with a laugh; but his laugh was uneasy, and he looked seriously at the child.
“There is something more the matter with her than I had any idea of,” was his thought.
“Augusta is ill,” here called out Kitty; “she has gone to her room, and is not to be disturbed.”
Captain Richmond had his arm round Nancy, and he felt a shiver run through her frame as Kitty uttered these words.
“What can it all mean?” he said to himself.
Meanwhile Augusta upstairs, even the mere thought of a headache forgotten, was getting ready for her party. She put on her prettiest white dress; the idea of borrowing a dress from the Asprays was not to be thought of for a moment. She tied a pale gold sash round her waist, and arranged her hair simply. Finally, she encircled her round and pretty throat with a single row of valuable pearls, and slipped a gold bangle on her arm. Her dress was pretty and suitable, and she looked well in it. She gazed at her own reflection in the glass with complacency. As a rule she had very little colour, but it was mounting now with a rich damask hue into each of her cheeks. Having attired herself all but her dancing-shoes, her gloves, and her fan, she slipped on her waterproof. This completely covered the white dress. She buttoned it right down, put a cap on her head, and looked out. The ground was about five-and-twenty feet away, but it seemed to Augusta then to be quite at a giddy distance. For a careful climber there was no difficulty in the descent. It was but to place a foot on one branch after the other of the wistaria, which spread forth its branches to within three feet of the ground, and the deed was done.
In order to make things more safe Augusta had tied a strong cord to her window-sash; and then, the time being come and the home party all in the house enjoying their supper, she locked her door, put out the light, and began her descent. With the aid of the rope she was able to manage it, and trembling very much, she finally reached the ground.
Were the moon to come out brightly, and were any one to walk round to that part of the house, that person might observe the rope hanging from the window, and the window itself a little open. But Augusta must take her chance of that. The sky was clouded over, too; it would probably rain before long. So much the better for her.
She ran quickly across the grounds and entered the woods. How dark and solemn they were at this hour! Had she been less excited she might even have felt a little bit afraid. But her excitement kept all nervousness at bay.
She ran on and on. Once she stumbled upon the stump of a tree which was sticking out of the ground. She fell and slightly grazed her arm, jumped up again, and went on.
At last she had reached the farther entrance to the wood. Here Flora, with the dogcart, ought to have met her; but there was no Flora and no vehicle of any sort in sight. What was to be done? Was it possible that Flora could have forgotten? Oh no, that would not be like her friend.
Augusta stood still, panting slightly, and feeling, for the first time, subdued and a little alarmed. Should she go back and give up all her glorious fun for which she had risked so much, or should she go forward?
The Asprays’ house was two miles away. She made up her mind to walk there.
“Oh, how unkind of Flora—how horrid of her!” thought Augusta. “What can—what can be the meaning of this? Well, I will get there somehow, and shame her to her face.”
Accordingly, she started off to walk as fast as she could over the dusty roads. It was nearly ten o’clock when she reached the Asprays’. She was surprised to see no signs of festivity. A few lights were burning in the drawing-room, and a few also in the dining-room. But the place wore no air of expectancy or bustle or gaiety.
“What can it mean? Have I come on the wrong night?” thought Augusta.
She ran up the steps and sounded the front-door bell. In a moment the butler threw open the door.
“Is Miss Flora in?” asked Augusta, in some wonder.
“Yes, miss; but——
“I want to see her. I must see her at once. Show me somewhere,” said Augusta in peremptory tones.
“My mistress said, miss, no one was to come into the house, but”——
“Nonsense!” said Augusta. “I will see Miss Flora, and immediately.”
The man took Augusta into a small room on the ground floor, switched on the light, and left her. In a minute or two Flora rushed in.
“Gussie,” she said, “how madly dangerous! What have you done it for?”
“What have you neglected me for?” said Augusta, opening her mackintosh and revealing her pretty evening-dress. “What is the matter? This is the night of your party, and you promised to meet me outside our wood. You never came, and I have walked all the way; and, oh, I am so tired, and so dreadfully frightened! What is it, Flo? What is wrong?”
“Then you never got my letter?” said Flora.
“Oh no; but please explain this mystery. I am so tired. Is not there a party to-night? Oh, I have gone through such a lot to come! And now what can this mean?”
“I am ever so sorry,” said Flora. “Mother would be quite mad if she knew you had come into the house, Gussie. It is too late for the rest of us, unfortunately; but for you”——
“Oh, what is it?”
“It is Constance. She is awfully ill—most fearfully, dangerously ill. We have all been with her until this morning, and the doctor says the whole house is infected. It is smallpox. Oh, isn’t it frightful?”
“Smallpox!” said Augusta.
She would not have feared scarlet-fever or diphtheria. But smallpox—that ghastly disease which did not always kill, but which took the lovely and the graceful and the gracious and defiled them; which made the fair face hideous, destroyed the right proportions, and stamped them for life!
Augusta, like every other girl in all the world, was afraid of smallpox.
“How was it I never got your letter?” she said.
“It was only known this morning,” continued Flo. “Even last night we did not think much about it. She was fearfully ill, of course, and I slept in her room. But she is subject to bad feverish attacks, and we hoped she would get well, and that we need not put off the party. The doctor came early this morning; and—she is covered with it. Oh, it is frightful! I have been vaccinated, and so has every one else in the house. But the doctor says we have all run the gravest risk. There is no use in our going away, however, for no one would take us in.”
“And is she—is she in danger?” Augusta cried, feeling a slight pang of remorse as she remembered Constance’s delicate and lovely features.
“Oh, I don’t know. They say it is a very bad case; she is quite delirious. Oh, it is awful! I saw her this morning, and I would not have known her. I am awfully upset, and I feel sick with terror. Gussie, you ought not to have come in.”
“Perhaps I had better go away,” said Augusta. “I am very sorry, of course. It was a pity you didn’t let me have the letter.”
“Mother gave it to the groom to take to you, but I suppose in the scare he forgot it. I will speak to him in the morning. Would you like him to drive you back now, Gussie? But the dogcart is not quite safe, for poor Constance drove in it the day before yesterday. She fainted before we brought her home; that was the beginning of her illness.”
“I had better walk,” said Augusta. “Good-night.”
“Good-night. I won’t tell mother that you came, as she would be in such an awful fright. But I hope you have not run any danger. Perhaps you had better tell your doctor and be vaccinated at once. Good-night—good-night.”
Augusta went away. She did not even turn to kiss Flora. She nodded to her vaguely, as though she were not thinking about her, and walked down the avenue. When she had gone down a little way she turned and looked up at the windows of the room where the sick girl lay struggling with death. She gave a shudder, and hurried her footsteps.
What an end to her mad adventure!
She was very tired, and all the excitement which had kept her up during the past day was now merged into a great terror. What should she do? Had she contracted infection in that terrible house? Ought she to be vaccinated?
All her thoughts were for herself. She was more angry with Constance than sorry for her. How severely that groom ought to be blamed for not delivering the note!
It was after eleven o’clock when she got back to Fairleigh. Had things turned out as she expected she would not have got back nearly so soon. The house was in darkness except for a light in the library window. The window was shut, and so were the shutters, but the light came out on the gravel through one or two of the chinks.
Augusta knew that Captain Richmond was there. He generally stayed in the library for an hour or so after the others had gone to bed. Just for a moment a wild longing came over her to tell him what had happened—to seek his advice. If she were infected, had she any right to infect the others?
She must not attempt to go back to her room while Captain Richmond was in the library, for the library was almost immediately under her room.
“What a nuisance his sitting up so late!” she thought.
She was too tired to walk another step. She sank down on a garden seat, wrapped her mackintosh round her, and tried to think; but her head was giddy, and her brain in a whirl. Her one and only desire was to get back safely to her room—to fling herself on her bed and lose consciousness in sleep.
Even the prize, the great and glorious prize, was as nothing to her now. Even school in Paris seemed remote and uninteresting. Suppose she sickened for smallpox. Suppose her face, so smooth and fair and attractive-looking, was altered and made ugly. Suppose she—died.
“Oh, why doesn’t that horrid man go to bed?” thought the girl. She jumped up and paced about on the grass. She had been too hot; she was now too cold.
After a time, to her horror, she heard the shutters being unbarred. The window opened, and Captain Richmond put out his head.
“Is anybody there?” he said. “I thought I heard some one speak. Is anybody there?”
There was no answer.
Augusta, in terror, was hiding behind a bush of laurustinus.