THE LETTER.
The confusion and consternation which followed poor Augusta’s utter
collapse can be better imagined than described. The sick girl was
tenderly lifted from the ground in Captain Richmond’s strong arms. She
was conveyed to a sofa, and the usual restoratives were administered;
and when she opened her eyes and cried wildly, “Oh, my head!—oh, my
back!” Miss Roy motioned to the other children to leave the
room. Nancy was about to follow the example of the two little Richmond
girls, when Augusta’s feverish eyes rested on her face.
“Don’t go. I can’t part from you—I can’t—I won’t.—Let Nancy stay,
please—please, Miss Roy.”
“Stay for the present, dear,” said Miss Roy, nodding towards Nancy.
“Oh! let her hold my hand; let her kneel by me; no one else comforts
me,” almost screamed the excited girl.
“You must control yourself, Augusta,” said the Captain, speaking now
in an almost stern voice. “We must get you to your room. If you are
too weak to walk I will carry you.”
“No; I can walk,” said Augusta. “I will lean on you if I may. My head
feels as if it would burst. Oh, is she dead? Nan—Nan, tell me the
truth. Constance can’t—no, she can’t be dead.”
“We don’t know who is dead, dear,” said Miss Roy. “We must only hope
that it is not your poor young friend. Now, don’t talk any more; just
let us get you to your room.”
It was with some difficulty that Augusta, who was half-delirious with
illness, pain, and terror, could be got to her own apartment. At last,
however, Miss Roy and the Captain succeeded in doing so. She was got
into bed, and, late as it was, Captain Richmond went for the doctor.
Dr Earle happened to be in, and returned at once with Captain Richmond
to Fairleigh.
He saw Augusta, took her temperature, examined her very carefully,
looked into her eyes, felt her pulse, and then called Miss Roy aside.
“She is very ill, poor girl!” said the doctor.
“Her temperature is high, her pulse rapid, and she is undoubtedly very
feverish. If it were not—— But no, that is impossible.”
“What do you mean?” said Miss Roy, in great alarm.
“Oh, nothing. I am sorry I alarmed you. Miss Duncan has not been near
any infection, has she?”
“No; certainly not.”
“We have a few cases of smallpox; but, of course, if she has not been
in the village she is safe. I am not attending poor Miss Aspray; Dr
Reynolds is her physician. She was frightfully ill this afternoon; and
the other sister, Flora, they say, is sickening. Miss Duncan has not
been near them, has she?”
“No; of that I am positive,” replied Miss Roy. “Mrs. Richmond did not
wish the children to make any fresh friends during her absence, and
Augusta has had nothing to do with those young people for several
weeks.”
“Oh! then, of course, it is not that—although some of the symptoms
point to it.”
“Dr Earle, you quite terrify me.”
“You need not be frightened; of that I am certain. But don’t let the
little girl, Miss Nancy, stay too much in the room; it is never wise
in these feverish cases. I will call in early in the morning. I trust
by then the fever will have abated.”
The doctor went away. When Miss Roy returned to the sickroom Augusta
was lying half across the bed, her arms flung round Nancy’s neck, who
was kneeling by her side. As Miss Roy came in she heard Augusta say:
“Take the cross off my neck, Nancy, and put it on yours. I shall die
if I wear it any longer. It is so heavy—so heavy—like lead—it goes
through me; it burns through my flesh. Wear it—wear it, to please
me—to please me.”
Nancy began to take the cross off with trembling fingers.
“Let me fasten it round your neck, Nan; then I shall feel better. Oh!
it is some sort of—some sort of”——
[Illustration: “Let me fasten it round your neck, Nan, then I shall
feel better.”]
The words gradually trailed away into silence. The miserable girl had
fallen into a broken slumber.
“Get up at once, Nancy,” said Miss Roy; “and take that off—do, my
dear. And—and go away to bed.”
Nancy rose to her feet looking pale and scared. The dark blue cross
with its silver mountings shone up against her white neck. Miss Roy
herself removed it, and laid it on the table.
“Good-night, darling,” she said to the little girl.
“Mayn’t I stay?” asked Nancy.
“No; and you are not to come back until I give you leave. Now run
away; you are looking tired.”
“It is not being just tired,” said Nan slowly; “it is—the
other—it—_it kills me_.”
“I am very sorry for you, and I don’t understand it,” said Miss Roy.
“Perhaps, if you are good and patient, God will give us an explanation
some day. Now we are all in trouble about Augusta, and must try to
forget ourselves. Goodnight, dear; go to bed.”
“I will,” said Nancy.
She walked feebly out of the room. When she reached the door she
turned and looked again at Augusta; but Augusta’s head was buried in
the bedclothes. Nancy gave another sigh, and shut the door.
All during the night that followed, Miss Roy did not leave the sick
girl. Captain Richmond waited in the anteroom to give what aid he
could.
Towards morning Augusta dropped into a more refreshing sleep; but she
presently awakened, screaming out that Connie was dead, and that she
could not bear it. Miss Roy did all she could to soothe her, and
presently called Captain Richmond to the door of the sickroom.
“The day has come,” she said. “That poor child is in a frenzy of grief
and terror about Constance Aspray. How could one guess she loved the
girl so much?—for they had seldom or never been together. I wish we
could find out if the passing-bell was tolling for her. To know that
she is still alive would give poor Augusta more rest than anything
else.”
“It is nearly seven o’clock,” said the Captain. “I will stroll down
towards the village. Doubtless, if it is true, some of the poor people
will know.”
He left the house at once. The morning was beautiful. The dew still
lay on grass and shrub and flower. The world outside seemed so pure
and restful after the miserable and restless night through which he
had just lived. But the heart of the young soldier was full of
strange, inexplicable fear. He had a dread of something which was
close at hand—something intangible. He thought of Nancy’s face of
agony the night before; the ring in her voice when she said that the
charge against her was a lie—a black lie. The words were the words of
injured innocence. It was, in truth, impossible to associate so gentle
a child with so strange a crime.
“Who can have done it?” thought the Captain. “Poor little Nancy! I am
certain—positive—that she is innocent.”
He had now reached the village. He walked down the street, and at the
farther end encountered a somewhat belated milkman hurrying by on his
rounds. Captain Richmond called out to him:
“Can you tell me for whom the bell was tolling last night?”
“Oh sir, for that poor girl of Mrs. Sherlock. She’s been given over in
consumption for many a day. She died just at midnight, and the ringers
went at once to toll for her. She had a fancy for the passing-bell,
and begged that it should be tolled the minute the breath was out of
her body, poor soul! Yes, sir; God help her, she is out of her misery
now.”
Captain Richmond said one or two suitable words, and, with a great
sense of relief, continued his walk. There was no use in returning at
once to the house, so he struck a path which brought him down to the
seashore. The tide was at the full. He walked along by the edge of the
shingle. Suddenly he heard his name called, and looking up, saw a lady
who appeared to be a total stranger.
“You are Captain Richmond, and you live at Fairleigh?” she said. “I
feel certain I am right from the description I have received of you.”
“My name is Richmond,” he answered, removing his hat, “and I am
staying at Fairleigh for the present.”
“Now, that is extremely lucky, and will prevent my having to write to
the house, which might not have been advisable under the
circumstances. Don’t come any nearer, please. You are quite safe with
six feet of pure air between us. I am Mrs. Aspray.”
“Oh, indeed!” said the Captain. “Of course, I have heard of you, Mrs.
Aspray. We have all been so terribly troubled about your great
anxiety. May I ask you how your daughter is?”
“My daughter Constance has passed the crisis. She was at death’s door
all yesterday, but about midnight she fell into a refreshing sleep. I
have left her sleeping now. I have gone through a time enough to
madden any one, but the doctor is with her at the present moment and
says that the danger is practically over. I felt I must get a breath
of fresh air before any one else was stirring. You see, I have been
with her day and night. Oh, it has been a fearful case—fearful! And
now poor Flo is down—took ill yesterday morning; the disease declared
itself last night. Poor Flo gave me a message, which I was to convey
somehow, in some fashion, to Fairleigh. Providence has brought you
here, Captain Richmond.”
“I will take the message,” said the Captain. “Who is it to?”
“To you—to the governess—to whoever has charge of the young people.
I understand Mrs. Richmond is away. There is a young girl in your house
of the name of Augusta Duncan, isn’t there?”
“Yes.”
“She has been a good deal with my girls. She was invited to a dance,
which was to have taken place on the very day that Constance took ill.
Without my knowing it, she arrived at our house late that evening.
Contrary to my orders, she was admitted and saw Flora. Flora only
confessed to it last night. Of course, Miss Duncan ran risk of
infection, but it may not be too late—I mean, that you may have time
to remove the other girls. At any rate, it is only right that you
should know.”
Captain Richmond’s face turned very white.
“I am afraid I have given you a shock,” said Mrs. Aspray; “but
perhaps—God knows how I feel this thing!—_perhaps_ I am in
time.”
“Alas! no,” he replied. “Augusta is very ill indeed, and another of
the children has been much with her. Another child who”—— He broke
off, and his lips trembled. “From what Dr Earle said last night, there
is small or, indeed, no doubt what Augusta is sickening for. But thank
you for telling me; anything is better than suspense, and I will do
what I can.”
He turned without another word and went back to Fairleigh.
Mrs. Aspray looked after his retreating figure.
“Poor fellow!” she said to herself. “My news seemed to stun him. What
an awful pity that Flo kept this thing to herself! I am afraid that
Augusta cannot be a very nice girl. I did feel annoyed when those
young people were not inclined to follow up our advances, but I would
not have one of them in the house under the rose, as it were, on any
condition whatever. Flo certainly behaved very badly.”
The anxious and burdened woman went slowly back to the infected house,
and Captain Richmond returned to Fairleigh. On his way home he met the
postman. Among the letters was one which bore the Capetown postmark.
It was addressed to himself. He looked up at the windows of the house
where the children, tired out by the excitement of the past day, still
slept.
“I may as well read what Aunt Jessie has to say out here,” he murmured
to himself.
He sat down on a garden bench and opened the letter, which ran as
follows:
“My Dear Peter,—You will want to know all my news, which I am
telling Nora and Kitty in the enclosure which goes with this.
In the meantime I have something else to tell you. It is
extraordinary what tricks memory plays one. During the voyage
we had rather a bad storm; we tossed about a good bit, and
some of the passengers were considerably frightened. I was not
among the number; but as I lay awake I kept recalling
different incidents in the happy home-life. My friend was in
the berth above mine, and she kept moaning all the time, and
talking to herself of her terrible loss. Although I pitied
her, my thoughts would keep going back and back to the life at
Fairleigh; and, do you know, a sudden quite dreadful memory
came to me. You know, of course, the orderly-book. Well, my
dear Peter, I am strongly under the impression that in the
great hurry of leaving home I turned over two pages when I
ought to have turned over one. If that is the case I have put
certain marks into Nancy’s entry which ought to have stood
against Augusta’s. I feel so uncomfortable about this that I
wish you would ascertain for yourself. I don’t know whether
you have yet bestowed the great prize, but I rather gather
that it is to be awarded in a short time. Well, it so happened
that on the very day I was obliged to hurry off to my poor
friend I came across Augusta treating Nancy in a very
high-handed and cruel manner. I was greatly distressed, and
entered into the thing as fully as I could. It is not
necessary, and I have no time now, to give you all the
circumstances. But the fact is, I had no choice left but to
give Augusta that evening a mark for cruelty. Now, it would be
too horrible if that mark, through my carelessness, was
entered against Nancy. If you have not awarded the prizes, you
will look into this matter and put it straight; if you have——
But I won’t think of that.
“Long before this reaches you we shall be on our way to Mrs.
Rashleigh’s daughter. I shall not make a long stay. I will
just remain a night or two, and hurry home by the first boat.
With much love to everybody.—Your affectionate sister,
“Jessie Richmond.”