AUGUSTA’S SIGNATURE.
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.”
[Illustration: “Here is some paper,” said Nancy, “and here is a pencil.
Write the words down, Augusta, and let me keep the paper.”]
“You will never show any one?” said Augusta.
“Indeed—indeed I won’t.”
“And if I do this for you, will you do something for me?”
“If I can.”
“Very well.” Augusta spoke in quite a cheerful tone. “I will do what
you wish and sign the paper, and you can keep it and show it to me to
remind me of my promise when we get back to London. In the meantime
you mustn’t talk any more of this nonsense. You mustn’t worry me from
morning to night as you have been doing ever since I have had the
pleasure of knowing you. And there is still something more.”
“I won’t talk of it; and I’ll be very, very grateful,” said Nancy.
“Well; child, so far so good; but now for my real condition. Do you
know, Nancy, that you—you little wretch!—have just got me into a
most horrible scrape?”
“How?” asked Nancy, fixing her wondering eyes on Augusta’s face.
“You have, you monkey—you have. This is what you have done. When I
was talking to you just now in the shrubbery, and giving you some
plain words with regard to your conduct, you put on the airs of a
martyr, and, lo and behold, little Miss Martyr! somebody listened, and
somebody was very angry.”
“Whom?” asked the child.
“No less a person than my aunt Jessie. You ran away in one of your
fits of passion and left me to face the brunt of the storm. Didn’t I
get it, too? Oh, Aunt Jessie was in a rage! She spoke of you as if you
were a poor, half-murdered angel. I declare it was sickening to hear
her. And there is worse to follow. You know what we all think of Uncle
Peter and his scheme, and how anxious we are to get the best that he
can give us; and I want the Royal Cross that he has promised to the
most victorious.”
“Oh no, Augusta,” said Nancy, with a faint and quickly suppressed
smile; “you can’t mean that you are going in for that.”
“And why not, miss? I mean to go in for it.”
“Well, but the Royal Cross is for valour and noble conduct,
and—Augusta, you can’t mean it.”
“You are a nice child!” said Augusta, her eyes flashing with fury.
“How dare you speak to me like that, you poor little charity-girl,
kept here by Aunt Jessie—kept here out of kindness”——
“Oh, don’t! You dare not say that! It is not true.”
“Well, I won’t. But really, Nancy, you have the power of nearly
driving me mad; a more irritating creature I have never come across.
But now, what I want you to do is this. Aunt Jessie is angry, and she
is going to give me a bad mark to-night in the orderly-book; and if I
get it I am done for, for a bad mark for conduct will be talked about
and commented on, and my chances of the great prize will be
practically _nil_. Now, I want you, Nancy, to tell her that I was
not to blame this morning, or at least _scarcely_ to blame; that
you were very naughty and irritating, and it was no wonder I got
cross. You must do everything in your power to prevent her giving me a
bad mark. And remember another thing, Nancy; if she asks you what was
the matter, you are not to let out _anything_. Simply say:
‘Augusta is rather quick-tempered, and I worried her and talked
nonsense. I was to blame, and not Augusta, and she ought not to have a
bad mark.’ Do you promise? Surely you can do nothing else when you
have got me into this horrid scrape.”
Nancy thought hard for a minute.
“I do want to get that paper signed!” she said to herself. “It will
make things quite right when we get back to London, for Gussie cannot
go back from her own written promise; and then, too, I need tell no
lie to Mrs. Richmond.” So after a moment she said:
“Very well; I will do my best. Of course, I can’t promise to succeed,
but I will do my best.”
“That is all right,” said Augusta. “Here, give me that half-sheet of
paper.”
Nan did so.
Augusta wrote quickly, finishing with a dashing signature.
“There!” she said; “keep it carefully. Don’t, for goodness’ sake, let
any one see it. And now, run off as fast as you can and find Aunt
Jessie.”