Girls of the True Blue

by L. T. Meade

Nan put her treasured volume in Augusta’s hands. It was a beautifully bound copy of the works of Racine. Augusta tossed it back.

“Beyond words tiresome,” she said. “Who wants to read that stupid thing?”

“But I do; I mean to read every word of it. And, oh, it is so beautifully bound! And see—do see where they have put my name—‘Nancy Esterleigh, Prize I. for’”——

“Oh! don’t go on,” said Augusta.—“Show me your book, Kitty.”

“You need not be so ungracious,” said Kitty. “I do not think I will show you my book. Nancy has got a darling, lovely prize.—Have you not, Nancy pet?”

Kitty’s prize consisted of a vellum-bound copy of Macaulay’s History, and Nora had the works of Shakespeare in several small volumes. Augusta pronounced all the prizes not worth considering, and ensconcing herself in a low chair in the window, continued to devour a volume which she had secreted from the drawing-room. Nan was not the only one who had noticed this habit of Augusta’s. Miss Roy was also aware of it; but she had made up her mind to say nothing yet.

On the very day before the little party were to go to the country, Augusta received a letter from her mother. It was written from South America, and evidently caused the young recipient a good deal of consternation.

“My dear Augusta,” wrote her mother, “I have been wishing for some time to send you a really serious letter. I am leaving you at present in Aunt Jessie’s care, and I have no doubt that all has been done for your benefit. My dear, we left home in a great hurry, and a quick change had to be made in all our plans. You know, Augusta, that one or two things occurred at home before we left which displeased your father and me very much. I allude to a certain matter when you were not quite straight with us. If there is one thing more than another which your father and I would break our hearts over, it is that you, our precious only child, should be guilty of want of openness or want of regard for the truth. Now, my dear, I wish to say that we intend to put you on trial during your stay with Aunt Jessie. I have not breathed a word to her of that fault which, alas! most undoubtedly lies in your character—you are arrogant and selfish, and if it were to further your own interests you would not hesitate to tell a lie. It is terribly painful to me to have to write like this to you whom I so dearly love; there is a dreadful pain in my heart, and I could cry over it. But now, Augusta, your father and I have made up our minds. If during your stay with Aunt Jessie you are discovered to have swerved in the very least from the path of truth and honour, we will not send you to school in Paris, which it is our present intention to do on our return to England; on the contrary, we will keep you at home with a very strict governess. My dear, I am obliged to say this, and you must take what comfort you can out of this letter. It remains with you whether you go to Paris or not; all, all depends on your conduct while we are away from you. Pray to God to help you, my dear girl. I write in great sorrow of mind.—Your affectionate mother.”

Augusta read this letter over twice; then she took it to her room and put it away in a little drawer, which she locked. That night as she lay down to, rest she thought a good deal over what her mother had said. She was quite determined, at any cost, to go to Paris. If her conduct with regard to Nan were ever known she would lose her chance of this delightful plan being carried out. Far from going to Paris, she would be immured at home with a dull, old-fashioned, and tiresome governess to look after her. Augusta knew by past experience what such a life would mean. She had more than once already tried the patience and half-broken the hearts of different governesses who had been engaged to instruct her. She was fully resolved to have nothing more to do with so dull an existence. At any cost, therefore, Nan must be silenced. For if Nan brought herself to confess what lay so heavily on her conscience, Augusta must be implicated; therefore Nan must keep silence.

“What a tiresome little girl she is! I have met no one like her. How swiftly she fell! and ever since she has been in a wretched state of mind—making my life quite a misery. Well, I have her pretty much in my power. I will cosset her up a little when I get to the country, and make a fuss over her. With all her faults, she is affectionate, and if I coax and flatter her a bit she will come over to my way of thinking. But I do wish one thing, and it is this—— Why did that tiresome Uncle Peter propose that extraordinary plan of his? I am sure I don’t want to be a soldier. Tiresome, stupid man! But I have promised, and I must go on with it. To be degraded from the ranks now would be as good as a failure; to have bad marks in the orderly-book would stamp me for ever in mother’s eyes. Captain Richmond’s plan is just what would delight the mother; and father too would be pleased. Of course, when they both come back they will hear all about it. Yes, I see what must be done: Nan must be encouraged and petted and fussed over, and I must take my laurels modestly; and then, when the good parents come back from America, hurrah for Paris and a good time!”