W
hen Ermengarde left the room, Susy looked round her. She was a thoroughly comfortable young person; her nature had plenty of daring in it, and she was not prone to timidity. She was not much afraid of being caught, and she did not feel at all inclined to hurry out of the governess's room.
Susy was one of those unfortunate little mortals whose pretty face, instead of bringing with it a blessing, as all beauty ought, had quite the reverse effect upon her. It made her discontented. Like many other foolish little maids, she longed to have been born in a higher station than Providence intended; she longed to be rich and a lady.
Susy was an only child, and her mother, who had once been a lady's-maid, always dressed her neatly and with taste. Susy spoke with a more refined accent than most children of her class; her dress, too, was better than theirs; she thought a very little would make her what she most desiredto be, a lady. And when Ermengarde began to take notice of her, she felt that her ambition was all but fulfilled.
Ermie had often met Susy in the grounds, and, attracted by her beautiful little face, had talked to her, and filled the poor child with conceit. Mr. Wilton had once seen Ermengarde and Susy chatting in a very confidential manner together. He at once separated the children, told Ermie she was not to make a friend of Susan Collins, and told Susan Collins that she was to mind her place, and go back to her mother. These instructions he further reiterated to Miss Nelson and to Susan's father. The children were forbidden to speak, and Ermengarde, proud, rebellious, without any real sense of right or honor, instantly contrived to evade her father's commands, and saw more of Susy than ever.
Not until to-day, however, had Susan Collins been inside Wilton Chase. Over and over she had longed to see the interior of what her mother was pleased to call the 'noble pile.' But not until to-day had this longing been gratified. In a most unexpected way she at last found herself at the Chase. She had enjoyed a good dinner there. That dinner had been followed by nearly an hour of great misery and terror. Still, she had been there, and shereflected with pride that, in consequence, she could now hold up her head higher than ever.
She was certainly not in a hurry to go away. Miss Nelson's room seemed a magnificent apartment to Susy. She was sure no one could come into it at present, and she walked round and round it now, examining its many treasures with a critical and somewhat envious spirit.
Once again, in the course of her wanderings, she came opposite the picture of the old-fashioned child—the child whose hair was curled in primitive and stiff ringlets, whose blue eyes looked out at the world with a somewhat meaningless stare, and whose impossible and rosy lips were pursed up in an inane smile.
Susy gazed long at this old-world portrait. It was set in a deep frame of blue enamel, and inside the frame was a gold rim. Susy said to herself that the picture, old-fashioned though it was, had a very genteel appearance. Then she began to fancy that the blue eyes and the lips of the child resembled her own. She pursed up her cherub mouth in imitation of the old-world lady. She smiled into the pictured eyes of the child of long ago.
In short Susy became fascinated by the miniature; she longed to possess it. With thelonging came the temptation. Why should she not take it? The theft, if it could be called by such an ugly name, could never be traced to her. Not a soul in the place would ever know that she had been shut up in Miss Nelson's room. Only Ermengarde would know, and Ermie would not dare to tell.
Susy looked and longed and coveted. She thought of the pleasure this picture would give her in her own little attic-room at home. How she would gaze at it, and compare her face with the face of the old-fashioned child. Susy hated Miss Nelson, and if that good lady valued the picture, she would be only the more anxious to deprive her of it.
Miss Nelson had often and often snubbed Susy; she had also been cruel to Ermengarde. Susy could avenge Ermie as well as herself, if she took away the miniature.
Susan was not the child long to withstand any sudden keen desire. She stretched up her hand, lifted the little miniature from its hook on the wall, and slipped it into the pocket of her pink frock.
Its place looked empty and deserted. Susy did not want its loss to be discovered too soon. She looked around her, saw another miniature on the mantelpiece; without waiting even to look at it, she hung it in the place where thechild's picture had been, and then, well pleased, turned to go. First of all, however, she performed an action which she thought particularly clever and praiseworthy.
Poor Ermengarde had left the cupboard open when she rushed from the room, but Susy took the precaution to lock it, and taking out the key, threw it carelessly on the floor behind a chair. Then, satisfied that she had done her best both for Ermie and herself, she left Miss Nelson's room, running fearlessly down the now deserted back-stairs, and out into the courtyard.
She went round to the laurel bush behind which she had concealed her basket of eggs, picked it up, delivered its contents to the cook, and ran home singing a gay song.
Her mother remarked on Susy's long absence, but when the little girl said she had been tempted to linger in the meadows, Mrs. Collins did not question her any further. She hastened to prepare an extra good tea for her darling, for of course Susy's dinner with Ermengarde could not be mentioned.
Meanwhile all went merrily in the hay-field. Eric excelled himself in his rare power of story-telling. Basil and Ermie sat side by side, and whispered together. Miss Nelson had seldom seen a softer look on her elderpupil's face than now. She determined that Basil and his sister should be together as much as possible during the holidays.
Presently the little ones went home, and by and by the elder children followed their example. Miss Nelson saw that Marjorie was tired—that Ermie, too, looked pale—and she made them both go to bed early.
It was rather late when the governess returned to the schoolroom. She only went there to fetch one of her pupils' exercise-books, but seeing Basil reading on one of the sofas, she stopped to talk to him. She was a very direct person, and in conversation she always went straight to the point.
"It is a great comfort to me to have you at home, Basil," she said.
Basil looked up at her. Then he dropped his book and started to his feet.
"Won't you sit down?" he said politely.
"No, I am going into my own room directly. I repeat that I am glad you are at home, Basil. There was a talk of your going north instead, was there not?"
"Yes. Uncle Charlie wanted me to fish with him."
"It is on Ermengarde's account that I am glad," pursued the governess.
Basil nodded.
"I came back on account of Ermie," he said. Then he colored, and added quickly, "But I like being at home best."
"Yes, my dear boy, I understand. You are unselfish. You and Marjorie are remarkably unselfish. Basil, you have a great influence over your eldest sister; oh yes, I can see. In many respects Ermengarde is a difficult child; I want you to use your influence well, and——Will you come into my room, Basil?"
Basil picked up his book. Of course he would go. He did not want to; he thought it was rather fudge talking about his influence; and as to his being unselfish, he liked his own way as well as any one else. Had he not almost blubbered about not going to Scotland, and although he had thought of Ermie, still he had given up his desires with a pang. He hated Miss Nelson to think better of him than he deserved, but he did not know how to explain himself, and he followed her in rather a limp fashion into her private sitting-room.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed, when he got there, "what a tiny room! Do they put you off with this? Oh, I say, I call it a shame!"
Miss Nelson loved her private sitting-room, and hated to hear it abused. She also particularly disliked the expression with which Basil had commenced his speech.
"I don't wish to interfere, my dear boy, but those words—you will excuse me—I am shocked."
"Do you mean 'by Jove'?"
"Yes; don't repeat the expression. It sounds like a calling upon false gods."
"Oh, I say, all our fellows do it."
"Does that make it right?"
Basil fidgeted, and wished himself back in the schoolroom.
"You were going to speak about Ermie," he said.
Miss Nelson seated herself by the open window. It was a warm and very beautiful summer's night. A gentle breeze came in, and fanned the governess's tired brow.
"What about Ermie?" said Basil. He wanted to get back to his book, and to the unrestraint of the dear old schoolroom.
"I think you have a good influence over Ermengarde," said Miss Nelson, raising her face to his.
"Yes, yes," he answered impatiently; "more than one person has said that to me. I have a good influence, but why should I have a good influence? I mean, why is it necessary? Ermie isn't worse than other people. It sounds as if you were all abusing her when you talk of my good influence. I hate humbug. I'mno better than other fellows. I'm fond of Ermie I suppose, and that's about the beginning and end of my influence."
"Exactly," said Miss Nelson. She was not listening to all the boy's words. Her thoughts were far away.
"Ermie is difficult," she began. Then she stopped and uttered an exclamation.
"Look, Basil, is that a key at your feet?"
Basil stooped, and picked up the key of Miss Nelson's cupboard.
"Put it in the lock of the cupboard behind you, my boy. I am glad it is found—truly glad. I thought I could not have put it away. And yet Ermengarde seemed so sure that it was not in the lock when she was in the room."
"Oh, it fell out, I suppose," said Basil. He was not interested in the key, and he stood up now, prepared to go.
"Those photographs I spoke about are in the cupboard, Basil. I could not bring them to you because I could not find the key. Would you like to see them now?"
"Thanks," said Basil. "Perhaps, if you don't mind, I had better look at them by daylight."
When Basil said this, Miss Nelson also stood up. He looked at her, being quite sure now she would wish him good-night and let him go. Her eyes had a peculiar, terrified, staring expression.She rushed to the mantelpiece; then she turned and grasped the boy's arm.
"Basil," she said, "the picture is gone!"
"What picture?" he asked. He was really frightened at the anguished expression in Miss Nelson's matter-of-fact face.
"Mine," she answered, clasping his hand tighter. "My treasure, the picture of my——" here she broke off. "It is gone, Basil—see, and another put in its place! My miniature is gone! it has been stolen!"
"No, no," said Basil. "It couldn't have been. People don't steal pictures at the Chase. There are no thieves. Let me look for it for you."
"My miniature—my portrait. I don't speak of it—I can't!" Her voice shook. "No, no; it is gone. You see, Basil, it always hung here, and now another has been put on the same hook. That shows that the deed was intentional; the miniature is stolen!"
She sat down and clasped her hands over her face; her thin long fingers trembled.
"I'm awfully sorry for you," said Basil. He could not understand such emotion over any mere picture, but he had the kindest of hearts, and distress of any sort always moved him.
"I'm awfully sorry," he repeated.
Miss Nelson looked up at his tone.
"Basil," she said, "when you have very fewthings to love, you value the few intensely. I did—I do. You don't know, my boy, what it is to be a lonely woman. May you never understand my feelings. The miniature is gone; it was stolen, purposely."
"Oh, we'll find the thief," said Basil. "If you are sure the picture was taken, we'll make no end of a fuss, and my father will help. Of course you must not lose anything you value in this house. You shall have it back; we'll all see to that."
"Thank you, Basil; I'm sure you'll do your best."
Miss Nelson's face looked as unhappy as ever.
"You must try and cheer up, Miss Nelson," said the school-boy. "You shall have your picture, that I promise you."
Miss Nelson was silent for a minute.
"Perhaps I shall get it back," she said after a pause. "But it won't be the same to me again. No, nothing can be the same. I've got a shock. Basil, I have worked for you all. When your mother died, I came—I came at her request. A more brilliant governess could have taught your sisters, but I can truly say no one more conscientious could have ministered to them, and no one on the whole could have loved them more faithfully. I have, however,been misunderstood. Only one of your sisters has responded to me. Marjorie has been sweet and true and good; the others—not that I blame little Lucy much—a child is always led by her elders—but——"
"What does all this mean?" said Basil, almost sternly. He knit his brows. He felt that he was going to be somebody's champion, and there was fight in his voice.
"This is what it means, Basil," said Miss Nelson. "I am sorry to pain you, but I believe Ermengarde has taken my miniature."
"Ermie a thief? What do you mean? She's my sister—she's a Wilton! How can you say that sort of thing, Miss Nelson? No wonder poor Ermie does not quite get on with you."
"She never gets on with me, Basil. She is disobedient, she is unresponsive. I have taken more pains for her than for the others. To-day I was obliged to punish her for two offenses of a very grave character. She took my miniature out of revenge; I am sure of it."
"No, I am certain you are mistaken. You have no right to accuse her like this."
"I wish I could think I was mistaken, Basil, but all circumstances point to the fact that Ermengarde in revenge took away my portrait. I locked her into this room as a punishment, as a severe punishment for a most grave offense.She was very angry and very defiant. The picture was in its usual place when I locked her into the room. She spent the greater part of the day here. When I come here to-night the portrait has been exchanged for another."
"Yes; your room has been empty for hours. Some one else has come in and done the thing, if indeed it has been done at all."
"What do you mean? The picture is gone!"
"The housemaid may have been dusting, and put another in its place."
"No, Basil, the housemaid would not touch my private possessions; I dust them and arrange them myself. I dusted my miniature only this morning, and this white rosebud and maidenhair I placed under it. I always put fresh flowers under my portrait; I did so to-day as usual. No, as you say, there are no thieves at Wilton Chase. Ermie has taken the miniature out of revenge. She knew I valued it."
"You are mistaken," said Basil, "and I think you are cruel!"
He left the room in a great rage.
T
he next day was Saturday. The lessons done this morning by Ermengarde, Marjorie, and Lucy were little more than nominal. A master came to give the little girls instruction in music at eleven o'clock, and after their half-hour each with him, they were considered free to spend the rest of the day as they pleased.
Rather to Basil's surprise Miss Nelson said nothing whatever to Ermie about the loss of her miniature. The governess's face was very pale this morning, and her eyes had red rims round them, as though she had wept a good deal the previous night. She was particularly gentle, however, and Basil, who alone knew her secret, could not help being sorry for her.
He was still angry, for he thought her idea about Ermengarde both unjust and cruel; but her softened and sad demeanor disarmed him, and he longed beyond words to give her back the miniature.
Ermie was in excellent spirits this morning. She thought herself well out of yesterday's scrape, and she looked forward to a long and happy afternoon with her brothers. She was particularly bright and attentive over her lessons, and would have altogether won Miss Nelson's approval, had not her sad mind been occupied with other matters.
Marjorie was the first to go to her music lesson this morning. She returned from it at half-past eleven, and then Ermengarde went to receive Mr. Hill's instructions.
Basil was standing in the passage, sharpening a lead pencil as she passed.
"I'll be free at twelve, Basil," she called to him. "Where shall I find you?"
"I'll be somewhere round," he replied, in a would-be careless tone. "Maggie, is that you? I want to speak to you."
He seemed anxious to get away from Ermengarde, and she noticed it, and once more the cloud settled on her brow.
"Come out, Mag; I want to speak to you," said Basil. "You are free at last, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes; I'm free. What were you so chuffy to Ermie, for? You seemed as if you didn't care to have her with you!"
"Oh, don't I care? I'm thinking of her all the time. It's about her I want to speak toyou, Maggie, But, first of all have you heard of Miss Nelson's loss?"
"No, what loss?"
"Some one has taken a miniature out of her sitting-room."
"A miniature? Which—which miniature? Speak, Basil."
"You needn't eat me with your eyes, Maggie. I don't know. I didn't do it!"
"Oh, no; but what miniature is it, Basil?"
"I tell you, I didn't see it, Maggie. It hung over her mantelpiece, and she kept flowers under it. She seemed to prize it a great lot."
"Not the picture of a rather silly little girl with blue eyes and a smile? Not that one? Don't tell me it was that one, Basil."
"Then you do know about it. I suppose it was that one. She was in an awful state."
"No wonder. Oh, poor Miss Nelson!"
"Do talk like a reasonable being, Maggie. What was there so marvelously precious in the picture of a silly little girl?"
"Yes, butthatsilly little girl was her own—not her child, but her sister, and she loved her beyond all the world, and—the little sister went to the angels. Once she told me about her—only once. It was on a Sunday night. Oh, poor Miss Nelson!"
"Well, don't cry, Mag—she must have the picture back. She has got a horrid thought in her head about it, though."
"A horrid thought? Miss Nelson has a horrid thought? Oh, Basil, don't you begin to misunderstand her."
"Shut up!" said Basil. "Who talks about my misunderstanding her? She has got a wrong notion into her head about Ermie, that's all. She thinks Ermie took the miniature out of revenge. There! Is not that bad enough? Now, what's the matter, Maggie? You are not going to tell me that you think Miss Nelson is right?"
"No," said Marjorie, shaking her fat little self, after an aggravating habit of hers when she was perplexed. "Of course I don't think anything of the kind, still——" She was remembering Ermengarde's agitation of the day before—her almost frantic wish to return alone to the house.
Marjorie grew quite red as this memory came over her.
"Well, won't you speak?" said Basil. "Miss Nelson must get back her miniature."
"Of course she must, Basil."
"She believes that Ermengarde took it."
"Yes; of course she is mistaken."
"She is very positive."
"Oh, that's a way of hers. She's quite obstinate when she gets an idea into her head."
"A fixed idea, eh?" Basil laughed.
Marjorie did not join in the laugh, she was feeling intensely solemn.
"Miss Nelson is very angry, and in dreadful trouble," Basil went on presently. "I quite thought she would speak to Ermengarde this morning."
"She has not said a word, Basil."
"I know that."
"Basil, let me speak to Ermie."
"But now, you're not going to accuse her, or any rubbish of that sort, Maggie?"
"As if I would, Basil!"
"Then I wish you would speak to her. I'm uncomfortable enough about the whole thing, I can tell you. I hate to have anybody think such thoughts of Ermie."
"I'll tell her," said Marjorie eagerly. "I'll tell her the miniature is lost."
She ran off, and Basil took another pencil out of his pocket and began to sharpen it. He did not like the aspect of affairs at all. His interview with Marjorie had given him no real satisfaction. Marjorie had not thrust the idea of Ermie's guilt from her with the horror he had expected. Of course she had agreed with him, but not with that emphasis he had desired.He felt rather sickened. If Ermengarde could be mean and shabby, if by any possibility, however remote, Ermengarde had stooped to theft for the sake of a petty and small revenge, then he was very sorry he had not gone to Scotland, that was all. He'd give up Ermie if she was that kind, but of course she wasn't. It was horrid of him to lend even half credence to such a belief. He would go and have a game of cricket with Eric, and get such a monstrous idea out of his head.
When they were preparing for dinner, Marjorie told her sister about the stolen miniature. She told the story in her own characteristic way. She was determined to take no unfair advantage of Ermie, and so, while washing her hands, and purposely splashing the water about, and with her back so turned that she could not get a glimpse of Ermie's face, she burst forth with her news. When she turned round, Ermengarde was calmly combing out her long hair.
"It's dreadful, isn't it?" said Marjorie.
"Dreadful," echoed Ermengarde, but her voice did not sound excited.
"And she was so fond of that little sister," continued Marjorie.
"I never heard of any sister," said Ermengarde in a profoundly uninterested voice. "Letus come down to dinner, Maggie; the gong has sounded."
Marjorie gave vent to a very heavy sigh. She had got no satisfaction out of Ermengarde, and yet her manner gave her a sense of insecurity. She recalled again Ermie's strange excitement of the evening before, and wondered in vain what it all meant.
At dinner-time Miss Nelson's face was paler than ever. It was noticed now by the three people who shared her secret. Eric and Lucy were perfectly comfortable and easy in their minds, but the older children felt a sense of constraint. After dinner Eric asked Marjorie to come with him to visit his ferrets.
"They are at Collins's, you know," he said. "I hope Collins is treating them properly. If he does not, Shark will pay him out; that's a certainty. Come along, Mag."
"I will presently," said Marjorie.
"Oh, no; you must come at once. I have a lot to do this afternoon; you can't keep me waiting."
A good-humored smile played over Marjorie's sunny face. "Other people have a good deal to do too," she said. "I'll come soon, Eric. You can wait for me outside. I won't keep you long; but I have somethingimportantto do first."
Eric went away feeling very cross. IfMarjorie took to giving herself airs, the world might as well stop at once. What use was Marjorie except to be at everybody's beck and call; and more especially at his—Eric's—beck and call. He kicked his heels into the gravel, thrust his hands into his trousers pockets, and put on all the airs of an ill-used mortal.
Meanwhile Marjorie, whose important business made her round face look intensely solemn, was trotting down the corridor to Miss Nelson's sitting-room. She guessed that she would find the governess there. To her gentle little tap Miss Nelson replied at once, and the little girl came in and stood before her.
"What is it, Marjorie?" said her governess. "Have you anything to say to me? I am busy. Why don't you go out with your brothers?"
"I wanted to give you a kiss," said Marjorie, "and to tell you—to tell you—that if the other little girl loved you, so do I. I thought I'd tell you; I know it won't be a real comfort, but I thought perhaps you ought to know."
"It is a real comfort, Marjorie," said Miss Nelson in a softened voice. "Give me that kiss, dear. Thank you, my love. You are a good child, Marjorie—a dear child. Now run away and play."
"You have a headache, I know," said Marjorie, "and see how the sun does stream inat this window. May I pull down the blinds? And will you lie on the sofa? Do, and I will bathe your head with eau de Cologne. I wish you would let me."
"No, dear, the others are waiting for you."
"Let them wait. Eric wants me to see his ferrets. I'd much rather stay with you."
Miss Nelson knew that Marjorie adored Eric, and that whatever pets of his happened to be in vogue had the strongest fascination for her. Nevertheless she did lie down on the sofa, and her little pupil's gentle hand felt all that was delightful and soothing as it touched her brow. When Marjorie stole out of the room, Miss Nelson had dropped asleep.
Eric was still waiting. He was amusing himself peeling an early autumn apple, eating it in a discontented sort of way, for he was not very hungry, and watching the windows for Marjorie to appear. He was delighted when he saw her, but he would not show his pleasure.
"Come on," he said, in a gruff voice. "I don't know why I waited for you. Half the evening is gone already. Do be quick, Mag; how you loiter!"
"I've an apple in my pocket for Shark," said Marjorie.
She tucked her hand comfortably through Eric's arm. She was feeling very sunshiny andhappy, and soon managed to bring back the ever-bubbling humor to the little boy's lips.
About a quarter of an hour later, a sort of bundle rolled rather than walked into the Collinses' neat little cottage. Mrs. Collins uttered an exclamation and darted forward. She did not at once recognize that the bundle consisted of Marjorie and Eric, who, with peals and bursts of laughter, had in this style intruded themselves into her modest dwelling.
"Let go, Mag, don't throttle me!" screamed Eric.
"Well, leave the apple in my pocket; I'm going to feed Shark."
Mrs. Collins conducted her two little visitors to the yard, where Shark and his companion ferret resided in their wire cage. Marjorie sank down in front of the cage, and gazed at the ferrets quite as long and as earnestly as Eric could desire.
"They are beautiful," she said at last. "More especially Shark."
Eric felt that if it were not undignified, he could have hugged his sister. They left the yard, and re-entered Mrs. Collins's house the dearest of friends.
They were going into the kitchen to beg for a piece of brown cake, which they knew Mrs. Collins could make to perfection, when, hearingvoices raised in dispute, Marjorie drew Eric back.
"Let's come another time for the cake," she whispered. "The passage-door is open, we can go out that way."
"Wait a second, Mag. I forgot to take a squint at Lop-ear. Just stay where you are, I'll be with you in a twinkling."
Marjorie stood still; Eric departed. The following words fell on Marjorie's ears:
"It's all very well to talk, Susy, but I'm quite sick of you and your mysteries, and Iwillknow what you're hiding under your apron."
"I can't tell you, mother. It's a secret between Miss Ermengarde and me."
"Well, show it to me, anyhow.Idon't mind your talking to miss, though the family make such a fuss about it. If it's anything she gave you, you might as well show it to your mother, Susy."
"Yes, she did give it to me; she gave it to me yesterday."
"Well, show it to me."
"No, no; that I won't."
"What is it? you might tell me that."
Marjorie distinctly heard Susy's pleased childish laugh.
"Oh, you'll never guess," she said; "it is sopretty—all sorts of color, blue and pink and white, and—and——But youshan'tsee, that you shan't."
Before Marjorie could hear more Eric hurried back.
"Now we'll have a game of cricket," he said to his sister.
Marjorie followed him without a word. She was a very good cricketer for a little girl, and she and Eric often had a jolly game together. The two went to the cricket-field, and the game began.
On Eric's side it was vigorously played; but had Marjorie's arm lost its cunning? Her bowling went wide of the mark, Eric proposed that he should bowl, and she should bat. This made matters no better. Finally he stopped the game in disgust.
"You're awfully changed, Mag," he said, half between sorrow and anger. And then he marched out of the field. He felt an intense pity for Marjorie. "She always was a good, boyish sort of a girl," he said to himself, "but she's getting like the rest of them. Girls are a poor lot, and she's like the rest."
At another time Marjorie could not have borne to see Eric look at her sorrowfully. She took no notice now, however, but the moment her brother left the field, she turned on her ownheel and went back to the Collinses' cottage. Mrs. Collins had gone out, but Susy was standing by the door. Susy wore a blue cotton frock to-day, and her curly hair was pushed back from her fair and pretty face. She was standing in the porch talking to the canary. He was pouring out a flood of song, and Susy was looking up at him, and trying to bring notes something like his from her rosy lips.
On ordinary occasions Marjorie, remembering the home mandate, would not have entered into any prolonged conversation with Susy. She forgot all this now in her eagerness and desire for information.
"Susy!"
"Yes, Miss Marjorie."
Susy had no particular love for Marjorie. Marjorie was downright in manner, plain in face, no flatterer. Susy came out of the cottage slowly, looking behind her, as she did so, at the singing canary.
"Come here, Susy, come quickly; I want to say something to you."
"Yes, Miss Marjorie, what is it?"
"What were you saying to your mother just now? I overheard you in the passage. What was it all about?"
"I don't remember, miss, I'm sure."
Susy's color had changed from red to white.
"Where were you, miss, when I was talking?" she said after a pause.
"I was in the passage, waiting for Eric. You must remember what you said. Your mother was asking you to show her something. Something you said Ermengarde had given you."
"Oh, I remember now, miss. Miss Ermie do give me things now and then."
"But you said she gave you this, whatever it was, yesterday."
"I couldn't have said yesterday, Miss Marjorie."
"You did, Susy; I heard you."
"I couldn't have said yesterday, really, miss."
"But you did, Susy; you said yesterday as plain as possible. You said 'she gave it to me yesterday'; those were your very words."
"I must have meant another day, miss; I'm careless in my words, often and often."
"What did she give you, Susy? Do tell me."
"Only a yard of blue stuff to make a frock for my doll."
"But how could a yard of blue stuff be pink white and all sorts of colors?"
"Well, miss, I suppose I meant my doll.She's pink and white enough, I'll show her to you, if you like, and then you'll believe me. Shall I run and fetch her to show you, miss?"
"Oh, if you are as sure as all that, you needn't trouble," said Marjorie.
She left the cottage without even waiting to bid Susy good-by. Eric was still lounging about, waiting for her, and Marjorie ran up to him, all her usual spirits once more shining in her face.
T
he great event of the year at Wilton Chase came in the summer. It came just at the time when all the children could enjoy it—when they were all at home and together.
This event was Mr. Wilton's birthday. It had been his custom, as long as any of the children could remember, to devote this day to them. He was their willing slave, their captive to do what they pleased with during the long hours of that summer day.
Aunt Elizabeth, who hated being brought into close contact with what she termed "unfledged creatures," generally left the house for that occasion. The oak doors which divided the schoolroom from the grown-up portion of the building were thrown open, and happy rioters might have been seen darting about in all directions. In short, during this day Chaos reigned instead of order. Each child did as he or she liked best, with a reckless disregard to all future consequences.
In preparation for the feasting which went on during father's birthday, nurse was wont to see that all the useful unpleasant nursery bottles were well filled. She sent them to the chemist a week before, and when they were returned, put them grimly away in the cupboard.
"These," she would remark, "have nothing to do with father's birthday, but they come in handy the day after."
Miss Nelson also made preparations for the after effects of this day of unrestraint. She laid in a good store of clean manuscript paper, for she knew many impositions would have to be written, and she looked well through the poetry books and books of French selections, to see which on an emergency would be suited to the capacities of the delinquents, who would be certain to have to learn them amidst tears and disgrace.
The children's maid, too, laid in stores of buttons and hooks, and tapes and ribbons, for the repairing of the clothes which must come to grief in the general riot.
Thus all that the careful elders could do was done, but the children cared for none of these things. To the children the day itself stood before them in all its glory, and they gave no thought or heed to any after-time of reckoning.
Mr. Wilton's birthday arrived in the beginning of the second week of the summer holidays. The first exuberance of joy, therefore, at having the boys at home again, was past, and all the young folk could give themselves up to the ecstasy which the day itself afforded.
"Good-by, Roderick," said Miss Elizabeth Wilton to her brother. She came in in her neat traveling-dress, and surprised him over a late breakfast.
"Why, where are you off to?" he asked.
"Where am I off to? I'm going to town, of course."
"To town, in August! What do you mean, Lizzie?"
"You may well shrug your shoulders, and ask me what I mean.You, Roderick, are the cause. Your birthday comes to-morrow."
"Good gracious! And I had forgotten all about it."
"Well, the children remember it, and so do I. Good-by, Roderick. I'll be home again on Friday evening. I don't want to stay longer in that stifling London than I can help."
Miss Wilton took her departure, and Mr. Wilton stretched out his hand to the toast-rack, took a piece of toast which he absently broke in two, and once more buried his head in hisTimes. There were a good many interestingitems of intelligence this morning, and Mr. Wilton was a keen politician. Between him, however, now, and the clearly printed type of the paper, came the vision of to-morrow. To-morrow—his birthday, and the day when everything was turned topsy-turvey, and the children and Chaos reigned supreme.
Mr. Wilton was a very affectionate father, but no one must think the worse of him for shrinking at this moment from the ordeal which lay before him. When the day came, he would throw himself into the fun, heart and soul—he would be the life of the rioters, the ringleader of the pleasure-seekers. He would do this, and he would enjoy himself, but in anticipation the prospect was not cheerful. He had forgotten all about his birthday; he had further made arrangements for to-morrow—he was to see a friend in the neighboring town; they were to lunch together, and discuss the autumn shooting. Afterward he had intended to ride some miles farther on and visit a lady, a certain Mrs. Gray, who had been a great friend of his wife's, and whom he had rather neglected of late. He had made all his plans; they were none of them vital, of course, and they could be postponed, but it was disagreeable to have to do this.
Mr. Wilton pushed hisTimesaside, rose from the breakfast-table and went out. He mustorder his horse and ride over at once to Quarchester, and put his friend off. How ridiculous if would sound to have to say, "My dear Furniss, the young ones are celebrating my birthday to-morrow, so I can't come."
Mr. Wilton stood on the gravel sweep, called a groom, gave the necessary directions, and looked around him. He was glad none of the children were about—he did not want to discuss the birthday until he felt in a better humor. What a good thing the children were employed elsewhere!
Just then, however, he heard a shrill childish laugh, and the next moment little Lucy, hotly pursued by fat Marjorie, dashed into view. Lucy rushed up to her father, clasped her arms round his legs and looked up into his face.
Marjorie panted up to her. "No, no, Lucy, you are unkind," she said. "It is wrong of you to run away like this, and when Miss Nelson is so sad, too."
"Hullo, Maggie, have you no word of greeting for me?" asked her father.
"Oh, father, I beg your pardon; I wanted to catch Lucy and bring her back to prayers. She's quite wild this morning; I expect it's because of the birthday being so near, but it does tease Miss Nelson so when the children don't come in quietly to prayers."
"Run into the house this moment, Lucy," said Mr. Wilton, in a tone which all the children immediately obeyed. "You stay, Maggie."
Lucy trotted off.
"Was I right in hearing you say, Maggie, that Miss Nelson was ill?"
"Not exactly ill, father, but she's fretting."
"Fretting? What about?"
Marjorie edged up to her father in the confidential way which made people take to her at once.
"It's her little sister's picture," she said. "A miniature, and it's—it's lost. It—it can't be found."
"I never knew Miss Nelson had a sister."
"Oh, yes; only she's dead—a dear little girl—she died a long time ago, and Miss Nelson is very fond of her miniature, and it's—it's lost!"
Just at this moment the groom appeared, leading Mr. Wilton's spirited bay mare.
"What a tragic face, Maggie," said her father, chucking her under the chin. "We must only trust that the picture is mislaid, not lost. Now, good-by, my dear, I am off to Quarchester."
As Mr. Wilton rode down the avenue he thought in a slightly contemptuous way of Marjorie's information.
"I do trust Miss Nelson is not too sentimental,"he murmured. "Poor Maggie looked absolutely tragic over her governess's loss. I really was prepared to hear of some recent bereavement; but the loss of a miniature, and of course it is only mislaid! I do trust Miss Nelson is the right person to bring up a tender-hearted little thing like Maggie. Now, Ermengarde——Hullo! thereisErmengarde!"
Yes, just ahead of him, and quite unconscious that she was observed, walked Ermengarde in close confabulation with Susan Collins.
Mr. Wilton's brow darkened as he saw the two together.
"This is absolute carelessness on Miss Nelson's part," he said to himself. "She knows my wishes, and it is her business toseethat Ermengarde obeys. I must have a very serious talk with Miss Nelson when I return home this afternoon, but I have no time to attend to the matter now. If I don't hurry, I shall miss seeing Furniss."
Mr. Wilton galloped quickly away, found his friend at home, and in conversation with him forgot all home worries. He forgot them so absolutely that he accepted an invitation to spend the day and dine. In consequence it was near midnight when he returned to Wilton Chase, and the fact that to-morrow was his birthday again absolutely escaped his memory.