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