T
hey were not an agreeable-looking pair; they had evidently been dining, and their faces were sticky. They had also been quarreling, for they cast scowling glances at each other, and were in far too bad a temper to be civil to the newcomer.
"I don't want her to play with us," said Tootsie, and he half turned his back.
"I'm sure then she shan't play with me," said Fanny. "I don't wish to play with anyone, I'm sick of play. It's just like that horrid Maisie."
"She isn't a bit more horrid than you and Tootsie!" suddenly remarked Ermengarde, finding her voice, and speaking with what seemed to the two children slow and biting emphasis. "You're all horrid together; I never met such horrid people. You are none of you ladies and gentlemen. I wouldn't play with you for the world! Good-by; I'm going home."
Ermengarde turned her back, and began towalk rapidly away from the picnic party. Whether she would have succeeded in finding her way back to Glendower remains a mystery, for she had not gone a dozen yards before she encountered a stout old lady, who spread out her arms as she approached, and made herself look like a great fan.
"Whither away, now, little maid of the woods?" she said. "Oh, I suppose you are the little girl called Wilton, whom Florrie brought over from Glendower with her. Maisie told me of you."
"I'm going home; please let me pass," said Ermengarde.
"Oh, highty-tighty! not a bit of you, dearie. You'll stay here till Florrie wants to go back. You'd get her into no end of a scrape if you were to leave her now. You must stick to her, my love. It would be unkind to desert poor Florrie in that fashion. I thought Maisie had left you with Fanny and Tootsie."
"Yes, but they are horrid rude children. I could not possibly play with them."
"Well, they are handfuls," said the stout lady. "I'm their mother, so I ought to know. You don't mind staying with me, then, love, do you?"
"I'd much rather go home," repeated Ermengarde.
"But you can't do that, my dear child, so there's no use thinking about it. Come, let us walk about and be cozy, and you tell me all about Glendower."
The old lady now drew Ermengarde's slim hand through her arm, and she found herself forced to walk up and down the greensward in her company.
Mrs. Burroughs was a downright sort of person. After her fashion she was kind to Ermie, but it never entered into her head to flatter her. She was a gossiping sort of body, and she wanted the child to recount to her all the tittle-tattle she knew about Glendower. Ermengarde had neither the power nor the inclination to describe the goings on at Glendower graphically. The stout lady soon got tired of her short answers, and began to survey her from head to foot in a critical and not too kindly spirit.
"Dear, dear!" she said, "what an overgrown poor young thing you are! But we must all go through the gawky age; we must each of us take our turn. Maisie is just through her bad time, but when she was fourteen, wasn't she a show just! You're fourteen, ain't you, my love?"
"Yes," said Ermengarde.
"Ah, I thought as much! I said so the moment I set eyes on you. I knew it by yourwalk. Neither fish, flesh nor good red herring is a maid of fourteen; she's all right once she passes seventeen, so you take heart, my love. I dare say you'll be a fine girl then."
"Mrs. Burroughs," interrupted Ermengarde, "I really must look for Flora. It is time for us to be going back. I must find her, and if she won't come, I'll go alone."
She wrenched her hand away from the stout lady's arm, and before she could prevent her, began running through the woods to look for Flora.
Miss St. Leger was nowhere in sight, so Ermie, feeling her present position past enduring, determined that, whatever happened, she would go back to Glendower. She was fortunate enough to meet one of the gamekeepers, and guided by his instructions presently found herself back in the house. Weary and stiff, her head aching, she crept up to her room, and threw herself on her bed. Oh, what horrid people Flora knew! Oh, what a horrid girl Flora really was!
Ermengarde wondered how she could ever have liked or admired Flora, or made a friend of such a girl. She lay on the bed and listened intently, wondering what would happen if the picnic party returned before Flora chose to put in an appearance. In that case, would she,Ermengarde, be blamed? Would suspicion attach to her? Would her father discover how deceitfully she had behaved?
"He would send me straight home if he knew it," thought Ermie. "Oh, what a lot of scrapes I've been getting into lately! What with Susy and the miniature, and Miss Nelson and Basil, and now this horrid mean Flora? Oh dear, oh dear? I'm sure I'm not a bit happy. I wish I could get straight somehow, only it's hopeless. I seem to get deeper and deeper into a dark wood every day. Oh dear! there is nothing whatever for me but to hope that things won't be found out."
There came a gentle knock at Ermengarde's door.
"Come in," she said, in a shaking voice. Her fears made her tremble at every sound.
Petite appeared, bringing in a tempting little tray, with tea, and bread-and-butter, and cake. She inquired if Ermengarde knew where Miss St. Leger was. Ermie murmured something which the French maid tried to interpret in vain.
"I'll look for ma'mselle in her room," she said.
She arranged the tea-tray comfortably for Ermie, and withdrew.
The little girl drank her tea; it soothed and comforted her, and she was just falling into adoze, when her room door was opened without any preliminary knock, and Flora, flushed, panting, and frightened, ran in.
"Ermengarde, they are all returning. They are in the avenue already. Oh, how cruel of you to come home without me! You might have got me into an awful scrape."
"I could not help it, Flora. You should not have left me with such people. They are not at all in our set. Father would not wish me to know them."
"Oh, nonsense! They are as good as anybody."
"They are not; they are not good at all. They are vulgar and horrid. I am surprised you should have taken me to see such people."
"Well, well, child, it's all over now. You'll never tell about to-day, will you, Ermengarde?"
"Oh, I suppose not, Flora."
"Yousupposenot? But you must promise faithfully. You don't know what mischief you'll make, if you tell. Promise now, Ermengarde; promise that you won't tell."
"Very well, I promise," replied Ermie, in a tired-out voice.
"That's a darling. I knew you were a pretty, sweet little pet. If ever I can do anything for you, Ermie, I will. Kiss me now, love. I hear their voices in the hall, and I must fly."
Flora rushed noisily out of the room, and Ermie breathed a sigh of relief.
That evening at dinner the stout old gentleman was very kind to the little girl who, with her hair down her back, and in a very simple muslin frock, sat by his side. In fact he took a great deal more notice of her than he did of the richly-attired young lady of the previous evening. In the course of the meal he imparted one piece of information to Ermengarde, which put her into extremely good spirits. He told her that Miss St. Leger and her mamma were leaving by a very early train on the following morning. Ermengarde quite laughed when she heard this, and the old gentleman gave her a quick pleased wink, as much as to say, "I thought you were too sensible to be long influenced by the flattery of that young person."
Flora herself avoided Ermengarde all through the evening. She left her entirely to the society of her child friend Lilias, and finally went to bed without even bidding her good-by.
I
t was rather late on the evening of the second day after Ermengarde and her father had gone to Glendower, that Marjorie, who had been playing with the nursery children, and dragging the big baby about, and otherwise disporting herself after the fashion which usually induces great fatigue, crept slowly upstairs to her room.
She was really awfully tired, for the day had been a hot one, and nurse had a headache, and Clara, the nursery-maid, was away on a holiday. So Marjorie had scarcely breathing time all day long. Now she was going to bed, and the poor little girl looked rather limp and abject as she crept along the passage to her room.
"I do hope Ermie is having a jolly time," she murmured to herself. "I can just fancy how delicious it is at Glendower now. It is such a beautiful, perfect place, just hanging over the sea. And there's going to be a moon. And the moon will shine on the sea, and make it silver."
Marjorie reached her room. She climbed up on the window-ledge and gazed out.
"Yes, the moon is getting up," she said, speaking her thoughts aloud, which was one of her old-fashioned ways. "Oh, how beautiful the moon must look on the sea. I wonder if Ermie is looking at it. Not that poor Ermie cares for moons, or things of that sort; but Lilias does. Who's that? O Basil, is it you? Have you come to talk to me? How awfully jolly! There's lots of room for both of us on the window-ledge. Squeeze in, Basil; there, aren't we snug? Please, may I put my arm round your neck to keep myself tight?"
"All right, Mag. Only don't quite throttle me if you can help it. I thought you had some one with you. I heard you chattering."
"Only to myself. It's a way I have."
"Well, go on, never mind me; I'm nobody."
"Oh, aren't you, just! Why, you are Basil, you're the eldest of us all and the wisest, and the best."
"Hush, Maggie."
Basil's brow was actually contracted with pain.
"Yes, you are," repeated Marjorie, who saw the look, and began to feel her little heart waxing very hot. "O Basil, I meant to spend all to-day and yesterday clearing you;yes, I did, darling, I did! And I never thought, when it was made to be my plain duty to stay at home, that I was only to help in the nursery all day long. O Basil, Iamso sorry."
"I don't know what you mean, Maggie, by clearing me," said Basil. "Clearing me of what?"
"Why, of course, you have been unjustly accused by father."
"Stop, Maggie. I have not been unjustly accused by anyone."
"Basil, you know you didn't break the little sister's miniature, nor steal it from Miss Nelson. You know you never did!"
Basil put his arm round Marjorie's waist.
"You think not?" he said with a slow, rather glad sort of smile.
"Thinknot? I know you didn't do it!Youdo anything mean and horrid and wicked and shabby like that!You?Look here, Basil, even if you told me you did it, I wouldn't believe you."
"All right, Mag; then I needn't say anything."
"Only you might just tell me——"
"What?"
"That you didn't do it. That you are shamefully and falsely suspected."
"No, I could not tell you that, Maggie. My father has every right to be annoyed with me."
"Basil!"
"I can't explain, my dear little Mag. You must just take it on trust with me. I am not falsely accused of anything."
Marjorie unlinked her hand from Basil's clasp. She sprang off the window-ledge on to the floor.
"Look here," she said, "I can't stand this! There's a mystery, and I'm going to clear you. Oh, yes, I will; I am determined!"
"No, Maggie, you are not to clear me. I don't wish to be cleared."
"Basil, what do you mean?"
"What I say. I don't wish to be cleared."
"Then father is to go on being angry with you?"
Basil suppressed a quick sigh.
"I'm afraid he will, for a bit, Maggie," he answered. "He'll get over it; I'm not the first fellow who has had to live a thing down."
"But when you never did the thing?"
"We won't go into that. I've got to live it down. Boys often have rough kinds of things to get through, and this is one. It doesn't matter a bit. Don't fret, Mag. I assure you, I don't feel at all bad about it."
"Oh, look at the moon!" suddenly exclaimedMarjorie. "Isn't she a lady? isn't she graceful? I wish those trees wouldn't hide her; she'd be so lovely, if we could have a good look at her."
"We can't half see her here," said Basil. "Let's come into father's room. We'll have a splendid view from one of his windows."
Marjorie had forgotten all about her fatigue now. She took Basil's hand, and in a silent ecstasy which was part of her emotional little nature, went with him into the big bedroom where Mr. Wilton slept. They could see splendidly all over the park from here, and as they looked, Marjorie poured out a good lot of her fervent little soul to her favorite brother.
Basil was never a boy to say much about his feelings. Once he stooped down and kissed Marjorie.
"What a romantic little puss you are," he said. Then he told her she must be sleepy, and sent her away to bed.
"But you won't stay in this great lonely room by yourself, Basil."
"This room lonely?" said Basil with a smile. "I used to sit here with mother. And her picture hangs there. I'm glad of the chance of having a good look at it in the moonlight."
"Basil, do let me stay and look at it with you."
"No, Maggie. I don't want to be unkind. You are a dear little thing, but it would help me best to be alone with mother's picture. You don't misunderstand me, Mag?"
"Of course I don't. Good-night,dearBasil; good-night, darling. This talk with you has been as good as two or three days at Glendower."
Marjorie ran off, and Basil was alone. He went and knelt down under the girlish picture of his dead mother. The moonbeams were shining full into the room, and they touched his dark head, and lit up his young mother's fair face. Basil said no words aloud. He knelt quietly for a moment; then he rose, and with tears in his eyes gave another long look at the picture as he turned to leave the room.
H
udson was waiting for Marjorie when she came back to her bedroom.
"I don't know what to do, miss," she said to the little girl. "I'm aware it's Mr. Wilton's orders, but still, what am I to do with the poor woman? She's crying fit to break her heart, and it do seem cruel not to sympathize with her. It's a shame to worry you, Miss Maggie, but you're a very understanding little lady for your years."
"Well, Hudson, I'll help if I can," said Marjorie. "Who's the poor woman? and what is she crying about?"
"It's Mrs. Collins, my dear. It seems that Susy isn't going on at all satisfactory. The doctor says she has a kind of low fever, no way catching, but very bad for the poor little girl. Susy cries quite piteous to see Miss Ermengarde, and it does seem cruel that under the circumstances there should be distinctions in rank."
"But Ermie is away," said Marjorie. "Susy can't see her, however much she wishes to. Did you tell Mrs. Collins that?"
"I did, dear, and she said she daren't go back to the poor child with a message of that sort; that she was so fretted, and contrary, and feverish as it was, that she quite feared what would happen."
"But what's to be done, Hudson? Ermie really is far away, and nothing, nothing that we can do can bring her back to-night."
"I know, Miss Maggie, but poor women with only children are apt to be unreasonable, and Mrs. Collins does go on most bitter. She says she knows there's a secret on Susy's mind, and she feels certain sure that the child will never take a turn for the better until she can let out what's preying on her. Mrs. Collins is certain that Miss Ermengarde knows something about Susy, and that they have had some words between them, and she says there'll be no rest for the poor little creature until she and Miss Ermie have made whatever is wrong straight."
Marjorie stood looking very thoughtful.
"It's late, my dear, and you're tired," said the servant. "It seems a shame to worry you. Hadn't you better go to bed?"
"Oh, don't, Hudson," said Marjorie. "Whatdoes it matter about my going to bed, or even if I am a bit tired? I'm thinking about poor Susy, and about Ermie. I've got a thought—I wonder—Hudson, I wish father hadn't said so firmly that Ermengarde was not to see Susy Collins."
"Well, missy, my master is in the right. Little ladies do themselves no good when they make friends and equals of children like Susy. They do themselves no good, and they do still more harm to the poor children, whose heads get filled up with vain thoughts. But that's neither here nor there, Miss Maggie, in the present case. Illness alters everything, and levels all ranks, and if Miss Ermengarde was at home, she ought to go and see Susy, and that without a minute's delay, and your good father would be the very first to tell her so, Miss Maggie."
"Then I know what I'll do," said Marjorie. "I'll go straight away this minute to Miss Nelson, and ask her ifImay go and see Susy. I dare say she'll let me—I'll try what I can do, anyhow. You run down and tell Mrs. Collins, Hudson. I'm not Ermie, but I dare say Susy would rather see me than no one."
Miss Nelson was writing letters in her own room, when Marjorie with a flushed eager face burst in upon her. She made her requestwith great earnestness. Miss Nelson listened anxiously.
"I will see Mrs. Collins," she said at last. The poor woman was brought up to the governess's room, and at sight of her evident grief Miss Nelson at once saw that she must act on her own independent judgment, and explain matters by and by to Mr. Wilton.
"Ermengarde is away," she said to Mrs. Collins, "but if the case is really serious, she can be sent for, and in the meantime I will take Marjorie myself to the cottage, and if your little girl wishes to see her, she can do so. Fetch your hat, Marjorie, dear, and a warm wrap, for the dews are heavy to-night."
Marjorie was not long in getting herself ready, and twenty minutes later the poor anxious mother and her two visitors found themselves in the cottage.
"Look here, Mrs. Collins," said Marjorie, the moment they entered the house. "I want you not to tell Susy I have come. I'd like to slip upstairs very gently, and just see if I can do anything for her. I'll promise to be awfully quiet, and not to do her a scrap of harm."
Mrs. Collins hesitated for a moment. Marjorie was not the Miss Wilton Susy was asking for, and she feared exciting the poor refractory little girl by not carrying out her wishes exactly.But as Susy's tired feverish voice was distinctly heard in the upper room, and as Miss Nelson said, "I think you can fully trust Marjorie; she is a most tender little nurse," Mrs. Collins yielded.
"You must do as you think best, miss," she said.
Marjorie did not wait for another word. She ran lightly up the narrow stairs, and entered the room where the sick child was sitting up in bed.
"Is that you, Miss Ermie?" said Susy. "I thought you were never coming—never. I thought you had forsook me, just when I am so bad, and like to die."
"It's me, Susy," said Marjorie, coming forward. "Ermengarde's away, so I came."
"Oh, I don't want you, Miss Marjorie," said Susan.
She flung herself back on the bed, and taking up the sheet threw it over her face. Marjorie went up to the bedside.
"There ain't a bit of use in your staying, Miss Marjorie," continued Susy, in a high-pitched, excited voice. "You don't know nothing 'bout me and the picture. You ain't no good at all."
Marjorie's heart gave a great bound. The picture! That must surely mean the broken miniature. "Basil, dear Basil," whispered the littlegirl, "you may not have to live down all the horrid, wicked, cruel suspicion after all."
"I wish you'd go away, Miss Marjorie," said Susy from under the bedclothes. "I tell you miss, you can't do me one bit of good. You don't know nothing about me and the picture."
"But I can hold your hand, Susy," said Marjorie; "and if your hand is hot, mine is lovely and cool. If you're restless, let me hold your hand. I often do so to baby if he can't sleep, and it quiets him ever so."
Susy did not respond for a minute or two, but presently her poor little hot hand was pushed out from under the bedclothes. Marjorie grasped it firmly. Then she took the other hand, and softly rubbed the hot, dry fingers. Susy opened her burning eyes, flung aside the sheet, and looked at her quiet little visitor.
"You comfort me a bit, miss," she said. "I don't feel so mad with restlessness as I did when you came in."
"That's because I have got soothing hands," said Marjorie. "Some people have, and I suppose I'm one. The children at home always go to sleep when I hold their hands. Don't you think you could shut your eyes and try to go to sleep now, Susy?"
"Oh, miss, there's a weight on my mind. You can't sleep when you're ill and like todie, and there's a weight pressing down on you."
"I don't believe you'll die, Susy; and if you've a weight on your mind, you can tell God about it, you know."
"No, miss, God's awful angry with me."
"He's never angry with us, if we are sorry about things," answered Marjorie. "He's our Father, and fathers always forgive their children when they are sorry. If you are sorry, Susy, you can tell God, your Father, and he'll be sure to forgive you at once."
"I'm sorry enough, miss, but I think Miss Ermie is as bad as me. I'd never have done it, never, but for Miss Ermie. I think it's mean of her to keep away from me when I'm ill."
"Ermengarde is not at home, Susy; but if you want her very badly, if you really want her for anything important, I will write to her, and she shall come home—I know she will."
"Thank you, Miss Marjorie; I didn't think nothing at all about what I did when I was well, but now it seems to stay with me day and night, and I'm sorry I was so spiteful and mean to Miss Nelson. But it wasn'tmyfault, miss—no, that it wasn't—that the picture was broke. What is it, Miss Marjorie? How you start."
"Nothing," said Marjorie; "only perhaps, Susy, you'd rather tell Ermie the rest; and sheshallcome back; I promise you that that she shall come back."
"Thank you, Miss Marjorie; you are real good, and you comfort me wonderfully when you hold my hands."
"Well, I wish you'd let me put your sheets a little straight; there, that's better. Now I'm going to turn your pillow. And Susy, do let me push all that tangled hair out of your eyes. Now I'm going to kneel here, and you must shut your eyes. I promise you shall see Ermie. Good-night, Susy; go to sleep."
Miss Nelson waited quietly in the little kitchen downstairs. The voices in Susy's sickroom ceased to murmur; presently Mrs. Collins stole softly upstairs. She returned in a few minutes accompanied by Marjorie. There were tears in the poor woman's eyes.
"My Susy's in a blessed, beautiful sleep!" she exclaimed. "And it's all owing to this dear little lady; may Heaven reward her! I don't know how to thank you, Miss Marjorie. Susy hasn't been in a blessed healthful sleep like that since she broke her leg. It puts heart into me to see the child looking quiet and peaceful once again. And now I'll go upstairs and sit with her."
Miss Nelson and Marjorie walked quickly home together. When they reached the house,the little girl made one request of her governess.
"I want to write to Ermie. May I do it to-night?"
"No, my love, I must forbid that. You are much too tired."
"But itisso important—far more important than I can tell you, and I promised Susy."
"Maggie, do you want Ermengarde to come home?"
"Oh, yes; she must come home."
"Then you shall send her a telegram in the morning."
"But that seems cruel. My letter will be far, far better. I could explain things a little in a letter."
Miss Nelson considered for a moment.
"I have great trust in you, Maggie," she said. "I won't question you, for I daresay you have heard something from Susan Collins in confidence. I am sure you would not wish to recall Ermengarde unless there was great need."
"There is; oh, really, there is."
"Then you shall go to bed now, and I will send you to Glendower with Hudson by the first train in the morning."
T
he day was lovely, and Ermengarde woke once more in the best of spirits. Notwithstanding her unhappy day, she had enjoyed herself much the night before. She had worn Lilias's simple white dress, and Marjorie's Maltese cross with its narrow gold chain had given to her appearance just that finish which best suited her youth.
Ermengarde had looked remarkably pretty, and many people had noticed the fact, and one or two of Mr. Wilton's gentlemen friends had congratulated him in quite audible tones on having such a charming and lovely little daughter. Ermengarde had herself heard these words, and had seen a glow, half of sadness half of pleasure, light up her father's dark eyes, and her own heart had swelled within her. She began to know the difference between real praise and flattery. She thought how fascinating it would all be when she was really grown up, and dull lessons were over, and Miss Nelsonwas no longer of the slightest consequence, when she could dress as she pleased, and do as she liked.
In the agreeable feelings which these thoughts gave her, she forgot about Basil's displeasure. She ceased to remember that the dearest friendship of her life was in danger of being broken, was so jeopardized that it was scarcely likely that the severed threads could ever be reunited with their old strength. Ermengarde was away from all unpleasant things, her fears about Flora were completely removed, and it was in her selfish and pleasure-loving nature to shut herself away from the memory of what worried her, and to enter fully into the delights of her present life. She rose gayly, and no one could have been merrier than she when she joined Lilias at the breakfast-table. The two girls had this meal again alone in Lilias Russell's pretty boudoir.
"Shall we ride, or go out in the yacht?" said Lilias to her companion. "I heard father making all arrangements for a sail last night, and I know he'll take us if we ask him. Which would you like best, Ermie? If you are a sailor, I can promise you a good jolly time on board theAlbatross. I was so sorry you were not with us yesterday."
"Oh, I am a capital sailor," said Ermengarde."We were at the Isle of Wight last year, and Basil and I sailed nearly every day. Maggie used to get sick, but we never did."
"There's just a lovely breeze getting up to-day," said Lilias. "I'm so glad you like sailing, Ermie, for I know we shall just have a perfect time. If you'll stay here for a few minutes, I'll run and ask father if he will take us with them."
Lilias stepped out through the open window, and Ermengarde leant against a trellised pillar in the veranda, and looked out over the peaceful summer scene, her pretty eyes full of a dreamy content. She was so happy at the thought that Flora was really gone that she felt very good and amiable; she liked herself all the better for having such nice, comfortable, kindly thoughts about everyone. Even Eric could scarcely have extracted a sharp retort from her at this moment.
Lilias came flying back. "It's all right!" she exclaimed. "TheAlbatrosssails in an hour, and we are to meet father and Mr. Wilton, and the other gentlemen who are going to sail, on the quay at half-past eleven. I shall wear my white serge boating-costume. Have you anything pretty to put on, Ermie?"
"Nothing as nice as that," said Ermengarde with a jealous look. "There's my dark blueserge, but it will look dowdy beside your white."
"I have two white serge boating-dresses," said Lilias. "I will lend you one if you will let me. Our figures are almost exactly alike, and we are the same height. My dress had scarcely to be altered at all for you last night. Come, Ermie, don't look so solemn. You shall look charming, I promise, and I will make you up such a posy to wear in your button-hole. Now, shall we stroll about, or just sit here and be lazy?"
"Do let us sit here," said Ermengarde. "You don't know what a comfort the stillness is, Lily. At this hour at home all the little ones are about, and they make such a fuss and noise. I think it's the worst management to allow children to keep bothering one at all hours of the day."
"Well, I'm not tried in that way," said Lilias, with a quick half-suppressed sigh, "and as I adore children, I am afraid I can't quite sympathize—O Ermie, what a queer old shandrydan is coming up the avenue! Who can be in it? Who can be coming here at this hour? Why, I do declare it's the one-horse fly from the station! Noah's Ark, we call that fly, it's so rusty and fusty, and so little in demand; for you know, when peoplecome to Glendower, we always send for them, and I don't think the station is any use except for shunting purposes, and to land our visitors. Whocanbe coming in Noah's Ark?"
Just then a very rough little head, surmounted by a brown straw hat, was pushed out of one of the windows of the old fly; a lot of wild, long, disordered hair began to wave in the breeze; and a hand was waved frantically to the two girls, as they sat in the cool veranda.
"Why, it's Maggie!" exclaimed Lilias. "It's Maggie, the duck, the sweet! How delicious!Whathas brought her?"
She took a flying leap down the veranda steps, and across the lawn, to meet the old fly.
"It's Maggie!" echoed Ermengarde, who did not rush to meet her little sister. "What has happened? whathasgone wrong now?"
She rose from the luxurious chair in which she was lounging and, throwing back her head, gazed watchfully at the fervent meeting which was taking place between Lilias and Marjorie.
"Detestable of Maggie to follow me like this!" muttered Ermengarde. "I wonder Miss Nelson allows it. Really our governess is worse than useless, not a bit the sort of person to teach girls in our position. Now, whatcanbe up? Oh, and there's Hudson! Poor, prim,proper old Hudson. She has come to take care of the darling cherub who never does wrong. Well I think it's taking a great liberty with Lady Russell's establishment, and I only trust and hope father will give it hotly to Miss Nelson."
"Well, Maggie." Ermengarde advanced a step or two in a very languid manner. "Oh, don't throttle me, please. How very hot and messy you look! and what has broughtyouto Glendower?"
"The dear kind train, and the dear kind Noah's Ark," interrupted Lilias. "Don't I bless them both! Mag, I want to show you my grotto; I arranged the shells in the pattern you spoke of last year. They look awfully well, only I'm not quite sure that I like such a broad row of yellow shells round the edge."
Lilias spoke with some rapidity. She was standing opposite the two sisters; she was not at all an obtuse girl, and she felt annoyed at Ermengarde's coldness to Marjorie, and wanted to make up to her by extra enthusiasm on her own part. Lilias had never seen the home side of Ermie's character, and was amazed at the change in her expression.
"O Lily, I should love to look at the grotto!" exclaimed Marjorie, "and perhaps I'll have time for just one peep. But I'm goingback again by the next train, and it's awfully important that I should speak to Ermie—awfully important."
Marjorie was never a pretty child, and she certainly did not look her best at that moment. Fatigue had deprived her of what slight color she ever possessed; her hair was dreadfully tossed, her holland frock rumpled and not too clean, and her really beautiful gray eyes looked over-anxious. Marjorie's whole little face at that moment had a curious careworn look, out of keeping with its round and somewhat babyish form.
"If you want to talk to Ermie, I'll run away," said Lilias. "I'll find mother, and tell her that you've come, Maggie; and we must discover some expedient for keeping you, now that you have arrived."
When Lilias finished speaking she left the room, and Ermengarde instantly turned to Marjorie.
"This is really too silly!" she said. "I felt obliged to you two days ago, but I'd rather never have come than see you here now making such an exhibition of yourself. Do you know that you have taken a very great liberty, forcing yourself into the house this way?"
"I'm going back again by the next train,Ermie, and Ididthink that you'd rather have me than a telegram."
"Youthan a telegram? I want neither you nor a telegram. Maggie, I think you are the most exasperating child in the world!"
"Well, Ermie, you won't let me speak. I've come about Susy; she let out all about the miniature to me last night."
"About the miniature!" echoed Ermengarde rather faintly. Her defiant manner left her; her face turned pale. "The miniature!" she said. Then her eyes blazed with anger. "Why haveyouinterfered with Susy Collins, Maggie?" she said. "Have you disobeyed my father, too?"
"No, Ermie. I'll tell you about it—you have got to listen. I'll tell you in as few words as I can. You know, Ermie, that Basil has got into trouble with father. He gave Miss Nelson back the miniature, and father thought that Basil had first stolen it, and then broken it; and father was very, very angry with Basil, so Basil wouldn't come to Glendower, although he wanted to. And last night Basil came to sit with me in my room, and I told him I meant to clear him, for I knew as well as anything that he had never stolen the picture or broken it, or done anything shabby. And Basil said that I wasnotto clear him, that he didn'twish to be cleared, and that he'd live it down. Basil and I went away to father's room to look at the moon, and Basil asked me to leave him there, for he wanted to be alone with mother's picture. Then I went away, and it was late, and I was going to bed, when Hudson came and told me that Mrs. Collins had come, and that she wanted you; and Mrs. Collins was crying awfully, and she said Susy was very bad, and she was always calling out for you, and if you didn't go to see her, perhaps Susy would die.
"So then I went to see Susy, and she really was awfully ill; she had fever, and was half delirious; and she talked about the picture, and about its being broken, and she wanted you so dreadfully. Then I promised I'd bring you to her to-day, and that quieted her a little, and no one else heard what she said about the miniature. Miss Nelson went with me to the Collinses' cottage last night, and I told her how important it was that you should see Susy, but she does not know the reason. No one knows the reason but me."
"And you——" said Ermengarde.
"Yes, Ermie, I know. I couldn't help guessing, but I haven't told. I have left that for you."
Ermengarde turned her head away.
"I thought I'd be better than a telegram," began Marjorie again.
"O Maggie, do stop talking for a moment, and let me think."
Ermengarde pressed her hand to her forehead. She felt utterly bewildered, and a cold fear, the dread of exposure and discovery, gave a furtive miserable expression to her face.
Just then Lilias came into the room.
"I hope your great confab is over?" she exclaimed. "Mother is so pleased you have arrived, Maggie, and of course she insists on your remaining, now that you have come. Hudson can go home and pack your things, and send them to you, and you shall come out in the yacht with us; we'll have twice as jolly a day as we would have had without you, Maggie."
"But I must go home, really," said Marjorie, "and—so must Ermie, too, I'm afraid."
"Yes," said Ermengarde, rousing herself with an effort, and coming forward. "Maggie has brought me bad news. There's a poor little girl at home, the daughter of our head gamekeeper. She broke her leg a week ago, and she's very ill now with fever or something, and she's always calling for me. I—I—used to be kind to her, and I think I must go. Maggie says she never rests calling for me."
"It's very noble of you to go," said Lilias. "This quite alters the case. Let me run and tell mother. Oh, how grieved I am! but dear Ermie, of course you do right. That poor little girl—I can quite understand her looking up to you and loving you, Ermie. Let me fly to mother and tell her. She'll be so concerned!"
In a very few moments Lady Russell and Mr. Wilton had both joined the conference. Mr. Wilton looked grave, and asked a few rather searching questions, but Marjorie's downright little narrative of Susy's sufferings softened everyone, and Ermengarde presently left the house, with the chastened halo of a saint round her young head.
Her saint-like conduct, and the romantic devotion of the poor retainer's daughter, made really quite a pretty story, and was firmly believed in by Lady Russell and Lilias. Mr. Wilton, however, had his doubts. "Ermie in the rôle of the self-denying martyr is too new and foreign for me," he muttered. "There's something at the back of this. Basil in disgrace (which he well deserves, the impudent young scoundrel), and Ermengarde the friend and support of the suffering poor! these things are too new to be altogether consistent. There's something at the back of this mystery, and I shall go home and see what it means to-morrow."
E
rmengarde was sitting in her own room, and Marjorie was standing by her side. It was the day after Ermie's unexpected return home. She had spent a couple of hours with Susy, and Miss Nelson had given her a grave but kind welcome. Now the first day was over, the first night had gone by, and Ermengarde was sitting, resting her cheek upon her hand, by the open window of her pretty bedroom.
Marjorie was lolling against the window-ledge; her anxious eyes were fixed on Ermengarde, who was looking away from her, and whose pretty face wore a particularly sullen expression.
"Well, Ermie, what will you do?" asked Marjorie, in a gentle voice.
"Oh, I don't know—don't worry me."
"But you must make up your mind. Miss Nelson is waiting."
"Let her wait; what do I care?"
"Ermie, what's the good of talking like that? Miss Nelson is our governess, and mother used to be fond of her. You know it was mother asked her to come and take care of us when she knew that God was going to take her away. So, Ermie, there's no use in being disrespectful to her, for, even if it wasn't very wrong, father wouldn't allow it for a minute. Ermie, do you know that father has come back?"
"No!What can he have come back for?" Ermengarde raised her brows in some alarm. "I can't make out why he should have shortened his visit to Glendower," she added anxiously.
"I can't tell you, Ermie. He's talking to Basil now; they are walking up and down in the shrubbery."
"Oh, well, Basil—Basil is all right."
Marjorie felt a flood of indignant color filling her face.
"Basil won't tell," she said, in her sturdy voice. "That's quite true. Basil has promised, and he'dneverbreak his word. But Miss Nelson is different, and she—she has determined to find out the truth."
Ermengarde sprang from her chair.
"What do you mean, Maggie?"
"I'm awfully sorry, Ermie, but I really mean what I say. Miss Nelson says she is determined to find out everything. She has sentfor you to speak to you. You had much better come to her. Oh, now, I knew you'd be too late! That's her knock at the door."
The rather determined knock was immediately followed by the lady in question. Miss Nelson was a very gentle woman, but her eyes now quite blazed with anger.
"Ermengarde, it is quite a quarter of an hour since I sent for you."
Ermie lowered her eyes—she did not speak. Miss Nelson seated herself.
"Why did you not come to me, Ermengarde, when I sent Maggie for you?"
"I—I didn't want to."
Miss Nelson was silent for a minute.
"I anticipated your saying something of this kind," she remarked presently. "So, as it is necessary we should meet, I took the trouble to come to you. Ermengarde, look at me."
With a great effort Ermie raised her eyes.
"What did Susy Collins say to you, yesterday?"
"I—I don't want to tell you."
"I desire you to tell me."
"I—I can't."
"You mean you won't."
"I can't tell you, Miss Nelson."
Ermengarde clasped and unclasped her hands. Her expression was piteous.
Miss Nelson was again silent for a few minutes.
"Ermengarde," she said then, "this is not the time for me to say I am sorry for you. I have a duty to perform, and there are moments when duties must come first of all. Susan Collins's excitement, her almost unnatural desire to see you, have got to be accounted for. There is a cloud over Basil that must be explained away. There is a mystery about a little old miniature of mine: it was stolen by some one, and broken by some one. The story of that miniature somebody must tell. At the risk of your father's displeasure I took Maggie to visit Susy Collins the other night. You were away on a visit with your father, and I allowed Maggie to fetch you home. There is undoubtedly an adequate reason for this, but I must know it, for I have to explain matters to Mr. Wilton; therefore, Ermengarde, if you will not tell me fully and frankly and at once all that occurred between you and Susy yesterday, I will go myself and see the Collinses, and will learn the whole story from Susy's own lips."
"Oh, you will not," said Ermengarde, "You never could be so cruel!"
All her self-possession had deserted her. Her face was white, her voice trembled.
"I must go, Ermie. Wretched child, whydon't you save yourself by telling me all you know at once?"
"I cannot, I cannot!"
Ermengarde turned her head away. Miss Nelson rose to leave the room.
"I am going to my room," she said; "I will wait there for half an hour. If at the end of half an hour you do not come to me, I must go to see the Collinses."
Ermengarde covered her face with her hands. Miss Nelson left the room.
"Ermie," said Marjorie in her gentlest voice.
"I wish you'd leave me," said Ermengarde. "There would never have been all this mischief but for you; I do wish you'd go away!"
"If you only would be brave enough to tell the truth," whispered Marjorie.
"Do, do go away! Leave me to myself."
With great reluctance the little girl left the room. As she sidled along the wall, she looked back several times. A word, a glance would have brought her back. But the proud, still little figure by the window did not move a muscle. The angry eyes looked steadily outward; the lips were firmly closed. Marjorie banged the door after her; she did not mean to, but the open window had caused a draught, and Ermengarde with a long shiver realized that she was alone.
"Now, that's a comfort," she murmured; "now I can think. Have I time to rush up to Susy, and tell her that she is not to let out a single word? Half an hour—Miss Nelson gives me half an hour. I could reach the Collinses' cottage in about ten minutes, if I flew over the grass; five minutes with Susy, and then ten minutes back again. I can do it—I will!"
She seized her hat, rushed to the door, ran along the corridor, and down the stairs. In a moment she was out. Her fleet young steps carried her lightly as a fawn over the grass, and down the path which led to Susy's cottage. How fast her heart beat! Surely she would be in time!
A short cut to the Collinses' cottage lay through a small paddock which cut off an angle of the park. Ermie remembered this, and made for it now. There was a stile to climb, but this was no obstacle to the country-bred girl. She reached the paddock, vaulted lightly over the stile, and was about to rush along the beaten path when she was suddenly brought face to face with the two people whom in all the world she wished least to see just then—her father and Basil. They, too, were walking in the paddock, and met Ermengarde close to the stile.
Ermie had never seen her father's face weara sterner, or more displeased expression, but it was not his glance which frightened her most just then; it was a certain proud, resigned, yet strong look which flashed at her for an instant out of Basil's beautiful eyes. This, joined to an expression of suffering round his lips, gave Ermengarde for the first time a glimpse of the abyss of deceit and wrong-doing into which she was plunging.
A great longing for Basil's love and approbation rushed over her. The desire for this was stronger in that first brief moment than her fear of meeting her father. She stood perfectly still, her hands dropped to her sides; she had not a word to say.
"You can go home," said Mr. Wilton, turning to his son; "I have expressed my opinion; I don't mean to repeat it—there is nothing further to say."
Basil did not make any reply to this speech, nor did he again look at Ermengarde. He went to the stile, vaulted over it, and disappeared.
"And now, Ermie, where are you going to?" said her father.
"Home," she answered confusedly. "I am going home."
"My dear, I never knew that this way through the paddock led home. Come, Ermengarde,I am tired of prevarication. What does all this mean?"
"Don't ask me, father. I mean I'll tell you presently. I want to see Miss Nelson."
"Is Miss Nelson at the other side of this paddock? Ermengarde, I insist upon it, I will be answered."
"Give me half an hour, father, a quarter of an hour—ten minutes—just to see Miss Nelson, and—and—Basil."
"Then you are in league with Basil, too! A nice state I find my family in! I give a distinct and simple order to you, which you disobey. Basil, whom I always supposed to be the soul of honor, has behaved with wanton cruelty toward a lady who was your mother's friend, whom I respect, and who has been placed more or less in authority over you all. Not a word, Ermengarde. Basil has as good as confessed his guilt, and I can only say that my old opinion of him can never be restored. Then, I take you away on a visit, and Maggie comes to fetch you home, because, forsooth, the gamekeeper's daughter with whom I have forbidden you to have any intercourse is feverish, and wants to have a conversation with you. Nonsense, Ermie! you posed very well at the Russells' yesterday as a little philanthropist, but that rôle, my dear, is not yours. SusanCollins had a far stronger reason for recalling you from Glendower than the simple desire for your company. Come, Ermie, this mystery has got to be cleared up. This isnotthe road home, nor am I aware that Miss Nelson resides at the other end of the paddock. But this narrow path leads directly to Collins's cottage. I presume you are going there. If you have no objection, we will go together, my dear."
"Yes, father, I have every objection. You need not go to Collins's. I—I won't keep it in any longer."
"I thought I should bring you to your senses. Now, what have you got to say?"
"It's on account of Basil."
"Leave Basil's name out, please. I am not going to be cajoled into restoring him to my favor again."
Ermengarde's face, which had been growing whiter and whiter during this interview, now became convulsed with a spasm of great agony. She put up her trembling hands to cover it. This was not a moment for tears. Her hot eyes were dry.
"Father, you don't know Basil.Hehas done nothing wrong, nothing. It's all me. It's all me, father."
And then the miserable story, bit by bit, was revealed to Mr. Wilton; it was told reluctantly,for even now Ermengarde would have shielded herself if she could. Without a single word or comment, the narrative was listened to. Then Mr. Wilton, taking Ermie's hand, walked silently back to the house with her. Miss Wilton came down the steps of the front entrance to meet them.
"Good-morning, Ermengarde," she said. "How queer and dragged you look? Roderick, I want to speak to you."
"I will come to you presently, Elizabeth. I am particularly engaged just now."
"But you are not going to take that child in through the front entrance?"
"Will you allow me to pass, please?"
Mr. Wilton's voice was so firm that his sister made no further comment, but with a shrug of her shoulders turned aside.
"If only Elizabeth were a different woman, I might not have scenes like this," murmured the poor man.
He went to his study, and there, to his great astonishment, found Marjorie and Basil both waiting for him.
"We saw you coming up the field" said Marjorie at once. "And I knew Ermie had told. I knew it by her face, and the way she walked. I told Basil so, and I said we would come in here, for I guessed you'd bring Ermie here.Dear Ermie, you are brave now! Dear Ermie!"
Marjorie ran up to her sister.
"It's all going to be quite right now," she said. And she raised her flushed eager face, and looked at her father.
Mr. Wilton went straight to Basil's side.
"I misunderstood you, my boy; forgive me," he said.
Ermengarde stood erect and stiff. She had not shed a tear, nor made any response to Marjorie's words. Her whole soul was in her face, however. She was watching her father's greeting of Basil. She waited for its effect.
The few words uttered by Mr. Wilton were magical. Something seemed to flash out of Basil's eyes. They looked straight up into his father's, then dropped to the ground.
"Father," he murmured. His father grasped his hand.
"O Basil," suddenly sobbed Ermie. Her fortitude gave way; she rushed to her brother and almost groveled at his feet.
"Now, what's to be done?" said Mr. Wilton, turning in a perplexed kind of way to his younger daughter. "I confess it, I never felt more confused and put out in all my life. I brought Ermengarde here to punish her most severely."
"Oh, please, father, don't! Let it be a full, complete, jolly kind of forgiveness all round. Look at Basil, father."
Mr. Wilton turned his head. Basil was on his knees, and his arms were round Ermie, her head rested on his shoulder.
"Oh, father, do let us come out and leave them together for a little!"
"Really, Maggie, you don't treat me with a bit of respect," said Mr. Wilton. But his voice was low, the frown had cleared from his brow, and he pinched Marjorie's firm round cheek.
"I suppose I must humor you, little woman," he said, "for after all you are the only member of my family who never gets into scrapes."
"Oh, father, I'm so happy!" They were out side the study door now, and Marjorie, still clinging to her father's hand, was skipping up and down. "Everything will be as right as possible now, and no one, no one in all the world can help Ermie as Basil can."
"I believe you are right there, Maggie," said Mr. Wilton. "My poor lad, he certainly has done a noble, Quixotic sort of thing. I can't forgive myself for being so harsh with him."
"Oh, father, Basil quite understood. He didn't wish to be cleared, you know."
"Yes, yes, I see daylight at last."
"Father, what do you mean by Basil being Quixotic?"
"I'll tell you another time, puss. And soyouknew of this all the time?"
"Only since the night before last. I wanted Ermie to tell you herself. Basil wouldn't tell, and he wouldn't let me. Now it's all right. Oh, how happy I am! Now it's all right."
"And you really mean me to let Ermengarde off her punishment, Mag?"
"Well, father?"
Marjorie put her head a little on one side, and adopted her most sagacious and goody-goody manner.
"Wouldn't it be well to see if Ermie hasn't learnt something by this lesson, you know? I expect Ermie has suffered a lot."
"Not she—not she."
"Oh, but, father, I think she has. Couldn't you wait until the next time to punish Ermie, father?"
"Well, you're a dear child," said Mr. Wilton, "and perhaps, for your sake——"
"Oh, no, father, for Basil's sake."
"Well then, for Basil's sake."
Marjorie kissed her father about a dozen times.
"You'll let Ermie just learn by her experience to be better another time, and that will be heronly punishment," said Marjorie, in her wisest manner.
"Well, Maggie, I suppose I must yield to you. And now, as this is to be, and I am not to assume the rôle of the severe father—between ourselves, Maggie, I hate rôles—do let us drop the subject. I feel inclined for a game with the young ones. What do you say?"
"I say that the sun has come out, and I am as happy as the day is long," replied Marjorie. "Give me another kiss, please, father. Lucy, is that you? Father is coming to have a romp with us all. Just one minute, please, father. I must go and tell Miss Nelson the good news."
"What a blessed, happy, dear little thing Maggie is!" thought Mr. Wilton as, holding Lucy's hand, he walked slowly to the nursery playground. "She's more like her mother than any of them. Yes, this may be a lesson to Ermengarde. Poor child, I hope so."
It was late that evening when Ermengarde and Basil, standing side by side under their mother's picture, solemnly kissed each other.
"Basil, you will never love me in the old way again."
"I love you better than anyone else in all the world, Ermie. Look up into mother's eyes; they are smiling at you."
"I know what they are saying," answered Ermengarde. She clasped her hands; there was a stronger, better look than Basil had ever noticed before on her pretty face. "Mother's eyes are saying, 'You have been very selfish, Ermie, and very——' What is it, Basil?"
"Yes," interrupted Basil. "I think selfishness was at the root of all this trouble. I never knew any one sounselfishas Maggie."
"And mother's eyes say," continued Ermengarde, "'Take courage—and—and——'"
"I think mother is telling you to try to copy our dear little Maggie," said Basil.