“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.”