Chapter 35 Girls of the True Blue by L. T. Meade
THE WAY OF TRANSGRESSORS IS HARD
It is a trite saying, illustrated over and over again in many lives, that the way of transgressors is hard; and when Augusta lay on her sickbed, stricken down by the fell disease, she was paying a bitter price for her days of selfishness, hypocrisy, cunning, and cruelty.
When God struck so hard it was impossible for man to say anything. No one could have nursed the poor girl more devotedly than did Miss Roy. Professional nurses were of course sent for; and Nora and Kitty were sent immediately to the house of a cousin who promised to receive them and take every care of them. The doctor said, when he learnt all particulars, that it would not be safe to send Nancy away. She was not allowed to go near Augusta, but she still remained at Fairleigh.
Nan and Captain Richmond had a little talk together. Nan came away after that talk and crept into a corner by herself, and cried and cried for a long time; then she came back to the Captain, put her arms round his neck, and kissed him.
“I don’t mind anything now, for you understand, and God understands. And please—please forgive poor Gussie; she could not have known what she was doing.”
But the Captain would make no promises about Augusta.
“We will leave her out for the present,” he said. “You and I are happy together; we understand each other, and that which rested like a nightmare on your poor little soul is lifted. The weather is fine; we will spend all our time in the open air, and I will tell you some more things about what soldiers do.”
So in those dark days the Captain and Nancy became better friends than ever.
At last there came the hour when the crisis had passed for Augusta. The danger was over—she would get well. Then both the Captain and Miss Roy looked with fear at Nan; would she sicken, or would she escape the danger? Ten days passed; then slowly—very slowly—the fortnight of probation came to an end, and Nancy was still well, still smiling, still happy.
“I do believe she will escape,” said the Captain. “It seems almost too good to be true.”
Wonderful as it is to relate, Nancy did not become ill. And when this point was clearly ascertained, she was taken to join Nora and Kitty at their cousin’s house.
There the children had a gay time together while Augusta slowly came back to convalescence. Very slow indeed was her recovery, for she had taken the complaint badly, and for some time the fresh, fair beauty of her face was marred. “But not for ever,” said Dr Earle. “By-and-by she will recover her looks; but she has had a narrow escape both of her life and of her eyesight.”
When Augusta was comparatively well again, on an evening in late October, Mrs. Richmond arrived at her home.
Augusta was seated by herself in the drawing-room. She sat with her back to the light. Her eyes were weak, and she did not like people to see more of her poor disfigured face than was absolutely necessary. But when Mrs. Richmond came in, and the girl noticed the kindly face, so like her own mother’s, she uttered a strangled cry, and running forward, flung her arms round her neck.
“Oh, Aunt Jessie, it is good to see you. Oh, now I believe I shall have a chance of being happy again.”
“Yes, my darling, I am glad to have got back. Oh, what I have suffered on your account!”
“But don’t you know the truth? Hasn’t Uncle Pete told you?”
“He came down with me from London, Augusta. And—yes—he has told me everything.”
“Then you can never really love me again.” Mrs. Richmond did not reply for a moment; then she said slowly:
“When you lay in great pain and delirium, when you were nigh to death, and missed your own mother, and felt, as you must have felt for a short time at least, that God Himself was hiding His face from you, then was your punishment, Augusta dear. If you have received it in due submission and repentance, who am I that I should not love you?”
“And does Nan—does Nan forgive me?”
“She is in the other room. You are quite free from infection; she will speak to you in a moment. But, Gussie, before you meet I have one little thing to tell you: Nan will never go to the Asprays. She will be my child always, for I owe to Nancy just as great a debt as Mr. Aspray owed her father. It is an old story, dear, and I will not tell it to Nancy yet for she is too young; but I think it right that you should hear it. Long, long ago, before you were born, and before your mother was married, Nancy’s mother and I were friends. But a great trouble arrived, for we both—each unknown to the other—loved the same man. He cared more for Nancy’s mother than he did for me; and Nancy’s mother loved him with all her heart and soul and strength. I didn’t know it at the time, although the knowledge came to me afterwards. She refused him for my sake. She loved him, and allowed him to think she cared nothing at all for him; and she did it altogether for me.
“I married him: he was my husband. He was very good to me. I never learnt the truth from him. He died, and after his death, somehow, I learnt the truth. My dear friend married in time another man. The marriage was not happy, and they were terribly poor. He died too, and little Nancy was left unprovided for. So I told her mother on her deathbed that Nancy would always be my tender care, my most cherished darling. Now, Augusta, you know for yourself that she has a right to my home and my love and my money. She is no charity-child, but a child any mother would be proud of.”
“There never was any one like her,” said Augusta slowly. “There was a time when I was mad with jealousy of her; but I know at last what she really is. But, oh, Aunt Jessie! I am tired, and I want to be forgiven right out. I have told Uncle Peter everything—every single thing from the first. And now let me see Nancy, that she also may forgive me.”
THE END.