A STOLEN TREASURE.
When Ermengarde left the room, Susy looked round her. She was a
thoroughly comfortable young person; her nature had plenty of daring
in it, and she was not prone to timidity. She was not much afraid of
being caught, and she did not feel at all inclined to hurry out of the
governess's room.
Susy was one of those unfortunate little mortals whose pretty face,
instead of bringing with it a blessing, as all beauty ought, had quite
the reverse effect upon her. It made her discontented. Like many other
foolish little maids, she longed to have been born in a higher station
than Providence intended; she longed to be rich and a lady.
Susy was an only child, and her mother, who had once been a
lady's-maid, always dressed her neatly and with taste. Susy spoke with
a more refined accent than most children of her class; her dress, too,
was better than theirs; she thought a very little would make her what
she most desired to be, a lady. And when Ermengarde began to take
notice of her, she felt that her ambition was all but fulfilled.
Ermie had often met Susy in the grounds, and, attracted by her
beautiful little face, had talked to her, and filled the poor child
with conceit. Mr. Wilton had once seen Ermengarde and Susy chatting in
a very confidential manner together. He at once separated the
children, told Ermie she was not to make a friend of Susan Collins,
and told Susan Collins that she was to mind her place, and go back to
her mother. These instructions he further reiterated to Miss Nelson
and to Susan's father. The children were forbidden to speak, and
Ermengarde, proud, rebellious, without any real sense of right or
honor, instantly contrived to evade her father's commands, and saw
more of Susy than ever.
Not until to-day, however, had Susan Collins been inside Wilton Chase.
Over and over she had longed to see the interior of what her mother
was pleased to call the 'noble pile.' But not until to-day had this
longing been gratified. In a most unexpected way she at last found
herself at the Chase. She had enjoyed a good dinner there. That dinner
had been followed by nearly an hour of great misery and terror. Still,
she had been there, and she reflected with pride that, in
consequence, she could now hold up her head higher than ever.
She was certainly not in a hurry to go away. Miss Nelson's room seemed
a magnificent apartment to Susy. She was sure no one could come into
it at present, and she walked round and round it now, examining its
many treasures with a critical and somewhat envious spirit.
Once again, in the course of her wanderings, she came opposite the
picture of the old-fashioned child--the child whose hair was curled in
primitive and stiff ringlets, whose blue eyes looked out at the world
with a somewhat meaningless stare, and whose impossible and rosy lips
were pursed up in an inane smile.
Susy gazed long at this old-world portrait. It was set in a deep frame
of blue enamel, and inside the frame was a gold rim. Susy said to
herself that the picture, old-fashioned though it was, had a very
genteel appearance. Then she began to fancy that the blue eyes and the
lips of the child resembled her own. She pursed up her cherub mouth in
imitation of the old-world lady. She smiled into the pictured eyes of
the child of long ago.
In short Susy became fascinated by the miniature; she longed to
possess it. With the longing came the temptation. Why should she not
take it? The theft, if it could be called by such an ugly name, could
never be traced to her. Not a soul in the place would ever know that
she had been shut up in Miss Nelson's room. Only Ermengarde would
know, and Ermie would not dare to tell.
Susy looked and longed and coveted. She thought of the pleasure this
picture would give her in her own little attic-room at home. How she
would gaze at it, and compare her face with the face of the
old-fashioned child. Susy hated Miss Nelson, and if that good lady
valued the picture, she would be only the more anxious to deprive her
of it.
Miss Nelson had often and often snubbed Susy; she had also been cruel
to Ermengarde. Susy could avenge Ermie as well as herself, if she took
away the miniature.
Susan was not the child long to withstand any sudden keen desire. She
stretched up her hand, lifted the little miniature from its hook on
the wall, and slipped it into the pocket of her pink frock.
Its place looked empty and deserted. Susy did not want its loss to be
discovered too soon. She looked around her, saw another miniature on
the mantelpiece; without waiting even to look at it, she hung it in
the place where the child's picture had been, and then, well pleased,
turned to go. First of all, however, she performed an action which she
thought particularly clever and praiseworthy.
Poor Ermengarde had left the cupboard open when she rushed from the
room, but Susy took the precaution to lock it, and taking out the key,
threw it carelessly on the floor behind a chair. Then, satisfied that
she had done her best both for Ermie and herself, she left Miss
Nelson's room, running fearlessly down the now deserted back-stairs,
and out into the courtyard.
She went round to the laurel bush behind which she had concealed her
basket of eggs, picked it up, delivered its contents to the cook, and
ran home singing a gay song.
Her mother remarked on Susy's long absence, but when the little girl
said she had been tempted to linger in the meadows, Mrs. Collins did
not question her any further. She hastened to prepare an extra good
tea for her darling, for of course Susy's dinner with Ermengarde could
not be mentioned.
Meanwhile all went merrily in the hay-field. Eric excelled himself in
his rare power of story-telling. Basil and Ermie sat side by side, and
whispered together. Miss Nelson had seldom seen a softer look on her
elder pupil's face than now. She determined that Basil and his sister
should be together as much as possible during the holidays.
Presently the little ones went home, and by and by the elder children
followed their example. Miss Nelson saw that Marjorie was tired--that
Ermie, too, looked pale--and she made them both go to bed early.
It was rather late when the governess returned to the schoolroom. She
only went there to fetch one of her pupils' exercise-books, but seeing
Basil reading on one of the sofas, she stopped to talk to him. She was
a very direct person, and in conversation she always went straight to
the point.
"It is a great comfort to me to have you at home, Basil," she said.
Basil looked up at her. Then he dropped his book and started to his
feet.
"Won't you sit down?" he said politely.
"No, I am going into my own room directly. I repeat that I am glad you
are at home, Basil. There was a talk of your going north instead, was
there not?"
"Yes. Uncle Charlie wanted me to fish with him."
"It is on Ermengarde's account that I am glad," pursued the governess.
Basil nodded.
"I came back on account of Ermie," he said. Then he colored, and added
quickly, "But I like being at home best."
"Yes, my dear boy, I understand. You are unselfish. You and Marjorie
are remarkably unselfish. Basil, you have a great influence over your
eldest sister; oh yes, I can see. In many respects Ermengarde is a
difficult child; I want you to use your influence well, and----Will
you come into my room, Basil?"
Basil picked up his book. Of course he would go. He did not want to;
he thought it was rather fudge talking about his influence; and as to
his being unselfish, he liked his own way as well as any one else. Had
he not almost blubbered about not going to Scotland, and although he
had thought of Ermie, still he had given up his desires with a pang.
He hated Miss Nelson to think better of him than he deserved, but he
did not know how to explain himself, and he followed her in rather a
limp fashion into her private sitting-room.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed, when he got there, "what a tiny room! Do they
put you off with this? Oh, I say, I call it a shame!"
Miss Nelson loved her private sitting-room, and hated to hear it
abused. She also particularly disliked the expression with which Basil
had commenced his speech.
"I don't wish to interfere, my dear boy, but those words--you will
excuse me--I am shocked."
"Do you mean 'by Jove'?"
"Yes; don't repeat the expression. It sounds like a calling upon false
gods."
"Oh, I say, all our fellows do it."
"Does that make it right?"
Basil fidgeted, and wished himself back in the schoolroom.
"You were going to speak about Ermie," he said.
Miss Nelson seated herself by the open window. It was a warm and very
beautiful summer's night. A gentle breeze came in, and fanned the
governess's tired brow.
"What about Ermie?" said Basil. He wanted to get back to his book, and
to the unrestraint of the dear old schoolroom.
"I think you have a good influence over Ermengarde," said Miss Nelson,
raising her face to his.
"Yes, yes," he answered impatiently; "more than one person has said
that to me. I have a good influence, but why should I have a good
influence? I mean, why is it necessary? Ermie isn't worse than other
people. It sounds as if you were all abusing her when you talk of my
good influence. I hate humbug. I'm no better than other fellows. I'm
fond of Ermie I suppose, and that's about the beginning and end of my
influence."
"Exactly," said Miss Nelson. She was not listening to all the boy's
words. Her thoughts were far away.
"Ermie is difficult," she began. Then she stopped and uttered an
exclamation.
"Look, Basil, is that a key at your feet?"
Basil stooped, and picked up the key of Miss Nelson's cupboard.
"Put it in the lock of the cupboard behind you, my boy. I am glad it
is found--truly glad. I thought I could not have put it away. And yet
Ermengarde seemed so sure that it was not in the lock when she was in
the room."
"Oh, it fell out, I suppose," said Basil. He was not interested in the
key, and he stood up now, prepared to go.
"Those photographs I spoke about are in the cupboard, Basil. I could
not bring them to you because I could not find the key. Would you like
to see them now?"
"Thanks," said Basil. "Perhaps, if you don't mind, I had better look
at them by daylight."
When Basil said this, Miss Nelson also stood up. He looked at her,
being quite sure now she would wish him good-night and let him go. Her
eyes had a peculiar, terrified, staring expression. She rushed to the
mantelpiece; then she turned and grasped the boy's arm.
"Basil," she said, "the picture is gone!"
"What picture?" he asked. He was really frightened at the anguished
expression in Miss Nelson's matter-of-fact face.
"Mine," she answered, clasping his hand tighter. "My treasure, the
picture of my----" here she broke off. "It is gone, Basil--see, and
another put in its place! My miniature is gone! it has been stolen!"
"No, no," said Basil. "It couldn't have been. People don't steal
pictures at the Chase. There are no thieves. Let me look for it for
you."
"My miniature--my portrait. I don't speak of it--I can't!" Her voice
shook. "No, no; it is gone. You see, Basil, it always hung here, and
now another has been put on the same hook. That shows that the deed
was intentional; the miniature is stolen!"
She sat down and clasped her hands over her face; her thin long
fingers trembled.
"I'm awfully sorry for you," said Basil. He could not understand such
emotion over any mere picture, but he had the kindest of hearts, and
distress of any sort always moved him.
"I'm awfully sorry," he repeated.
Miss Nelson looked up at his tone.
"Basil," she said, "when you have very few things to love, you value
the few intensely. I did--I do. You don't know, my boy, what it is to
be a lonely woman. May you never understand my feelings. The miniature
is gone; it was stolen, purposely."
"Oh, we'll find the thief," said Basil. "If you are sure the picture
was taken, we'll make no end of a fuss, and my father will help. Of
course you must not lose anything you value in this house. You shall
have it back; we'll all see to that."
"Thank you, Basil; I'm sure you'll do your best."
Miss Nelson's face looked as unhappy as ever.
"You must try and cheer up, Miss Nelson," said the school-boy. "You
shall have your picture, that I promise you."
Miss Nelson was silent for a minute.
"Perhaps I shall get it back," she said after a pause. "But it won't
be the same to me again. No, nothing can be the same. I've got a
shock. Basil, I have worked for you all. When your mother died, I
came--I came at her request. A more brilliant governess could have
taught your sisters, but I can truly say no one more conscientious
could have ministered to them, and no one on the whole could have
loved them more faithfully. I have, however, been misunderstood. Only
one of your sisters has responded to me. Marjorie has been sweet and
true and good; the others--not that I blame little Lucy much--a child
is always led by her elders--but----"
"What does all this mean?" said Basil, almost sternly. He knit his
brows. He felt that he was going to be somebody's champion, and there
was fight in his voice.
"This is what it means, Basil," said Miss Nelson. "I am sorry to pain
you, but I believe Ermengarde has taken my miniature."
"Ermie a thief? What do you mean? She's my sister--she's a Wilton! How
can you say that sort of thing, Miss Nelson? No wonder poor Ermie does
not quite get on with you."
"She never gets on with me, Basil. She is disobedient, she is
unresponsive. I have taken more pains for her than for the others.
To-day I was obliged to punish her for two offenses of a very grave
character. She took my miniature out of revenge; I am sure of it."
"No, I am certain you are mistaken. You have no right to accuse her
like this."
"I wish I could think I was mistaken, Basil, but all circumstances
point to the fact that Ermengarde in revenge took away my portrait. I
locked her into this room as a punishment, as a severe punishment for
a most grave offense. She was very angry and very defiant. The
picture was in its usual place when I locked her into the room. She
spent the greater part of the day here. When I come here to-night the
portrait has been exchanged for another."
"Yes; your room has been empty for hours. Some one else has come in
and done the thing, if indeed it has been done at all."
"What do you mean? The picture is gone!"
"The housemaid may have been dusting, and put another in its place."
"No, Basil, the housemaid would not touch my private possessions; I
dust them and arrange them myself. I dusted my miniature only this
morning, and this white rosebud and maidenhair I placed under it. I
always put fresh flowers under my portrait; I did so to-day as usual.
No, as you say, there are no thieves at Wilton Chase. Ermie has taken
the miniature out of revenge. She knew I valued it."
"You are mistaken," said Basil, "and I think you are cruel!"
He left the room in a great rage.