“There is a charge against Nancy which, made against any child, would condemn her—condemn her so utterly that one could not think of her as a winner of that great prize which means nobleness of conduct, valour, and all the rest. Augusta, you will all know soon, but it does not matter my telling you an hour or so before the others. Nancy Esterleigh is charged with cruelty. Can you, Gussie, help me to throw light upon, in her case, such an unnatural accusation?”
There was a wild beating in Augusta’s ears; her head ached so terribly that she was almost giddy, and a cold chill ran down her back. She turned aside and plucked a geranium blossom from a great flowering bush near by.
“Can you?” said the Captain again.
“No. How is it possible? The accusation has astonished me.”
“There is also that curious thing which happened with regard to her bird. Can you throw any light upon that?”
“No—no; a thousand times no. What do you take me for? Do you think I would let little Nancy suffer if I could help her?”
“Of course not,” said the Captain coldly. “I think the dance has come to an end. May I take you back to the ballroom?”
For the rest of that evening Augusta was not still for a single moment. When she was not dancing she was walking about. Her laugh could be heard gay, almost shrill. Her cheeks wore pink with the flush of fever, which those who saw her mistook for health. She was far and away the most successful girl at the dance. Even Nancy, beautiful little girl as she was, and lovely as she looked in the new frock, was not to be compared with her.
But all good things, as well as bad things, come to an end, and by-and-by the ball was over. The party broke up; the young folk put on their wraps, said good-bye to their hosts, and left Fairleigh. The last sound of the last carriage-wheel died away. The four girls, Miss Roy, and Captain Richmond faced each other. It was on the stroke of midnight.
“How tired you all look!” said Miss Roy. “Shall we defer the further ceremony until to-morrow?”