E
arly the next morning Marjorie stirred in her white bed, Then she opened her eyes, raised her head from her comfortable pillow, and gazed around her.
Ermie was fast asleep. The sun was pouring into the room; the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to six.
Softly, very softly, Marjorie poked her pink toes from under the bedclothes. Then the whole of her feet appeared, then she stood upright on the floor. No one should help her over her toilet this morning; she would dress, and go out into the garden. The boys were at home; it was going to be a brilliant day. Marjorie's contented heart danced within her. She washed and dressed herself with expedition. It was not necessary to be particularly quiet, for nothing ever disturbed Ermengarde's slumbers.
Having dressed and plaited her thick hair as well as she could without aid, she knelt downby her bedside, clasped her hands over her plump face, and repeated her prayers. Once, long ago now, Mrs. Wilton had given the children, Marjorie among them, a little model prayer to repeat. One of the phrases in it was this: "Please make me a faithful servant of Jesus Christ."
Marjorie remembered quite well the first time she had used this prayer. She recalled the expression on her mother's face, and could have told anyone who asked her her mother's explanation of the word servant.
The other children had forgotten the model prayer, but Marjorie used it always. Every morning she asked God to make her a faithful servant. It was not at all difficult for this humble little girl really to pray. No one in the house guessed at Marjorie's prayer, or troubled their heads about her comforting, comfortable, unselfish ways. She was there, a plain child, useful enough, and obliging enough, but no one thanked her, or wondered if they should miss her if she were not in the house.
She was leaving the room this morning, when Ermengarde stirred and opened her eyes.
"Is that you, Maggie? oh, you're dressed. Don't go for a minute, I want to speak to you."
Marjorie closed the door which she had half opened, and went and stood by Ermengarde's bed.
"Well?" she said.
"I'm sleepy; it's frightfully early. If I talk to you, I'll get wide-awake. Can't you just wait in the room for a little?"
"I'm going into the garden, and I'll come back again, Ermie. Eric may be up, and he has promised to show me Shark. I don't believe he has got six rows of teeth."
"How you chatter, Maggie! Now I'm quite woke up. I'll have a headache most likely this afternoon. I generally do when my first sleep is disturbed."
"You have had a very long first sleep," said Marjorie. "It's half-past six o'clock."
"Is it? It's all the same to me what the time is; I'm woke up now, and it's your fault. You might be considerate, Maggie; you're the most thoughtless child. If you had sat quietly by my bedside I wouldn't be wide-awake now."
"Well, what can I do for you now that you are awake, Ermie?" asked Marjorie. "Please tell me quickly, for I can't keep Eric waiting."
"Oh, it will be all Eric with you from this out. I might have guessed that."
"No, it won't. It will be all everybody. Now, what am I to do for you?"
Ermengarde laughed.
"Maggie, don't put on that solemn face. Of course you are a good little thing. Now listen. Last night Basil and I made a plan."
"O Ermie! Weren't you in luck that Miss Nelson never found out about your wickedness yesterday?"
"My wickedness?"
Ermengarde colored brightly.
"Don't you remember, Ermie? Going in the carriage when Miss Nelson told you not. Of course you were dreadfully wicked, but I'm glad you were not found out. Now, what's the plan?"
"You're so rude and frank, Maggie. It's a horrid habit you have. I had forgotten all about that drive. And now you remind me and spoil my pleasure. You are a tactless creature!"
"Never mind about me. What's the plan?"
"It's this. Dear, I hope the day is fine!"
"Yes, Ermie, it's a lovely day."
"Well, Basil thinks—are you sure the sky is not cloudy, Mag?"
"No, perfect, not a flake anywhere; go on, Ermie."
"Jolly! Basil thinks we ought to have a whole holiday to-day—we girls, I mean. He says we might have a picnic, and go up the lake, and land and dine on Pearl Island."
"Lovely!" said Marjorie, clasping her hands. "Only Miss Nelson said——"
"That's just it, you always will think first of Miss Nelson."
"Ermie, you said I thought first of Eric a minute ago."
"That's another of your horrid habits, casting one's words up to one."
Marjorie clasped her hands in front of her, and closed her lips. Her round face looked stubborn.
"I'm sure Eric is in the garden," she said.
"I'll let you go in a minute, you impatient child. Of course Miss Nelson wants us to have lessons, but of course father is the person we must really obey. I know father is going to London to-day, and he will leave by the early train. And what I want you to do is this, Maggie; to wait about for father, and catch him, and get him to consent to give us a holiday to-day. If he says so, of course Miss Nelson has got to submit."
"All right," said Marjorie. "I don't mind a bit. Eric and I can watch for the carriage, and perhaps Macnab will let us drive round to the house. Then we'll do our best to get father to consent."
She did not wait to exchange any more words with her sister, but dashed out of the room.
At eight o'clock the schoolroom party assembled for breakfast. Miss Nelson had decided not to say anything to Ermengarde until the meal was over. Her salutation of the little girl was scarcely more cold than usual, and Ermie sat down to the breakfast-table without the least idea that her delinquency of the day before had been discovered.
Marjorie was the late one on this occasion. She rushed into the room with her hair un-plaited and her cheeks glowing.
"A holiday! a holiday!" she cried. "Father has asked you to give us a holiday, please, Miss Nelson, in honor of the boys. A lovely whole holiday! Father has gone to London, but he scribbled you a message on this card. Here it is! You'll say yes, won't you, Miss Nelson? and oh, it is such a lovely day!"
"Get your hair plaited properly, Marjorie, and come and sit down to breakfast," said her governess. She received Mr. Wilton's card without comment.
Ermengarde and Basil, however, exchanged delighted glances, and Basil, bending forward in that courteous way which always won the heart of the governess, said, "You will let us all have the holiday together, as my father wishes it?"
"You can go, of course, Basil," replied Miss Nelson.
She laid a stress on the word "you," but neither Basil nor Ermengarde noticed it. They began to chat together over the delights of the day which lay before them. The holiday spirit was caught up by the younger children, and soon an uproar and excitement of delight arose, which even Miss Nelson could not stem.
In the midst of the general hubbub, she touched Ermengarde on her shoulder.
"I want a word with you, my dear. Come with me."
In some astonishment Ermengarde rose to comply. The governess took her into her own little room.
"Shut the door," she said.
She sat down herself, and Ermengarde stood before her. Her face was pale, her voice shook.
"Ermengarde, will you now repeat your imposition poem."
"Casabianca," said Ermengarde. She had felt a vague sense of uneasiness at Miss Nelson's manner. Now her brow cleared. She recited the whole poem with scarcely a mistake, and with some show of feeling.
"You have said it well," said the governess. "It relates the extraordinary exploit of a noble-hearted child. I grieve to say there are fewsuch in the world. May I ask you when you learned this poem, Ermengarde?"
"Yesterday——" began Ermengarde.
"No, don't go on. I will save you, I must save you, poor child, from yourself. You would tell another lie. You would deceive again. Ermie, I have loved you. I—I—have suffered for you."
"I don't know what you mean," said Ermengarde, in a voice which shook with anger. "Am I to be—are dreadful things to be said of me? Why do you accuse me of telling lies? Why?"
"No more, my dear pupil. For, notwithstanding your refractory and rebellious state, you are still my dear pupil."
"You are not my dear teacher, there!"
"Hush, I cannot permit impertinence! Ermengarde, I did not look for open and direct disobedience from you. You are full of faults, but I did not think deceit was one of them. I have found out about your drive yesterday."
"Oh!" said Ermie. Her face grew very pale. "Did—did Marjorie tell you? If I thought that——"
"No matter who told me. Don't blame your sister. She's worth twenty of you. Think of your own sin. Ermengarde, you have hurt me deeply."
"I don't care," said Ermengarde. "I said I'd go, and I went. I don't care."
"Poor child! I can only be very sorry for you. I can only pray God to bring you to a different state of mind. You thought to hide your sin from me. God knew it all the time."
Ermengarde shuffled from one foot to another. There was not a trace of repentance about her face or manner.
"At one time I thought I must tell all to your father."
Ermengarde started at this.
"I resolved not to do so."
Her face grew relieved.
"But, Ermengarde," continued the governess, "it is my duty, my solemn duty, to punish you severely. The full extent of that punishment I have not yet determined on, but to-day you spend in this room, where your meals will be brought to you."
"Oh, no, no; not that," said Ermengarde suddenly. "Not to-day, not the holiday! Let my punishment begin to-morrow, please, Miss Nelson. Do say yes, Miss Nelson. It would be terrible not to have the holiday with Basil, and for Basil to know the reason. Do yield on this point, please, Miss Nelson, please, please, and I'll try to be a better girl in future, I will truly."
"No, Ermengarde; the punishment, being merited and severe, must begin on the day you feel it most. I am sorry for you, but I cannot, I dare not yield. God help you, poor child, to a sorrow which leads to repentance."
The governess left the room, locking the door behind her.
Ermengarde stood quite still for a moment, as if she was stunned. Then she rushed to the door and tried to open it.
Miss Nelson went back to the schoolroom.
"You can have your holiday, children," she said. "Ermengarde cannot come, nor am I at liberty to explain her absence. No, Basil; you must not ask me. You must be happy without your sister to-day, and trust that what is right is being done for her. Now, about the picnic. Maggie, come here, my love. You shall take a message to cook."
"You'll come too, won't you, Miss Nelson?" asked Marjorie.
"I must, my dear. I could not allow wild young creatures like you to embark on such an expedition without me."
"And may all the babies come, Miss Nelson?"
"Yes, if nurse can accompany them."
"It seems a pity about poor Ermie."
"Do not speak of her, Marjorie. You must trust your governess to do what is right."
Marjorie's round face looked full of concern. She had a way of putting her finger to her lip when she was harassed about anything. This trick gave her the appearance of a great overgrown baby.
"Go at once and see the cook, my dear," said the governess.
Marjorie turned and left the room. In the passage she met Basil.
"What is this about Ermie?" he said at once.
"I think I know," said Marjorie. "I think I can guess."
"You'll tell me, won't you, Maggie?"
"I don't think I can, Basil. Ermie is a little—little—headstrong, and Miss Nelson, sometimes Miss Nelson is severe to Ermie."
"I shan't like her if she is," said Basil. "I don't care a bit about the picnic without Ermengarde, and I do consider it provoking of Miss Nelson to keep Ermie at home on my very first holiday."
"Oh, but you know she must maintain discipline," said Marjorie, putting her finger to her lip again.
Basil burst out laughing.
"Don't use such solemn words, Mag," he said. "You are only a baby; words of wisdom don't suit you a bit."
"I'm eleven," said Marjorie, in a hurt voice.
She ran off to the kitchen, and delivered her message. The cook, who was fond of good-humored little Marjorie, consulted her about the viands. She replied solemnly, and tried to look interested, but the zest had gone out of her voice. The first moment she had to spare she rushed to her school-desk, and scribbled a note.
"Dear Ermie," she said, "I'm miserable that the wickedness is discovered. Don't be a bit frightened though, for Basil shan't guess anything. Your fond sister,Marjorie Wilton."
This note Marjorie inclosed in one of her favorite envelopes, with a forget-me-not wreath in blue on the flap, and before the schoolroom party started for the picnic, she pushed it under the door of Miss Nelson's sitting-room.
Ermengarde had expended her first rage, and she was very glad to pick up Marjorie's note, and to read it. At first the contents of the note gave her a slight feeling of satisfaction, and a glow of gratitude to her little sister rushed over her. But then she remembered Miss Nelson's words, and the conviction once more ran through her mind that Marjorie must have been the one to tell.
"She is a canting little thing," said Ermengarde in a passion, "Mywickedness, indeed! Who else would call an innocent drive wickedness?Oh, yes; she let out the whole story to Miss Nelson, and now she wants to come round me with this letter, after her horrid tell-tale way. Little monkey! Horrid, ugly little thing, too. Tell-tale-tit, your tongue shall be slit. No, no, Miss Marjorie; you need not suppose that this note blinds me! I know what you've done to me, and I'll never forgive you—never, as long as I live!"
Ermengarde now tore up the poor little letter, and opening the window scattered the tiny fragments to the breeze. Once again her anger scarcely knew any bounds. They were away, the whole happy party, and she was shut up in a dull room, compelled to endure solitary confinement all through this glorious August day. It was insufferable, it was maddening, and it was all Marjorie's fault!
It is astonishing how soon the mind, when angry, can establish within itself a fixed idea. Miss Nelson had said nothing to really draw suspicion on Marjorie, and yet Ermengarde was now thoroughly convinced that the little girl had been the one to tell of her misdemeanor. She did not trouble herself to examine proofs. All Marjorie's amiable and good-natured ways were as nothing to Ermengarde then. She had certainly told, and as long as she lived Ermie would never forgive her.
Just then, while her anger was at its height, she heard a low whistle under the open window. She rushed over to it, and popped out her head. Basil was standing underneath.
"Don't, Basil," said Ermengarde; "do go away, please. I hate you to find me here a prisoner."
"Oh, stuff, Ermie, don't be tragic over it. It's only for a day at the most, and what's a day?"
"What's a day? One of your holidays—the first of your holidays!"
"Well, there are lots more to follow. Bear it with a good grace. It will soon be over."
"Basil, I thought you had gone with the others."
"I wasn't ready, and Maggie has promised to send the boat back for me."
"Maggie! As if she could give orders."
"She can remind other people though. I'd back Maggie any day never to forget what a fellow wants."
"Oh, yes, she's first with everyone. It's a very nasty stifling hot day."
"Poor Ermie, you're cross, so you see everything distorted. You know whose pet you are, as well as possible—and the day is perfect, superb."
"Am I really your pet, Basil?"
"You conceited puss, you know you are. So is Maggie, too. She's a little darling."
The latter part of Basil's speech brought the cloud once again to Ermengarde's face.
"Oh, of course Maggie is everyone's pet," she said.
Her brother interrupted her. "Don't begin that nonsense over again, Ermie; it's too childish. You are under punishment, I don't know for what. Of course I'm awfully vexed. But why abuse poor little Mag? I say, though, do you like apples?"
"Apples? Pretty well."
"You mean awfully. I have brought you some beauties."
"How can I get them? I'm a prisoner here."
"Oh, rot about your being a prisoner. Well, fair lady, you see if your knight can't come to your assistance. Now, catch!"
He threw up a small piece of cord which he had weighted with lead. Ermengarde secured it.
"Pull, pull away! You will soon be in possession of the spoil."
Ermengarde pulled, and presently a dainty basket, which she recognized as Marjorie's most treasured receptacle for her working things, was grasped by her willing hands.
"Now, good-by, Ermie. I'm off. The boat will be back by now. Of course I shan'tbotanize without you to-day, never fear. By-by; eat your apples, and reflect on the shortness of a single day."
Basil bounded across the lawn, cleared the haha at the end, and disappeared from view.
His interview with Ermengarde had both a soothing and a tonic effect on her. She felt almost cheerful as she sat by the open window, and munched her apples. That basket contained more than apples. There was one large peach, and two slices of rich plumcake were stowed away under the fruit. Then, perhaps dearest possession of all, Marjorie's own special copy of "Alice in Wonderland" lay at the bottom of the basket.
After making a hearty meal of the fruit and cake, Ermengarde drew Miss Nelson's own easy-chair in front of the window, and taking up Marjorie's book began to read. She felt almost comfortable now; the punishment was not so unbearable when a brother sympathized and a sister lent of her best. The precious little copy of "Alice" had received a stain from the juice of the peach, and Ermengarde tried to wipe it out, and felt sorry for its owner.
After all Marjorie was good-natured, and if she had been base enough to tell, she had at least the grace to be sorry afterward. Ermengardethought she would ask Marjorie when she had told, how she had told, and where. She felt that she must believe her little sister, for no one had ever heard even the semblance of an untruth Marjorie's honest lips.
Ermengarde sat on, and tried to lose herself in Alice's adventures. She was not at all sorry for her disobedience of the day before, but she was no longer in a state of despair, for her punishment seemed finite, and but for the thought of the wild happiness of the others, her present state was scarcely unendurable.
Just then, raising her eyes, she saw a little girl walking down one of the side-paths which led round to the kitchens. She was a girl scarcely as tall as herself, neatly dressed in a pink cotton frock and white sun-bonnet. Her legs were encased in nice black stockings, and her small dainty feet wore shining shoes with buckles. Ermengarde instantly dropped her book, leaned half out of the window, and called in a loud voice, "Susy—Susy—Susan Collins! come here!"
Little Susan raised an extremely pretty face, blushed, laughed, and ran gayly forward.
"Is that you, Miss Ermengarde?" she said. "I thought you were away with the others. Father has helped to take them up to Pearl Island, better than two hours ago now."
"Did they look happy, Susy? Tell me about them. Did you see them go?"
"Yes, miss, I was standing behind the rose-hedge. Miss Maggie, she did laugh wonderful, and Master Eric, he just dashed in to give us his ferrets to take care of for him, miss."
"And was Basil there, Susy?"
"No, miss, they went off without him. I heard father say he'd bring back the boat for Master Basil, and I thought for sure you'd be going with him, miss. I hope, Miss Ermengarde, you ain't ill."
"I'm not ill in body, Susan. But I've been most basely treated. I've been betrayed."
"Oh, my word!" said Susan Collins. She pushed back her sun-bonnet, and revealed her whole charming curly golden head. She was a beautiful little girl, and Ermengarde had long ago made a secret friend of her.
"I've been betrayed, Susy," continued Ermie. "But I can't tell you by whom. Onlysome onehas told tales about me, and so I have been punished, and have been locked up in this room. I'm locked up now; I can't get out. I'm a prisoner!"
Ermengarde felt her woes all the more keenly as she related them. Susy's blue eyes grew bright with pity.
"Ain't it cruel?" she said. "I call it base topunish a lady like you, Miss Ermengarde, and you one of the best of created mortals."
"It's Miss Nelson," said Ermengarde. "She's dreadfully prejudiced; I find it almost impossible to endure her."
"I never did think nothing of that governess," said Susan with vigor. "It ain't for me to say it, but she don't seem fit company for the like of you, Miss Ermengarde. If I was you, I'd pay her out, that I would."
"Oh, I have more than her to pay out," said Ermengarde. "I have been very unkindly treated."
"That you have, miss, I'm sure."
Susy's sympathy was very sweet to Ermengarde. She leaned farther out of the window, and looked down at the pretty little girl.
"I'm glad you were passing, Susy," she said.
"I'll stay for a bit, if you like, miss. I'm in no sort of a hurry."
"I wish you could come and sit with me, Susy; I can't shout to you from the window. People who are passing may hear us."
"That they may, miss. There never was a truer saying than that trees have ears."
Ermengarde looked round her apprehensively. She had been many times forbidden to have any intercourse with Susan Collins, whosefather, although he retained his post as gamekeeper, was regarded by Mr. Wilton as a somewhat shady character. Ermengarde fancied she liked Susy because of the little girl's remarkable beauty, but the real reason why her fancy was captivated was because Susy was an adroit flatterer.
When she spoke about trees having ears, Ermengarde glanced to right and left.
"Perhaps you had better go," she said. "I have got into one scrape. I don't want to get into a second."
"There's no one round yet, miss. The men are all at their dinners."
"Well, but some of the house-servants."
"There are none of them in sight, Miss Ermengarde. Do you think I'd get you into trouble on my account? Oh, dear, I wish I could come up and sit with you for a little."
"I wish you could, Susy."
"Well, miss, it's easy done, if you'll only say the word."
"What do you mean? This door is locked. Hudson has to bring me my meals, and no one in all the world can bribe Hudson to open the door."
"I don't want her to, miss. Oh, Miss Ermengarde, you are treated 'ard."
"Yes, Susy, I am treated very hard. Well, as you can't come and keep me company, you had better go away."
"But I can come to you, miss. A locked door won't keep me out. I'll hide my basket of eggs behind that laurel bush, and then I'll be with you in a jiffy."
"Can you really come? What fun! You are a clever girl, Susy."
"You wait and see, miss."
Susan Collins rushed off, adroitly hid her basket, and returning, climbed up an elm tree which happened to grow a few feet from the window, with the lightness and agility of a cat. When she reached a certain bough she lay along it, and propelled herself very gently forward in the direction of the window.
"Now stretch out your two hands, miss."
Ermengarde did so, and in a moment Susy was standing by her side in Miss Nelson's pretty little room.
"My word!" she exclaimed. "I never see'd such a lot of grand things before. Tell me, Miss Ermengarde, do all these fine books and pictures belong to the governess?"
"Oh, yes; those are pictures of Miss Nelson's friends."
"Dear me, what a queer-looking young ladythat is, that one in the white dress, and long legs, and the hair done old-fashioned like."
"That?" said Ermengarde. She went over and stood by the mantelpiece, and looked at a large, somewhat faded miniature which held a place of honor among a group of many other pictures and photographs.
"Ain't she a queer-looking child?" said Susy. "Why, she has a look of Miss Nelson herself. Do you know who she is, Miss Ermengarde?"
"No," said Ermengarde. "But I think there's a story about that picture. Marjorie knows. Marjorie has a way of poking and prying into everything. She's awfully inquisitive. I don't interest myself in matters in which I have no concern. Now come over and sit by the window, Susy. You must sit back, so that no one can see us from the grounds; and when Hudson brings my dinner, you must dart into that cupboard just behind us."
"Oh, yes, miss. Hudson won't catch me poaching on these preserves."
Susy was fond of using expressions which belonged to her father's profession. She was a very imaginative child; and one secret of her power over Ermengarde was her ability to tell long and wonderful stories. Horrible, most of these tales were—histories of poachers, which she had partly heard from her father, andpartly made up herself. Ermengarde used to hold her breath while she listened. Between these thrilling tales, Susan artfully flattered. It was not necessary to make her compliments too delicate. She could say the same thing every time they met. She could tell Ermengarde that never, since the world was created, was there to be found such another beautiful, clever, and noble little girl as Ermengarde Wilton. Ermie was never tired of hearing these praises.
She was very glad to listen to them now. By the time Susan Collins had been half an hour in the room, Ermie was once more certain that Marjorie had betrayed her, that Miss Nelson was the most tyrannical of mortals, and that she herself was the most ill-used of little girls.
At the end of half an hour Hudson unlocked the door, and brought in some dinner for Ermie. When the key was heard in the lock, Susan hid herself in a deep cupboard which stood behind a screen.
Hudson laid down the tray with Ermengarde's dinner, told her to eat plenty, and retired. As she left the room she said she would return for the tray in half an hour. She did not say any word of sympathy to Ermengarde. Hudson was always on the side ofdiscipline; she thought that the children of the present day sadly needed correction; and when one of the young Wiltons was punished, she generally owned to a sense of rejoicing. That did not, however, prevent her supplying the culprit with an excellent meal, and Ermengarde now raised the covers from a plump duck done to perfection, some green peas, and delicious floury new potatoes. A greengage tart, with a little jug of cream, also awaited the young lady's pleasure.
She called Susy out of her cupboard with a glad voice.
"Come, Susan," she said, "there's plenty for us both. As there are only plates and knives and forks for one, I'll eat first, of course, but you can wash the things up, and have a good meal after me. We must be quick about it though, for Hudson will be back in half an hour."
"Oh, yes, miss, that we will. I'm wonderful hungry, Miss Ermengarde, and your nice dinner do look enticing."
At the appointed time Hudson returned. She brought in a couple of peaches and a bunch of grapes for Ermengarde.
"Miss Ermengarde!" she said in consternation, "you don't mean to say you've eaten up all the duck! And the tart, too! Well, I do call thatgreedy. Where's the sorrow that worketh to repentance when there's such an appetite? You'll be ill, miss, and no wonder."
"But I didn't eat all the duck, really, Hudson—I didn't truly!"
"My dear, what's left of it? Only a little bit of the back. Why, this plump bird ought to have dined three people. Miss Ermengarde, you certainly will be very ill, and you deserve it. No, I won't leave these peaches and grapes—I'd be afraid. Good-afternoon, miss, I'll look in at tea-time. But don't you expect nothing but dry toast then."
Hudson took her tray down to the kitchen, where she remarked on Ermie's enormous appetite.
"A whole duck!" she said. "I didn't think any young lady could eat so much. And most times Miss Ermie picks at her food."
Upstairs, in Miss Nelson's pretty little sitting-room, Ermengarde was scolding Susy for eating so much duck. Susy was retorting with some passion that she had not had more than her share, and over this dispute the two friends came almost to a quarrel.
Susy, however, had no wish not to keep on the sunny side of Miss Ermengarde's affections, and after her momentary irritation had cooled down, she adroitly changed the subject. Oncemore she administered broad flatteries; and impressed upon Ermengarde the fact that she was a long-suffering and ill-used martyr.
"I wouldn't stand it," said Susy. "No, that I wouldn't. I ain't a lady like you, Miss Ermie, but I wouldn't stand what you do."
"What would you do, Susy? How would you help yourself?"
"What would I do? Well, I'd go to my pa', and I'd have a talk with him. I'd let him know that—obey that old horror of a governess?"
"You mustn't speak about her like that, really, Susy."
"Miss, I'm open; that's what I am. I says what I means, and when I see a poor dear put upon, and treated worse than a baby, and punished as if we were back in feudal ages, I say that the one who does it is a horror. You think the same, Miss Ermie, though you're too proud to say it."
"We don't express ourselves in that way in our class," said Ermengarde, with a slow distinguished sort of smile which always abashed Susy. "Yes, Miss Nelson is very suitable with the children, but I do think I am beyond her. I am old for my years, and no one can call fourteen young."
"It's a noble age, miss," said Susy, in a toneof rapture. "I'm only twelve, but I aspires to fourteen continual."
"Oh, you," said Ermengarde. "You're different; girls in your class don't come out. You are not presented, you have no future. It is quite a different matter with me. I shall be in society in a few years at latest. What I should like my father to do is——"
"To send you to a select seminary, miss—I know!"
"You don't know, Susan, A select seminary! the very word is vulgar. No; I should like my father to allow me to pursue my own education under the control of masters who are specialists in each branch."
"Miss, you talk very learned."
Susan suppressed a yawn, and going to the window looked out.
"I know what I'd do," she said. "I'd pay that fine lady governess of yours out. It would be tit for tat with me. Couldn't you do something as would put her in a fret, Miss Ermie?"
"I don't know what to do," said Ermengarde. "Miss Nelson is not easily fretted."
"Well, I'd find a way. Certainly I'd do something; see if I wouldn't."
"Hush!" said Ermengarde. "Listen! What is that?" She put her head out of the window.Susy prepared to follow her example, but Ermie pushed her back.
"I hear Basil's voice," she said. "They are coming back—yes, they are all returning. Susy, you had better get into the cupboard. Hide as fast as you can. Miss Nelson is certain to come up here, the very first thing. O Susy, do get into the cupboard at once! I shall be ruined if you are discovered up here."
Ermengarde's tone had risen to one of piteous entreaty. Susy, a little loath—for she could scarcely believe that her fun was so nearly over—was dragged and almost pushed into the cupboard. When she had got her captive, Ermengarde took the precaution to lock the cupboard door and put the key in her pocket.
"Oh, Miss, don't go away and leave me locked in," called the poor prisoner through the keyhole. "Don't you go a-forgetting of me, Miss Ermie, or I'll be found a moldified skeleton here, by and by." Susy's tone was tearful, and Ermie's piteous entreaties to her to hush were scarcely listened to. Footsteps were heard coming down the corridor.
"She's coming! I shall be betrayed. Do be quiet, Susy!" whispered Ermengarde in an agony.
At that moment the room door was unlocked, and Miss Nelson came in.
"I thought I heard you talking to some one, my dear," she said.
"I was only repeating some poetry over," said Ermengarde, raising her delicate brows.
She hated herself for telling this lie. She had yet to learn that one act of deceit must lead to another.
"I am glad you are improving your mind, Ermie," said the governess.
She went up to the little girl, took one of her cold hands, and kissed her.
"Well, my dear, we have all come back, and on your account. Basil pleaded very hard for you. He certainly is a dear fellow; I don't wonder you love him, my dear. He pleaded for you, Ermengarde, and I—my love, I have yielded to his request. I have come back to say that I forgive you, Ermie. You will try to obey me in future, my dear child, and this punishment, owing to Basil's intercession, may be considered at an end. We are all going to have tea in the hay-field, and you are to join us there. Run up to your room, dear, and put on your brown holland frock. I will wait for you here. Kiss me, Ermie, before you go."
Ermengarde went up to her governess. She went slowly, for she had the greatest possible difficulty in keeping her tears back. But for Susy's presence in the cupboard this suddenforgiveness and deliverance would have set her dancing for joy. As it was, her heart felt like lead, and she hated herself for her meanness.
"Kiss me, Ermie," said Miss Nelson. "There, my child. My dear, you need not look down-hearted any more. I was obliged to punish you, but I don't think you will willfully and deliberately disobey me again. Cheer up now, Ermengarde; the past is past. You must ask God to give you strength to do better in the future, my dear. And—one thing—I want you to believe in my love, Ermie; I don't show it much. It is one of my trials that I can't show all that I feel, but—your mother's child is beloved by me, Ermengarde."
"Oh, don't speak of mother," said Ermengarde, with a little sob. She rushed out of the room. When she came back her governess was standing by the window.
"I cannot make out what I did with the key of my cupboard," she said. "I thought I left it in the door."
"Perhaps you have it in your pocket," said Ermengarde.
"No, I have felt in my pocket. Well, we can't wait now. The children will be starving for their tea. I promised to show Basil some photographs which I have in the cupboard, but they must wait for another time. Come, Ermengarde."
P
unishment has many degrees, and the sense of humiliation which Ermengarde felt, when that morning she had been left prisoner in Miss Nelson's sitting-room, was nothing indeed to the agony which she endured when, supposed to be free and pardoned, she walked with her governess to the hay-field.
Every moment she expected to hear Susy's piercing yells following her. Susy was a child with little or no self-control. She hated dark rooms; her imagination was unhealthy, and fostered in her home life in the worst possible way. Ermengarde knew that she could hear Miss Nelson's conversation, and every moment she expected her voice to arise within the cupboard in protest.
When no sound came, however, a dreadful idea took possession of poor Ermie's brain. The cupboard was not large; suppose Susy had been suffocated. This terror became so insupportable that several times the miserable child wason the point of confessing all. What kept her back from doing this was the thought of Basil. While the ghost of a chance remained she must avert the possibility of Basil looking down on her. For Basil to despise her would have been the bitterest cup which life at present could hold out to poor Ermengarde.
Miss Nelson and her pupil reached the hay-field, and then ensued a scamper, a rush. Marjorie, Eric, Basil, Lucy, all crowded round their sister. They were unfeignedly delighted to have her with them, and Ermie could not but reflect how happy she would now be but for Susy.
"We are going to have such a time," said Marjorie. "After tea we are going to build a hayrick, quite in a new way. It's to be hollow inside, like a room, and pointed at the top, with a hole to let the air in, and—why, what's the matter, Ermie? You look as white as anything. We thought you'd be so fresh, for you have done nothing all day. Now, I am tired, if you like. Oh, haven't I run?"
Marjorie stopped talking to mop her heated forehead.
"But it was glorious fun," she began, the next minute. "I thought Eric would have capsized the boat, he laughed so. Only Basil was a bit mopy. He's not half himself whenyou're away, Ermie, Now, hadn't you better sit down? You do look white."
Ermengarde glanced round her. At that moment she and Marjorie were a few feet away from the others. Basil was trotting meekly up and down with a small sister aloft on each broad shoulder. Eric was sending all the small fry whom he could reach into screams at his superabundant wit and spirits. Miss Nelson went over to help nurse to get the tea ready. For a brief moment the two sisters were alone.
In an instant Marjorie would be called. She was never long left to herself in any group. Ermie had not a second to lose. She clasped Marjorie's hand convulsively.
"Maggie, I want you to help me."
"Of course I will, Ermie. What is it? Coming, Eric! What's the matter, Ermie?"
"Oh, do get those children away for a minute."
"Maggie, Maggie, Maggie!" shouted several voices, headed by Eric's.
"Coming, Eric. Keep back, all of you. I'm talking to Ermie for a minute. Now, Ermie, quick. What is it?"
"I want to go back to the house, without any one noticing. Help me to go back at once."
"How can I help you! How queer you look."
"O Maggie, it's so important! Don't question me. Only help me."
"Poor Ermie, you do look in a state!"
"And no one must know. Maggie, I did think you'd be clever enough to find an excuse for me. I trusted to you. Don't fail me, Maggie."
"Let me think," said Marjorie. "You'll come back again?"
"Yes, I won't be gone any time."
"I'll fly across to nurse. Stay where you are—I'll be with you again in a minute."
Marjorie ran across the hay-field, stooped down by old nurse's side, had a short and eager colloquy, and returned to Ermengarde.
"Ermie, nurse wants those rusks which baby always has with his tea. She says you'll find the box in the nursery cupboard. Will you fetch them in a hurry? Baby is so hungry."
"Oh, what nonsense!" said Basil, who had now come up. "The idea of sending Ermie! Where's the nursemaid?"
"Alice went to the house with another message. You had better go, Ermengarde; nurse is in a hurry."
"I don't mind going a bit," said Ermengarde. She looked ready to fly. Her lips were trembling.
"You look as tired as anything now, Ermie,"said Basil. "I'll go, if it comes to that. Where are those wretched rusks to be found, Maggie?"
"You can't go, Basil. You are to light the fire for the gypsy tea."
"It's lighting."
"Well, it's going out again. I know it is; or the kettle is sure to boil over, or something. Do be on the spot, and let Ermie make herself useful for once in a way."
Ermengarde ran off; the tension of her feelings would permit of no further delay. She heard Basil scolding Marjorie as she hurried across the hay-field. Ermengarde had never run so fast in her life. What should she find when she got back to that sitting-room. Would Susy be dead? If so——But her terrified thoughts would take her no further.
She was not a particularly active little girl, and her quick running soon deprived her of breath. Oh, what a distance lay between that hay-field and the house! At last the lawn was gained, then the gravel sweep, then the side-door. She could only totter upstairs, and by the time she reached Miss Nelson's room she was really almost fainting.
She managed to stagger across to the cupboard, unlocked it, and then sank down in a chair. Susy instantly made her appearance;she was not dead, but she was extremely red in the face and very angry.
"You did serve me a trick, Miss Ermie! Oh, my word, I didn't think as you'd treat me as bad as that! Why, I might have been—I thought I was to be suffocated, miss."
"Never mind now," said Ermengarde. "I'm ever so sorry; I——" Her voice faltered. In her relief and thankfulness at finding Susy alive and well, she went up to the little girl and kissed her. Then she burst into tears.
"Miss Ermie!"
If Susan Collins was fond of anyone, it was Ermengarde.
"Don't you take on, miss," she said affectionately.
Ermie's tears touched her so much that she felt she would have endured another half-hour of the cupboard to help her.
"Don't cry, please, Miss Ermie," said Susy. "I know you couldn't help yourself. I didn't want you to have a scolding; no, that I didn't; so it's all right, miss; I'm none the worse. I was a bit choky in the cupboard, but I'm as well as ever now."
Ermengarde soon dried her tears.
"I must go back to the hay-field at once," she said, "I'll leave you now, Susy. Don't be long here. Run downstairs while there's noone about. Good-by, Susy. I'm glad you are not hurt."
Ermengarde nodded to Susan Collins, and with a light heart left the room. She went to the nursery, secured the baby's rusks, and returned to the hay-field.
During the rest of that evening no one seemed happier, or laughed more often than Ermengarde. She thought herself safe, and it never occurred to her as possible that the doings of that day could ever be known.