Chapter 34 Girls of the True Blue by L. T. Meade
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”——
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.”