E
rmengarde had just finished her morning toilet when the bedroom door was banged violently open. It shut with a loud report and Marjorie, breathless and triumphant, appeared before her.
"What will you give for some good news?" she said, dancing excitedly up and down. "There, you shall give three guesses. Something so good,sojolly. Youwillbe delighted. Now guess! What's going to happen?"
Ermengarde was in one of her worst humors. Everything had gone wrong with her. There was a load of oppression and care on her heart, and now she was seriously uneasy about Basil. She was not brave enough to exonerate him by confessing her own sins, but it was torture to her to think that he should be unjustly suspected of anything mean and dishonorable.
"Doguess! It's something so delightful. Youwillbe pleased," repeated Marjorie, continuing to dance wildly up and down.
"I do wish, Maggie, you'd understand that other people are not in the frantic state of bliss you are in. Your manners lately aretoointolerable. I shall ask father if I cannot have a separate bedroom, for I will not have you banging in and out of the room in the horrid tomboy way you have. I don't want to hear your good news. It's nothing that can concern me, that I am sure."
"Oh, indeed, truly it concerns you."
"I don't want to hear it. I know you and your raptures. It will be a perfect comfort when you are at Glendower, and I can have a little peace!"
"That's just it! I'm not going to Glendower."
"Oh! You have got into a scrape too? Well, I must say I think it's time your righteous pride should have a fall. I have no patience with little girls who are always in everyone's good books, and who are set up as patterns. But what's the matter? You seem uncommonly delighted at losing your fine treat."
"I would be, if you'd speak ever so little kindly to me, Ermie, I really am not the horrid girl you think."
"I don't think anything about you, child."
"Well, you shouldn't say things about me. You shouldn't say what you don't think."
"Oh, for goodness' sake, don't begin to moralize! Was that the breakfast gong?"
"Yes. And you'd better be quick eating up your breakfast, Ermie, for you won't have too much time."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you'll have to tell Hudson about your dresses and things.Youare going to Glendower!"
The dull look left Ermengarde's eyes. They began to sparkle. She stood quite still for a moment. Then she turned slowly round and faced her little sister. All Marjorie's soul was shining out of her face at this moment.
"Do you mean this, Maggie?" asked Ermengarde.
"Of course I mean it. Aren't you glad? Aren't you delighted?"
"But how has it been managed? Father said he'd punish me for talking to Susan Collins, and he said you were to go in my stead."
"Well, now, you are to go instead of me. It's just turned round. Aren't you very glad?"
"Well, I did want to see Lilias. She's more the sort of friend for me than for you; isn't she, Maggie?"
"I suppose so," said Marjorie, suppressing a quick sigh.
"And of course Lady Russell wanted me, not you."
"Yes, I told father I was sure she'd like you best."
"Oh, you spoke to father about it?"
"Why, of course, Ermie."
"Then you haven't got into disgrace yourself?"
"No, it wasn't that—it wasn't because I was in——" Marjorie turned her head away, and tears welled up slowly into her big wide-open gray eyes.
"You did it for me, then?" said Ermengarde. "You gave up your own pleasure for me? I didn't see it until this moment; I didn't really! or I wouldn't have been so cross. Kiss me, Maggie. I'm awfully obliged. But how did you come round father?"
"Oh, never mind now; it's done, and father's quite satisfied. He expects you to go with him, and he told me to tell you to be sure to be ready in good time, as he cannot miss the midday train."
"No fear. I'll be ready, I'm only too glad to get away from the Chase just now. Is that Hudson I see in the passage? Run to her, Maggie, I must speak to her about my whitechiffondinner dress."
Marjorie darted away; her face was looking perfectly contented again. She had not expectedany more thanks from Ermengarde, and it was her nature when she did give, to give lavishly. Now she was all eagerness to assist in the necessary preparations for Ermie's sudden visit, and was much more inclined to make large proffers of help than was the somewhat offended Hudson.
"I had your clothes all ready, Miss Marjorie, and I have not got everything Miss Ermengarde requires at a moment's notice."
"Oh, but you will do your very best for Ermie, Hudson, and she can have all my clean handkerchiefs and sashes, and my Maltese gold cross, with the little chain. Youwillhelp to send her off nice, won't you, Hudson?"
"I'll do anything for your sake, my dear little lady," said the maid.
And Marjorie, well satisfied, trotted down to breakfast in Ermengarde's wake.
The usual party were assembled in the schoolroom, and Ermengarde once more found herself by Basil's side. He just nodded to her when she came in, and then bent his head over "Westward Ho!" which he was reading as he ate his breakfast.
"I wonder if he's coming with me, and if I'm to be treated to these sort of manners all the time," thought Ermengarde. "WhatwillLilias think?"
But just then Marjorie's voice arrested attention. "Don't poke me so, Eric; it isn't me—it's Ermie; she's going."
"Oh, galopshious! And you'll stay at the Chase! I was looking forward to a black time. You and Basil away, and Miss Sulky-face for my sole companion."
"Dohush, Eric; you say such horrid unkind things. I won't talk to you or be a bit nice."
Eric continued to chatter in a loud, aggravating whisper. His buzzing words were distinctly audible at the other end of the long table. Ermengarde heard herself spoken of as Miss Sulky-face, but she was far too contented with the present state of affairs to mind what such a very unimportant person as Eric said about her. Basil raised his head for a moment from his book.
"Are you going to Glendower instead of Maggie?" he asked, darting a quick glance at his sister.
Her heart swelled with sudden pain at his tone.
"Yes," she said. Her voice was humble and almost deprecating.
"Maggie has given up her wishes then?"
"I am going instead of Maggie," said Ermengarde, her manner once more proud and defiant.
Basil resumed his reading of "Westward Ho!" Miss Nelson called to him to say that his breakfast was getting cold. The moment she spoke, he shut up his book.
"I don't wish to eat anything more, Miss Nelson," he said. "And I want to know if you will excuse me, and let me leave the table now. I wish to say a word to father before he leaves the study."
"You can certainly go, Basil," replied the governess.
He went away at once. A moment later, Basil was standing in his father's presence.
"Do you expect me to go with you to-day to Glendower, father?" he asked.
Mr. Wilton was reading an important letter. He looked up impatiently.
"Yes," he said. "You and Marjorie—I mean you and Ermengarde are to come."
"But I have displeased you, and this is a—a pleasure trip."
Mr. Wilton threw down his letter.
"Look here, Basil," he said, "you are too old to be punished in the sort of way I punish Ermengarde, or Marjorie, or Eric."
"I am only a year older than Ermengarde,"
"Don't contradict me, sir. I repeat, you are too old, and you are different. I have regarded you hitherto as a manly sort of fellow, and evenafter last night I cannot treat you as a child. Come to Glendower; only understand that, until you explain yourself fully, you suffer from my displeasure."
"If that is so, father"—Basil's lips quivered, his dark eyes glowed with pain—"if that is so, I would rather stay at Wilton Chase."
"Then stay. Until you are once more the frank fellow I have always regarded you, your movements do not interest me."
"I will stay at home then, father."
"Very well."
Mr. Wilton opened another letter, and began to read it. Basil lingered for a moment, as if he hoped for another softer word; then he turned on his heel and left the room.
In due time Ermengarde and her father started on their journey. Ermengarde carried away with her every conceivable bit of finery which Marjorie could stow into her trunk, and Hudson, finding herself helpless to stem the tide of events, at last rose to the occasion, and did her best to send off her young lady suitably prepared for her visit.
Ermengarde looked very pretty and graceful as she seated herself beside her father in the carriage, and although the children were conspicuous by their absence, and there were no sorrowful looks to witness her exit, she didnot concern herself very much over such trivial matters.
Marjorie's farewell was all that was warm and affectionate, and as it was Mr. Wilton's fashion to forgive absolutely when he did forgive, Ermengarde had a very comfortable journey.
The travelers arrived in good time at Glendower, and Ermengarde really forgot all the worries, the miseries, the sins of the last few days, when Lilias Russell threw her arms round her neck, and warmly bade her welcome.
Lilias was a very beautiful girl. She had that radiant sort of almost spiritual loveliness which is generally accompanied by a very sweet, noble, and upright nature. Her complexion was very fair, her eyes large, soft, and brown; her hair was the finest, palest gold. She was a slightly made girl, but she had no look of ill-health about her. On the contrary, her elastic young figure was full of strength and vigor. She was a great favorite with all her friends, for she was unselfish, loving, and straightforward. She was slow to think evil of people, and was generally affectionately rapturous over the girls and boys who came to visit her at Glendower. Although the only child of very wealthy parents, she was too simple-minded to be spoiled. She received lotsof flatteries, but they did her no harm, because she failed to see them. Her beautiful face was praised to her many times, but no one yet had seen a conscious or conceited expression cross it.
"I'm delighted you have come, Ermie," she said, "but I scarcely expected you, for mother had a letter from your father, who said he was obliged to bring Maggie instead."
Ermengarde colored. There is no saying what reply she would have made, but at that moment Mr. Wilton stepped forward and answered Lilias's look of inquiry himself.
"Maggie gave up her pleasure to Ermie," he said. "She is an unselfish child, and she saw how very much Ermie wished to spend a few days with you, Lilias."
"How sweet of Maggie!" replied Lilias. "I do think she is one of the very dearest little girls in the world. Of course I'm delighted to have you with me, Ermengarde; but I only wish your father had brought Maggie, too."
"And where is my special favorite, Basil?" asked Lady Russell, who had been listening with an amused smile to the above conversation.
"Basil is not in my good graces at present," replied Mr. Wilton. "Pardon me. I make no complaints. He was free to come, but heelected to stay at home; under the circumstances, I think his choice was wise."
Lady Russell and Mr. Wilton walked slowly away together, and Lilias linked her hand affectionately through Ermengarde's arm.
"If there is a mystery, you will tell me about it presently," she said, "and I am not going to worry you now. I am so pleased to have you with me, Ermie, and there are a whole lot of things I am going to consult you about. But first of all, just come to my grotto. I want you to see in what a pretty pattern I have arranged the shells. Here we are; enter, fair and welcome guest! Oh, you must stoop your tall head a little, Ermie. Pride must bend when it enters a humble grotto like mine. Now then, look around you."
Ermengarde was feeling tired, hot, and thirsty. She had hoped to have been treated to nice grown-up tea in one of the drawing-rooms, and she felt just a little annoyed at being carried off at once to look at Lilias's stupid shells, or to behold the most charming grotto that was ever built. Ermengarde had no love for natural history, and fond as she was of Lilias, she felt just a wee bit cross.
But the moment she entered the grotto, the clouds fled like magic from her face. There were shells, of course, and sea-weeds, and a deeppool which contained sea-anemones; and into which a fountain continually dripped. But there was also tea on a charming little rustic table, and two rustic easy-chairs, and two egg-shell china cups and saucers, and a wee silver jug full of cream, and a dish of hot muffins, and a little basket full of grapes and peaches.
Lilias watched her friend's face.
"She wants her tea, poor Ermie does," she whispered to herself; "I know Maggie would have rushed at the shells first of all, and she'd have asked me a thousand questions about my sea-anemones and my fountain. Still, it's perfectly natural that Ermie should be thirsty and want her tea."
So the two little friends sat down, and had a very cozy and merry time together.
T
hat evening, as Ermengarde was standing in her room, surveying with critical eyes the heaps of finery she had brought with her, Lilias knocked at her door.
"Come in," said Ermengarde.
Lilias had on a blue flannel dressing-jacket, and her long, bright, golden hair was streaming down her back.
"I've rushed in to tell you," she exclaimed excitedly, "we are both to come down to dinner to-night. Two guests have disappointed mother. She has just had a telegram; Colonel Vavasour is ill, and of course his wife can't leave him, so you and I are to fill the vacant places at table. I do hope you won't mind, Ermie."
"I?" said Ermengarde, her eyes sparkling. "Oh, no; I shan't mind; I like dining with grown people. I think it will be rather fun."
"It's sweet of you to take it in that way," said Lilias. "I had planned a lovely walk by the lake, and we might have got into the boat,and brought in some water-lilies. Late dinner takes a long, long time, and it will be much too dark to go to the lake when it is over."
"I don't mind, really," repeated Ermengarde. She did not want to tell her friend that her worldly little soul infinitely preferred late dinner and a talk with some of the grown-up guests to a ramble with Lilias by the side of the lake.
"We can go to the lake another time, Lilias," she said, "and it seems only right to oblige your mother now."
"Thank you for putting it in that way to me," said Lilias. She went up to Ermengarde and kissed her. "What have you got to wear?" she asked. "I know mother would like such young girls as we are to be dressed very simply. I shall just put on a white muslin, a white silk sash round my waist."
"Oh, I have a white dress, too," said Ermengarde, in a careless tone. "I am sure I shall manage very well."
Her dark eyes grew brighter and brighter as she spoke.
"I must not stay to chat with you, Ermie," said Lilias, looking at her friend with admiration. "Mother is so afraid you will miss your maid, you shall have as much of Petite's time as ever I can possibly spare."
"Who is Petite?" asked Ermengarde.
"Oh, she's my dear little maid. We brought her over from France last year. She was never out anywhere before, and I'm so fond of her. Her name is Lucile Marat, but I call her Petite, because she is on a small scale, and so neat in every way. It was she who unpacked your things. I'll send her to you in a minute."
Lilias ran out of the room, and Ermengarde, closing the door, opened a long drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe, and taking out her whitechiffondress, viewed it with great complacency. This dress had been given to Ermengarde by Aunt Elizabeth; she had brought it from Paris, intending to wear it at a county ball herself, but finding it too juvenile, she had handed it on to her niece. The local dressmaker had cut it down to fit Ermengarde, and ever since she possessed it, Ermie had sighed and longed for the occasion when she might don the lovely robe.
The dress was in truth an exquisite one; it was delicately spangled with what looked like dewdrops, and had a great deal of rich soft silk introduced here and there, but if it was too young for Aunt Elizabeth, it was a great deal too old for Ermie. It's voluminous and graceful pillows of white were not suited to her slim little figure. It was a grown girl's dress, and Ermie was only a child.
Still the occasion, the longed-for, the sighed-for occasion, when she might dress herself in Aunt Elizabeth's whitechiffon, had arrived.
Ermie pulled the dress out of the drawer, shook out its folds, and regarded it with rapture.
There came a modest knock at the room door, and Petite, got up in truly French fashion, entered. She was a rosy-cheeked, round-faced girl, with sparkling black eyes, and rolls of black hair, picturesquely arranged on the top of her head.
"I hope she understands English," thought Ermengarde. "French is not my strong point, and I really must get her to dress my hair in some grown-up fashion to-night."
Petite soon, however, relieved Ermengarde's fear.
"I have come to help you, ma'mselle," she said in her cheerful tones. "Will you let me brush out your hair?"
"Thank you," said Ermie. "I want you to dress it on the top of my head, please—high—something like an old picture—you understand?"
Petite's eyes sparkled.
"I know what you mean," she said. "Pouffed, ever so—like the pictures of the ancient ladies in the picture-gallery."
"Yes," said Ermengarde. "I want my hair to be arranged like a young grown-up lady. You understand?"
"Perfectly, ma'mselle. I will go and fetch hair-pins. But we haven't too much time; Ma'mselle Lilias is dressed. She wears her hair straight down her back."
Ermengarde said nothing. The mysteries of the toilet proceeded, and at the end of half an hour Lilias knocked at her friend's door.
Ermengarde was now arrayed in the whitechiffondress; it touched the ground, and swept away in a short train at the back. It was cut a little open at the neck, and the round childish arms were bare to the elbow. Round her throat Ermengarde had hung Marjorie's Maltese cross, and among the masses of her high piled-up hair reposed a lovely pearl butterfly. The dress was most unsuitable, but the childish face, colored high now with excitement and gratified vanity, looked quite radiant in its loveliness.
Petite was in ecstasies.
"Ma'mselle looks as if she had stepped out of one of the old picture-frames," she said. "Look how beautiful I have contrived her hair to sit."
Lilias did not say much. She was an intensely polite girl, and she crushed back theexclamation of dismay which rose to her lips. Her own appearance was the extreme of simplicity. Her muslin frock was short; her little white shoes and silk stockings were visible. Round her waist she wore a plain white sash, and her golden hair fell in masses down her back.
While Petite was dressing her, Ermengarde's silly heart was mounting on higher and higher wings of gratified delight. But when she looked at Lilias, an uneasy sensation came over her for the first time.
"Come," said Lilias in her gentle voice, "we'll go down to the drawing-room, and stay together near one of the windows. I don't suppose anyone will take us in to dinner; but that does not matter—we'll take one another in."
"Do you like my dress?" suddenly asked Ermengarde.
"Well, Ermie, isn't it just a little old?"
"Nonsense, Aunt Elizabeth gave it to me. She ought to know, I suppose."
Ermengarde did not care to mention then that the dress was a cast-off garment of her Aunt Elizabeth's.
The two girls went downstairs hand in hand. Ermie's long dress and train made her feel awkward. She began to be more andmore sure that her evening attire, notwithstanding its great beauty, was unsuitable. She hoped no one would specially notice her. She felt uncomfortable as she saw several pairs of eyes fixed upon her, as she and Lilias walked across the drawing-room.
The two girls got behind the shelter of a curtain, and Ermengarde rejoiced in the fact that her father had not yet come downstairs.
A few more minutes went by; the guests arrived in twos and threes—then dinner was announced. As Lilias had foretold, she and Ermengarde were to take each other in to dinner. They were the last to enter the dining-room. Lady Russell had arranged that the two little girls were to sit together, but at the very last moment some change was made, and Ermie to her horror found herself between her father and a stout old gentleman, who was inclined to regard her as an overdressed, but pretty little doll.
Mr. Wilton never fussed about dress, but he had a keen eye for the proprieties. He saw at a glance that Lilias looked exactly as she ought, and that Ermengarde did not, but he could not tell where the difference lay. Ermie as a rule was one of the neatest of little maids. To-night she was not untidy, and yet—he could not tell why—she looked all wrong.
Mr. Wilton sighed, thought of his dead wife, wondered how he could ever manage his fast growing-up family, and then slightly turning his back on Ermie, tried to forget his cares in conversation with his neighbor on his other side.
The fat old gentleman began to talk to Ermengarde.
"Home for the holidays, eh, my dear?" he began, half-winking at her.
"I don't go to school," answered Ermengarde. She flushed angrily, and her reply was in her primmest voice.
The fat old gentleman finished his soup calmly. Ermie's prim indignation amused him. He glanced from her childish face to her grown up head, and then said in a semi-confiding whisper: "Tell me, do you consider a classical education essential to the development of women's brains?"
"Oh, I don't know," stammered poor Ermie.
"Then you're not a Girton girl?"
"No; why do you ask?" answered Ermengarde. She began to feel a little flattered. The old gentleman must certainly consider her quite grown-up.
"Well," he replied, with another comical twinkle in his eyes, "I thought you seemed so intelligent, and although you have a young face,you have somehow or other an old way about you. You'll forgive my speaking frankly, my dear, but I notice that most old-young girls attend some of the colleges."
Ermengarde felt delighted. She changed her mind about the fat old gentleman, and began to regard him as a most agreeable person. He considered her face remarkable for intelligence, and although she was quite grown up, she looked sweetly youthful. She leant back in her chair, and toyed with her food.
"I'm not very old," she began.
"Not more than eighteen, I should think," replied the old gentleman.
Ermengarde gave vent to a silvery laugh.
"Eh? You're not more than that, are you?" asked her companion.
"No, sir," she answered. "I am not more than eighteen."
Although he was talking very earnestly to his neighbor, Mr. Wilton heard his daughter's laugh. It sounded to him a little forced and strained. His undefined sensation of discomfort increased. He turned and looked at Ermengarde. There certainly was something quite unusual about her. Now he raised his eyes to her hair.
"Ermie!" he exclaimed, "whathaveyou done to your head? My dear child, what a show you have made of yourself!"
His voice was quite clear enough for the old gentleman to hear him.
Ermengarde blushed painfully. She muttered something inaudible, and looked down.
"What possessed you to make such a guy of yourself?" continued her father, in a vexed tone, which was very low now. "A little girl like you aping young ladyhood! I am very much annoyed, Ermengarde; I did not think you could be so silly."
Then he turned his back once more, and addressed his neighbor on the other side.
Poor Ermie felt her eyes swimming in tears. The mortification to which her father had subjected her just at her moment of triumph was very bitter. She could not eat a deliciousentréewhich was being offered to her at that moment, and it is possible that, notwithstanding her pride, she might have given way completely to her outraged feelings had not the old gentleman come to her rescue. He was sorry for the poor little maid who had aped the ways of the grown-up. He dropped his quizzical manner, and entered into a pleasant conversation. He drew Ermengarde on to speak of her home, and in especial of her brother Basil, and he thought the little girlish face very charming indeed when Ermie spoke eagerly of her favorite brother.
The rest of the dinner passed off fairly well,and Ermengarde hoped she might be able to retire into a corner when she got into the drawing-room, and so escape any more of her father's censure.
This, however, was difficult, for Lady Russell called both the girls forward, and in especial introduced Ermengarde to several friends of her own. Some of these ladies knew her mother, and they looked kindly at Ermie, and only whispered together behind her back about the extraordinary costume the poor little girl was got up in.
These ladies evidently blamed Ermengarde's father, and spoke of her as a sadly neglected child.
Ermie felt that the ladies were whispering about her, and she began to hate the beautifulchiffondress, and to long to tear it off her back.
T
wo tall girls were standing near the piano; one had just sung a song in a very brilliant style, the other was complimenting her; the gentlemen had not yet come in.
"Flora, do look at that queer little personage over there!" exclaimed the singer, glancing in Ermengarde's direction. "Did you ever see such a little comicality? Why, she can't be more than twelve years old, and she is dressed in much older style than you or I."
"Stop, Kate, I'm sure she hears you," said Flora.
"I don't care if she does, conceited little monkey. Who in the world is she?"
"Her name is Ermengarde Wilton. Yes, of course, the dress is unsuitable, but small piece of gorgeousness that she is, I'd give a good deal to possess her handsome face; and so would you, for the matter of that, Kate."
Ermengarde was standing near a window.Now she pushed a muslin curtain aside, and hid herself behind its folds.
"There! She did hear you this time, Flora," said Kate.
"I meant her to," replied the other. "You were humiliating her so horribly, Kate."
The two girls whispered a little longer, then they parted company. Ermengarde stood behind the shelter of the window curtain. Her heart was beating fast, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes had a triumphant light in them.
Yes, she had heard what those horrid girls were saying. She had heard every word. They had abused her dress, but they had praised her face. This praise made up for all. What mattered the dress which could be so easily removed, compared with the face which would remain.
Ermengarde's heart thrilled within her at the delicious words of flattery. These grown-up girls enviedher!Oh, she could bear anything after that.
She was standing thus, thinking her own thoughts, when the light swish of silken drapery near caused her to look round, and to her astonishment the girl who was called Flora stood in the shelter of the window by her side.
"I hope I am not crowding you," she said in a gracious voice to Ermengarde. "It is so hot inthe drawing-room; I have just come here to get cool before the gentlemen come in."
"You don't disturb me at all," said Ermengarde.
"Thank you. Are you Miss Wilton? I think you must be. My mother knows your father very well."
"And your name is Flora something?" answered Ermengarde, looking up with proud defiance in her face. "And you were speaking about me to a girl called Kate, and you abused my dress, and said that I was a little piece of gorgeousness, and that I was only twelve years old. I am not twelve—I am fourteen and three months."
"Oh, my dear child, you should not have been eavesdropping."
"I wasn't. You spoke out very loud. I thought you knew I must hear you."
"Dear, dear, I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt your feelings, really, Miss Wilton. Of course the dress islovely. Catch Kate or me aspiring to anything half so fine. But then, youdidlook very young in it. Are you really fourteen! You don't look it."
"Yes, I am fourteen and three months."
"Of course that makes a great difference. Come, now, let's be friends. My name is Flora St. Leger, and mother and I are going tostay at Glendower for a couple of days. Are you staying here?"
"Yes, with my father. We came to-day."
"Oh, I suppose you are Lilias Russell's friend. Isn't she a prim little piece?"
"I don't know," answered Ermengarde angrily. "I only consider that she is the dearest and most beautiful girl in the world."
"Oh, folly! she can't hold a candle to you. I'd like to see you when you're dressed for your first drawing-room. You know, Ermengarde—I may call you Ermengarde, may I not—Ididsay something very nice about your face, even when I abused your dress. You heard that part too, didn't you, sly monkey?"
"Yes," said Ermie, in a low voice. Then she added, "But it is not true about my being more beautiful than Lilias, and I don't like you even to say it."
"Well, puss, you can't help facts: Lilias is very well in her way; you are twice as striking. Oh, there comes George Martineau. I promised to play his accompaniments for him; he will sing some German songs in a minute. You listen when he does. He has a remarkably fine tenor voice for an amateur."
Flora St. Leger glided away from the recess of the window, and Ermengarde was left alone.She did not mind this in the least, her meditations were so pleasant; and Flora had given her such agreeable food for thought that she was quite delighted to be able to have a quiet few minutes to think over everything. She had quite forgiven Flora'sunkindwords for the sake of herflatteringwords. Flora had said the sort of things that Susy had often regaled her with before, but how much more important were the honeyed speeches coming from the lips of this grown-up and beautiful young lady. Ermengarde felt herself quite in love with Flora. Poor Lilias was nothing, compared to the friend she had just made. She was glad to know that Flora was going to spend a couple of days at Glendower. She earnestly hoped that she might see a good deal of her during these few days.
The evening passed somehow, and Ermie managed to escape to her room without again meeting her father.
Petite was helping her to undress, when to her surprise Lady Russell herself came in.
"My dear little Ermengarde," she said. She went up to the young girl and kissed her affectionately. "You can leave us, Petite," said Lady Russell to the maid. When they were alone, she turned to Ermie.
"My love, I am sorry to appear interfering, but you are a motherless little girl. Your dress to-night was very unsuitable."
"Aunt Elizabeth gave it to me," said Ermengarde, pouting.
"Yes, my dear; but, pardon me, we won't go into the question of how you came by the dress. You are at least ten years too young to be dressed in a fanciful costume of that kind. Your father does not wish you to wear that dress again, Ermie, nor to arrange your hair as you did to-night. Have you got a simple white dress with you, my child?"
"No," said Ermie, still pouting and frowning; "I thought the whitechiffonwas exactly what I needed."
"Poor child, you sadly miss your mother. Well, my love, don't do it again; that's all. I will get Petite to alter one of Lilias's frocks for you to wear to-morrow evening. Now, good-night, dear; sleep sound. I am glad you have come to keep our Lilias company for a few days."
Lady Russell kissed Ermengarde and left her. She took no notice of the little girl's sullen face, nor of her rude manner. She went away looking what she was, a gracious motherly woman.
"I am deeply sorry, both for Ermengardeand her father," she said to herself. "Anyone can see that the poor man does not know how to manage all those children. Marjorie takes after her sweet mother, but Ermengarde! she is not an easy child to influence, and yet what a beautiful face she has!"
T
he summer at Glendower was always a gay time. The house was usually full of guests, and as there were horses and carriages, and a yacht and a sailboat, as well as two or three rowboats, the guests had certainly all possible advantages of locomotion.
The next morning was a glorious one, and Lilias and Ermie, after breakfasting together in Lilias's own special boudoir, put on their shady hats, and went out to walk about the grounds. The air was so delicious, and Lilias was so sweet and bright and unselfish, that it was impossible for Ermie not to feel in the best of spirits.
She ceased to desire to be grown up, and was satisfied to run races with Lilias in the simple pink cambric frock, which suited her infinitely better than the gorgeouschiffon.
Ermengarde's life was not without care just then, but at this moment she forgot heranxieties about Susy and Basil, and the broken miniature. She forgot her mortification of the night before, and looked what she was, a happy child.
Lilias was talking eagerly about the plans for the day's entertainment. The whole party were to drive to a certain point about eight miles from Glendower. There they were to picnic, and afterward, with the tide in their favor, would return home by water.
"And mother says I may drive my own ponies," said Lilias. "You haven't seen my Shetlands yet, have you, Ermie? Oh, they are such lovely pets, and father has given me real silver bells for their harness."
Ermengarde was about to make a reply, when a voice was heard calling Lilias.
"I'll be back in a minute, Ermie," said Lilias. "I suppose mother wants me to arrange about something. Don't go far away; I'll be with you directly."
She ran off, and Ermengarde, finding a rustic bench under a tree, sat down and looked around her. She had scarcely done so, when she was joined by Flora St. Leger.
"I saw you alone, and I rushed out to you, my love," said the young lady. "I want to speak to you so badly. Where can we go to be by ourselves?"
"But I am waiting here for Lilias," said Ermengarde.
"Oh, never mind. What does it matter whether Lilias finds you here when she comes back or not? She doesn't really want you, and I do."
Now this was all immensely flattering, for Flora was quite grown up, and Ermengarde had already lost her silly little heart to her.
"I should like to oblige you," she said.
"Well,dooblige me! Let us fly down this side-walk. There's a shrubbery at the farther end, where we shall be quite alone. Come, give me your hand."
Ermengarde could not resist. A moment later she and Flora were pacing up and down in the shrubbery.
"Ermengarde," said Miss St. Leger eagerly, "areyou going to that stupid, stupid picnic to-day?"
"Why, of course," said Ermengarde, looking up in astonishment.
"You may call me Flora if you like, my dear love. What a sweet, pretty pet you are! Now that I look at you by daylight, I think it's a perfect sin that, with a face like yours, you should have to wear short frocks."
Ermie sighed. Miss St. Leger's tone was full of delicious sympathy, and when the nextmoment she slipped her arm round the little girl's waist, Ermie experienced quite a thrill of delight.
"I have fallen in love with you, that's a fact," said Miss St. Leger; "but now, about that picnic; you don't really want to go?"
"Oh, yes, Flora. Lilias is going to drive me in her pony-carriage."
"Lilias! Let her take a child like herself. You ought to be with the grown-ups."
"Everyone treats me exactly as if I were a child," said Ermengarde. "I do think it's a great shame, for I don't feel in the least like one."
"Of course you don't, pet. Now listen to me.I'mnot going to this stupid, horrid picnic."
"Aren't you, Flora?"
"No, I'm going to stay at home, and I want you to stay with me. You won't be dull, I promise you."
"But what excuse can I give?"
"Oh, say you're tired, or have a headache, or something of that sort."
"But I'm not tired, and I haven't got a headache."
Flora pouted.
"After all, you are only a baby," she said. "I made a mistake; I thought you were different."
Ermengarde colored all over her face.
"Do you really, really want me, Flora?" she asked timidly.
"Of course I do, sweet pet; now you will oblige me, won't you?"
"I'd certainly like to, Flora."
"That's a darling. Go back to the house, and lie down on your bed and, when Lilias calls you at the last moment, say you're tired, and you'd like to stay quiet. Of course youaretired, you know; you look it."
"I suppose I am a little bit," said Ermengarde. Her heart felt like lead. Her gayety had deserted her, but she was in the toils of a much older and cleverer girl than herself.
She stole softly back to the house, and when Lilias found her lying on her bed, she certainly told no untruth when she said that her head ached, for both head and heart ached, and she hated herself for deceiving her sweet little friend.
The picnic people departed, quietness settled down over the house, and Ermie, who had cried with vexation at the thought of losing that delightful drive and day of pleasure, had dropped into a dull kind of dose, when a knock came to her room door, and Miss St. Leger entered.
"Now, little martyr," she said, in a cheerfulvoice, "jump up, make yourself smart, put on your best toggery, forget your headache, and come downstairs with me. We are going to have some fun on our own account, now, sweet."
"O Flora, what are you going to do?"
"First of all, we'll have some lunch, and afterward we'll stroll through some woods at the back of the house, and I'll tell you some of my adventures in London last season. Oh, my dear, I did have a time of it! Four entertainments often in one evening! That's what you'll be going through, Ermie, in a year or two."
"Is it?" said Ermengarde. Her eyes did not sparkle any more. Somehow Flora did not seem as fascinating to her as she had done an hour ago. Lilias's disappointed face would come back again and again to her memory. She rose, however, and under Flora's supervision put on the smartest of her morning frocks, and went downstairs to lunch.
When the meal had come to an end, and the servants had withdrawn, Ermie asked Flora another question.
"Are weonlygoing to walk in the woods?" she said. "Is thatallyou asked me to stay at home for!"
"All, you silly puss? Well, no, it isn't quite all. We are going to have tea with somefriends of mine. We are to meet them in the woods—very nice people—you'll be charmed with them. We're all going to have a gypsy tea together in the woods."
"But, Flora, I thought you hated picnics?"
"Oh, what a little innocent goose! I hate some kinds. Not the kind I'm going to take you to. Now run upstairs, and put on your hat. It is time for us to be strolling out."
"But, Flora——"
"No more of your 'buts'—go and get ready. Ah, my sweet child, frowns don't become that charming little face of yours. Now, off with you; put on your most becoming hat, and let us set forth."
Ermengarde walked upstairs as if her feet were weighted with lead. The uneasy feeling, which had begun to arise in her heart when Flora proposed that she should tell a lie in order to remain at home, deepened and deepened. Ermengarde had lots of faults, but she was a little lady by birth and breeding, and it suddenly occurred to her that Flora's flatteries were fulsome, and that Flora herself was not in what her father would call good style. She was not at all brave enough, however, now, to withstand her companion. She put on her white shady hat, drew gauntlet gloves over her hands, caught up her parasol, and ran downstairs.
Flora was waiting for her. Flora's eyes were bright, and her cheeks flushed.
"Now come," she said. "You'll enjoy yourself so much, Ermie, and we must be quick, for we must be back again in the house before our friends return from their picnic."
"O Flora, are you doing anything wrong?"
Flora's face got crimson all over.
"I was mistaken in you, Ermengarde," she said. "I thought you were quite a different sort of girl. I thought you were the kind of girl I could make a friend of. I said so to Kate last night. I offended poor Kate. I made her cry when I said, 'If Ermengarde Wilton was only a year or two older, she'd sympathize with me. I never saw such sympathetic eyes in anyone's face.' Kate was mad with jealousy, but I only wish I had her here now, poor Kate!"
"O Flora, you know I don't mean to be unkind."
"Of course you don't, love; you were only a silly little goose. Now, come along, we have no time to lose."
Flora took Ermengarde's hand and the two girls soon found themselves in the magnificent woods at the back of Glendower. These woods covered many acres of land, and were the great pride of the beautiful old place. There were woods at Wilton Chase, but not like these, andErmengarde stopped several times to exclaim and admire.
Oh, how Basil would have enjoyed this walk! How easily he would have climbed those trees! how merrily he would have laughed! how gay his stories would have been! And Basil might have been here to-day, but for Ermengarde; he might have been here, driving and riding with Lilias; enjoying the woods, and the sea, and the picnic fun.
Basil, who was the best of all boys, the best, and the most honorable, was at home in disgrace because of her. Ermie's heart beat heavily. Her footsteps slackened. She scarcely heard Flora's gay chatter.
After walking a mile or so, the girls found themselves in the midst of a clearing in the woods. Here some carriages and horses were drawn up, and a gay party of girls, one or two round-faced and stout matrons, and a few young men were standing together.
The girls and the young men raised a noisy shout when they saw Flora, and rushed to meet her.
"How good of you to come, Florrie! We were half afraid you couldn't manage it."
"Oh, I promised last night," said Flora hastily. "I thought George told you. How do you do, George? Maisie, let me introduce toyou my great friend, Miss Wilton. Miss Wilton, Miss Burroughs." Then Flora tripped on in front by the side of the clumsy-looking George, and Ermie found herself standing face to face with Miss Burroughs. She was a loud-voiced, vulgar-looking girl.
"Come along," she said almost roughly to her little companion. "I wonder what Flora meant by walking off in that fashion. Well, I don't suppose you want me to chaperon you, Miss—I forget your name."
"Wilton," said Ermengarde, in a haughty voice.
"Miss Wilton! I don't know why Flora left you on my hands in that style. She just introduced us and rushed off—just like Florrie, so independent and selfish. I never knew anyone so selfish. But I have my own fun to see after. Oh, there's Florrie in the distance, I'll shout after her. Flora! Florrie! Flora St. Leger!"
Flora turned.
"What is it, Maisie?" she screamed back.
"What am I to do with Miss Wilton? I'm going for a long walk with the Slater girls. She can't possibly go so far, and besides, we don't want children."
"Isn't Fanny here?" screamed back Flora.
"Yes, and Tootsie."
"Well, let her stay with Fanny and Tootsie for a bit."
Flora turned and walked down the hill rapidly with her companion. Maisie caught hold of Ermengarde's hand, and began to run with her under the trees.
Presently she came across a stout little girl of about eleven, accompanied by a stouter little boy who might be a year older.
"Fanny," said Maisie, "this child's name is Wilton. She'll stay and play with you and Tootsie for a bit. Now be good children, all of you. Ta-ta! I'll be back in time for tea."
Maisie vanished round a corner, and Ermengarde found herself alone with Fanny and Tootsie.