Chapter 16 Girls of the True Blue by L. T. Meade
TIGHTENING HER CHAIN
In about a week’s time Captain Richmond went away. By then the brigade of the Royal True Blue was in full working order: the rules had been carefully drawn up, the orderly-book was given to Miss Roy, the drill-sergeant had arrived, and the soldiers were enjoying the life. The vigorous eyes of the Captain kept everything in order; he promised to come once a month to see his soldiers, and left them, having won every heart in his little brigade. It was now towards the end of June, and in a month’s time the entire party would go into the country. This was the last month of school, and the girls were busy. Nan was working with tremendous diligence for a prize; she did not much care about it before she became a soldier, but now she was keen in order to ensure the marks which Miss Roy would give her if she were successful.
“Suppose you do win the prize,” said Augusta, “what will it mean to you? Nothing whatever but a stupid book. For my part, I think the prize-books at school are all too dull for anything—a dreadful old Macaulay’s History of England, or Tennyson’s Poems, or something of that sort. I do not see why the girl who wins the prize should not be consulted.”
“But we do not win it just for the sake of the book,” said Nan, colouring and trembling a little.
“Well, I do. I am not going in for a prize this term, of course; I cannot.—Miss Roy, I am sure our captain would not like Nan to read so hard as to make her eyes ache. Do you know what I found her doing last night?”
“Oh! please—please do not tell; it is not right,” said Nan.
“I will, for I must. We are supposed not to read after we get to bed, but there was Nan reading away by the light of a night-light. She had borrowed it from nurse, I believe. She was half-sitting up in bed devouring her book, and the night-light was on a little table near. I found her.—I did, you know, Nan; and I said I would tell.”
“It was not at all right, Nan,” said Miss Roy; “and it must not happen again.”
“But I wanted to work up my lesson; I was not at all sure of my French,” replied Nan. “And the prize will be given in ten days now. There is so little time!”
“You must remember,” said Miss Roy, “that in the orderly-book, even though you do get high marks for intellect, your merit marks will go down if this sort of thing occurs again. Nan, it was a distinct act of disobedience.—But at the same time, Augusta, I would rather you did not tell tales.”
Augusta flushed with indignation.
“I thought you would like to keep the house from being burnt down,” she said. “Of course, in future Nan can do as she pleases.”
Miss Roy said nothing more, and Augusta left the room.
“What is the matter, Nan?” said her governess suddenly. “I often wonder, my dear, why you look so sad and troubled.”
“You would if you were me,” said Nan then.
“Why? Is it because your mother has died, my poor little girl? I have great sympathy for you.”
“No; it is not only that,” said Nan, making a great effort to be honest. “It is because I have a load at my heart, and I cannot ever tell you; and if all was known I ought not to be a soldier of the Royal True Blue at all—I ought not—but I cannot draw back now.”
“The past is past,” said Miss Roy. “Go straight forward in the future; try and believe that the future is yours, that you can be a very brave and a very good girl.”
“But is the past past?” asked Nan.
“There may come a day when you will be able to tell me all about it; go straight forward now into the future. And, Nancy, my dear, nothing has been said, but I cannot help using my eyes. Do not be afraid of Augusta; give her back in her own coin. Show her that you are not in the slightest degree under her control.”
“Oh, but I am!” thought poor Nancy. “And I can never tell—less now than ever—for to lose that splendid chance of winning the Royal Cross, and to be deprived of my blue ribbon, would break my heart.”
“Nancy,” said Augusta, a few evenings after this, as the two girls were alone in the schoolroom.
Nan was toiling steadily through the books which she had to prepare for her examination; she raised her eyes when Augusta spoke, and a slight frown came between her brows.
“Now, stop that,” said Augusta, petulance in her tone.
“Stop what?” asked Nancy.
“Frowning when I speak to you.”
“Oh, I will—I will! What is it? I wish I did not feel so cross.”
“You are not much of a soldier if you give way to your passions every moment. But now, to the point. I want you to read aloud to me while I am making a copy of this stupid old cast. It is too dull for anything, and I want to finish the story-book which I took from the drawing-room.”
“But I have to go on with my lessons. Don’t you see that I am awfully busy?”
In reply to this Augusta got up and put the book in question into Nan’s hand.
“Read,” she said. “I will let you off in half-an-hour; in half-an-hour I shall have done as much as I can of this horrible drawing. I do positively hate drawing. Now then, start away. If you do not read, there is something I can tell you which you will not at all like to hear.”
“You are always frightening me. I do not see why I should be under your control,” said Nan.
“Get out of it, then, my dear, your own way. Remember what will happen if you do.”
“What?”
“I shall be obliged to tell all that occurred in the attic when the white rat died.”
“All? But you won’t leave out your own part, Augusta?”
“Yes, but I shall. I shall tell that you implored and begged of me to keep it a secret, and that I listened to you. You know what this means, Nan. Your blue ribbon is given back; you are a soldier without his sword, disgraced for life. Now then, do not fret; I am not going to be too hard, but I must be read to, for I am suffering from irritation of the nerves, and nothing soothes me like a real jolly story-book.”
“If I must, I must,” said Nan. She opened the book languidly. “Where is the place?” she asked.
“Page 204. Read from the top, and go straight on until I tell you to stop.”
Nan began. She could read well when she liked, but now her voice was little more than a gabble, for she was thoroughly annoyed and also decidedly cross.
“That will not do at all,” said Augusta. “Read as if you enjoyed it. Is it not a splendid scene? Does not Rudolf speak up to Bertha? Now then, go on. I am sure he will propose to her in the end; I am certain of it.”
Nan read to the bottom of the next page; then she put down the book.
“Where did you get this book from?” she asked.
“What does it matter to you, Nancy? Go on reading—do. Oh, I am just dying to hear what will happen! I adore Rudolf; don’t you?”
“No; I do not like him at all. I don’t like the book. I don’t think Uncle Peter—I mean Mrs. Richmond—would want me to read this book; it is not a nice book.”
“And what do you know about books, whether they are nice or nasty?”
“I don’t like this book. I am sure Mrs. Richmond would not like you to read it. May I go down and ask her?”
For answer to this Augusta rose and snatched the book from Nan’s hand.
“You troublesome little thing!” she said. “You really rouse me to be provoked with you. There! go back to your stupid lessons; but remember, you shall pay for this.”
“I wonder how,” thought Nan. “Oh dear! oh dear!”
She sighed deeply.
“Really, Nancy, your sighs and groans are past bearing. What is the matter with you?”
“You make me very unhappy.”
“I make the house too hot for you; is not that it?”
“No, Augusta, that is not it. I have a right to be here; Mrs. Richmond says so.”
Augusta gave a taunting laugh.
“A right to be here!” she said. “A pretty right; but still, if you like to think so, I am not going to interfere. If you are unhappy in the house with Aunt Jessie and Kitty and Nora you can say so; you have the remedy in your own hands.”
“I! How? What do you mean?”
“You can go to the Asprays, of course.”
“But who are the Asprays?”
“You little goose! don’t you know?”
“No. Please, do tell me.”
“Well, I will, for it is only fair that you should know. Have you never heard that there are other people who would take care of you, and pet you, and adopt you, and bring you up as one of the family besides my poor, darling aunt Jessie?”
“Yes, I have heard of it. Mr. Pryor spoke of some people, but he said they did not live in England.”
“But they do; they live close here. Their name is Aspray. They are Virginians, and have just settled in London. They live within a stone’s-throw of here.”
“And are you certain I could go to them?”
“Certain? Of course I am certain. You can really go any day, but you have a right to go when a few months are up—six or eight months, or something like that. You have a right to go and stay with them, and to make your own choice as to whether you will be Mrs. Richmond’s child or Mr. Aspray’s child in the future; it rests with you altogether.”
Into Nan’s cheeks now there had come a very brilliant colour, and her eyes were large and bright. She stood still, thinking deeply. After a time she got up and left the room; she left her lesson-books behind her. She entered her bedroom and shut the door. In this tiny room Nan often battled out her troubles, and struggled hard to know what was right to be done. She felt much puzzled on this occasion. As to Augusta’s sharp words and tones of authority, she was accustomed to them by this time; she saw there was no chance of her ever getting away from her influence.
“And she is ruining me,” thought the child. “I did hope a fortnight ago that I should do better, that I should be a worthy soldier. But I must write to Uncle Peter; I cannot do right with Augusta always near. What is to be done? What is to be done? Oh, it would kill me to leave the Richmonds now! But what does this mean about the Asprays? I know what I’ll do; I’ll go down and see Mrs. Richmond, and ask her straight out to tell me the truth.”
No sooner had this resolve come to Nan than she ran downstairs.
It was Mrs. Richmond’s at-home day; callers had stayed until late, but they had all gone now. She was preparing to go upstairs to dress for dinner when Nan appeared.
“Ah, Nancy!” said the good woman. “Do you want me, darling?”
“Please, Mrs. Richmond, may I say something?” asked Nan.
“Of course you may, dear.”
Mrs. Richmond sat down and drew Nan towards her.
“Well, Nancy,” she said, “you look well; you have grown, and have got more colour in your cheeks.”
Here she bent forward and kissed Nan on her forehead.
“Oh, I love you so much!” said Nancy; and she put up both her soft arms, and kissed Mrs. Richmond with passionate fervour on her cheeks.
“That is very pleasant to hear, my dear little girl; and I think we may all say with truth that we love you. Now, what is the trouble, dear?”
“Oh, there is a trouble!” said Nan; “and I must ask you a question.”
“You are going to tell me about the trouble?”
“I wish I could, but I cannot. I have only just heard something, and I want you to explain, please, oh, so very badly! Who are the Asprays, Mrs. Richmond?”
“The Asprays!” said Mrs. Richmond. “What Asprays?”
“The Asprays who have the right to adopt me.”
“No, darling—no. You are my little girl, adopted by me. They have no right over you unless you will it.”
“But who are they?”
“Rich people from Virginia.”
“And are they living near us?”
“I believe so; but I do not know them—I mean, we do not visit.”
“And I can go to them if I like?”
“That is true; but then, you would hardly like to go away to strangers—to strangers from those who love you.”
“No,” said Nan in a smothered sort of voice; “I should hate it—hate it.”
Here she squeezed up closer to Mrs. Richmond, who put her arm round the child’s waist and drew her up tightly to her side.
“Who has been talking to my little Nancy? Who has been troubling you in this matter?”
“Please, I would rather not tell.”
“I cannot force you to speak, my darling; but I want you to put the Asprays out of your head.”
“Perhaps I will after you have answered me a few questions.”
“What questions, Nancy?”
“How is it that I can go to them if I like?”
“They are friends of your father’s.”
“And you are?”
“I am a friend of your mother’s.”
“But are they related to my father?”
“No; but Mr. Aspray once made your father a promise that if you were really in difficulties or thrown on the world he would adopt you, because your father had lent him a very considerable sum of money when he was in great difficulties. He could not pay back the money during your father’s life-time, so he gave him a letter instead, which your mother left with me. That letter promises to adopt you, if necessary. That, I understand, is the story. Mr. Aspray made the promise, and if you ask him you could claim it and go to him as his adopted daughter; but from the little I have heard of the family I do not think they would suit you.”
“But still,” said Nan, puckering her brows and looking very anxious, “I should have a sort of right there, should I not?”
“Nancy, my dear, have you no right here?”
“No, no, Mrs. Richmond,” said Nancy—“no right at all, because there is no money, and you have just taken me out of kindness.”
“Now, Nancy, listen. I have not taken you out of kindness. I have taken you, it is true, because I am fond of you, and because I loved your mother, but I take you also to relieve my own mind. I should be quite unhappy if you were not with me.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I owe your mother a debt which, even with you in the house, I can never repay.”
“Won’t you tell me what it is?”
“I will when you are old enough—not now. You must take it on trust for the present. Now, dear, this sort of conversation is very bad; you are my happy little girl, a child of the house, petted and loved by us all. Cease to fret, my dear; rouse yourself to do your duty and to be happy. Kiss me, darling, now, and go upstairs. Forget about the Asprays. I should be sorry if you went to them.”
Mrs. Richmond patted Nan on her cheek, and rising, she dismissed her with a good-natured nod. Nan went slowly upstairs.
For the rest of the evening she was a very sad and silent little girl, and during the night which followed she dreamt of the Asprays. After all, in that house she might have a chance of doing right; and they ought to take her. If Mr. Aspray owed her father money, it was but fair that he should bring Nan up; and there would be no Augusta there to taunt her and keep her from doing right.
“Oh! even being a soldier in Captain Peter’s regiment does not make me do right,” thought the child. “I am always going to the side of the road. I shall never, never be the best girl. What is to become of me? What am I to do?”