A GOOD, BOYISH SORT OF GIRL.
The next day was Saturday. The lessons done this morning by
Ermengarde, Marjorie, and Lucy were little more than nominal. A master
came to give the little girls instruction in music at eleven o'clock,
and after their half-hour each with him, they were considered free to
spend the rest of the day as they pleased.
Rather to Basil's surprise Miss Nelson said nothing whatever to Ermie
about the loss of her miniature. The governess's face was very pale
this morning, and her eyes had red rims round them, as though she had
wept a good deal the previous night. She was particularly gentle,
however, and Basil, who alone knew her secret, could not help being
sorry for her.
He was still angry, for he thought her idea about Ermengarde both
unjust and cruel; but her softened and sad demeanor disarmed him, and
he longed beyond words to give her back the miniature.
Ermie was in excellent spirits this morning. She thought herself well
out of yesterday's scrape, and she looked forward to a long and happy
afternoon with her brothers. She was particularly bright and attentive
over her lessons, and would have altogether won Miss Nelson's
approval, had not her sad mind been occupied with other matters.
Marjorie was the first to go to her music lesson this morning. She
returned from it at half-past eleven, and then Ermengarde went to
receive Mr. Hill's instructions.
Basil was standing in the passage, sharpening a lead pencil as she
passed.
"I'll be free at twelve, Basil," she called to him. "Where shall I
find you?"
"I'll be somewhere round," he replied, in a would-be careless tone.
"Maggie, is that you? I want to speak to you."
He seemed anxious to get away from Ermengarde, and she noticed it, and
once more the cloud settled on her brow.
"Come out, Mag; I want to speak to you," said Basil. "You are free at
last, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes; I'm free. What were you so chuffy to Ermie, for? You seemed
as if you didn't care to have her with you!"
"Oh, don't I care? I'm thinking of her all the time. It's about her I
want to speak to you, Maggie, But, first of all have you heard of
Miss Nelson's loss?"
"No, what loss?"
"Some one has taken a miniature out of her sitting-room."
"A miniature? Which--which miniature? Speak, Basil."
"You needn't eat me with your eyes, Maggie. I don't know. I didn't do
it!"
"Oh, no; but what miniature is it, Basil?"
"I tell you, I didn't see it, Maggie. It hung over her mantelpiece,
and she kept flowers under it. She seemed to prize it a great lot."
"Not the picture of a rather silly little girl with blue eyes and a
smile? Not that one? Don't tell me it was that one, Basil."
"Then you do know about it. I suppose it was that one. She was in an
awful state."
"No wonder. Oh, poor Miss Nelson!"
"Do talk like a reasonable being, Maggie. What was there so
marvelously precious in the picture of a silly little girl?"
"Yes, but _that_ silly little girl was her own--not her child, but her
sister, and she loved her beyond all the world, and--the little sister
went to the angels. Once she told me about her--only once. It was on a
Sunday night. Oh, poor Miss Nelson!"
"Well, don't cry, Mag--she must have the picture back. She has got a
horrid thought in her head about it, though."
"A horrid thought? Miss Nelson has a horrid thought? Oh, Basil, don't
you begin to misunderstand her."
"Shut up!" said Basil. "Who talks about my misunderstanding her? She
has got a wrong notion into her head about Ermie, that's all. She
thinks Ermie took the miniature out of revenge. There! Is not that bad
enough? Now, what's the matter, Maggie? You are not going to tell me
that you think Miss Nelson is right?"
"No," said Marjorie, shaking her fat little self, after an aggravating
habit of hers when she was perplexed. "Of course I don't think
anything of the kind, still----" She was remembering Ermengarde's
agitation of the day before--her almost frantic wish to return alone
to the house.
Marjorie grew quite red as this memory came over her.
"Well, won't you speak?" said Basil. "Miss Nelson must get back her
miniature."
"Of course she must, Basil."
"She believes that Ermengarde took it."
"Yes; of course she is mistaken."
"She is very positive."
"Oh, that's a way of hers. She's quite obstinate when she gets an idea
into her head."
"A fixed idea, eh?" Basil laughed.
Marjorie did not join in the laugh, she was feeling intensely solemn.
"Miss Nelson is very angry, and in dreadful trouble," Basil went on
presently. "I quite thought she would speak to Ermengarde this
morning."
"She has not said a word, Basil."
"I know that."
"Basil, let me speak to Ermie."
"But now, you're not going to accuse her, or any rubbish of that sort,
Maggie?"
"As if I would, Basil!"
"Then I wish you would speak to her. I'm uncomfortable enough about
the whole thing, I can tell you. I hate to have anybody think such
thoughts of Ermie."
"I'll tell her," said Marjorie eagerly. "I'll tell her the miniature
is lost."
She ran off, and Basil took another pencil out of his pocket and began
to sharpen it. He did not like the aspect of affairs at all. His
interview with Marjorie had given him no real satisfaction. Marjorie
had not thrust the idea of Ermie's guilt from her with the horror he
had expected. Of course she had agreed with him, but not with that
emphasis he had desired. He felt rather sickened. If Ermengarde could
be mean and shabby, if by any possibility, however remote, Ermengarde
had stooped to theft for the sake of a petty and small revenge, then
he was very sorry he had not gone to Scotland, that was all. He'd give
up Ermie if she was that kind, but of course she wasn't. It was horrid
of him to lend even half credence to such a belief. He would go and
have a game of cricket with Eric, and get such a monstrous idea out of
his head.
When they were preparing for dinner, Marjorie told her sister about
the stolen miniature. She told the story in her own characteristic
way. She was determined to take no unfair advantage of Ermie, and so,
while washing her hands, and purposely splashing the water about, and
with her back so turned that she could not get a glimpse of Ermie's
face, she burst forth with her news. When she turned round, Ermengarde
was calmly combing out her long hair.
"It's dreadful, isn't it?" said Marjorie.
"Dreadful," echoed Ermengarde, but her voice did not sound excited.
"And she was so fond of that little sister," continued Marjorie.
"I never heard of any sister," said Ermengarde in a profoundly
uninterested voice. "Let us come down to dinner, Maggie; the gong has
sounded."
Marjorie gave vent to a very heavy sigh. She had got no satisfaction
out of Ermengarde, and yet her manner gave her a sense of insecurity.
She recalled again Ermie's strange excitement of the evening before,
and wondered in vain what it all meant.
At dinner-time Miss Nelson's face was paler than ever. It was noticed
now by the three people who shared her secret. Eric and Lucy were
perfectly comfortable and easy in their minds, but the older children
felt a sense of constraint. After dinner Eric asked Marjorie to come
with him to visit his ferrets.
"They are at Collins's, you know," he said. "I hope Collins is
treating them properly. If he does not, Shark will pay him out; that's
a certainty. Come along, Mag."
"I will presently," said Marjorie.
"Oh, no; you must come at once. I have a lot to do this afternoon; you
can't keep me waiting."
A good-humored smile played over Marjorie's sunny face. "Other people
have a good deal to do too," she said. "I'll come soon, Eric. You can
wait for me outside. I won't keep you long; but I have something
_important_ to do first."
Eric went away feeling very cross. If Marjorie took to giving herself
airs, the world might as well stop at once. What use was Marjorie
except to be at everybody's beck and call; and more especially at
his--Eric's--beck and call. He kicked his heels into the gravel,
thrust his hands into his trousers pockets, and put on all the airs of
an ill-used mortal.
Meanwhile Marjorie, whose important business made her round face look
intensely solemn, was trotting down the corridor to Miss Nelson's
sitting-room. She guessed that she would find the governess there. To
her gentle little tap Miss Nelson replied at once, and the little girl
came in and stood before her.
"What is it, Marjorie?" said her governess. "Have you anything to say
to me? I am busy. Why don't you go out with your brothers?"
"I wanted to give you a kiss," said Marjorie, "and to tell you--to
tell you--that if the other little girl loved you, so do I. I thought
I'd tell you; I know it won't be a real comfort, but I thought perhaps
you ought to know."
"It is a real comfort, Marjorie," said Miss Nelson in a softened
voice. "Give me that kiss, dear. Thank you, my love. You are a good
child, Marjorie--a dear child. Now run away and play."
"You have a headache, I know," said Marjorie, "and see how the sun
does stream in at this window. May I pull down the blinds? And will
you lie on the sofa? Do, and I will bathe your head with eau de
Cologne. I wish you would let me."
"No, dear, the others are waiting for you."
"Let them wait. Eric wants me to see his ferrets. I'd much rather stay
with you."
Miss Nelson knew that Marjorie adored Eric, and that whatever pets of
his happened to be in vogue had the strongest fascination for her.
Nevertheless she did lie down on the sofa, and her little pupil's
gentle hand felt all that was delightful and soothing as it touched
her brow. When Marjorie stole out of the room, Miss Nelson had dropped
asleep.
Eric was still waiting. He was amusing himself peeling an early autumn
apple, eating it in a discontented sort of way, for he was not very
hungry, and watching the windows for Marjorie to appear. He was
delighted when he saw her, but he would not show his pleasure.
"Come on," he said, in a gruff voice. "I don't know why I waited for
you. Half the evening is gone already. Do be quick, Mag; how you
loiter!"
"I've an apple in my pocket for Shark," said Marjorie.
She tucked her hand comfortably through Eric's arm. She was feeling
very sunshiny and happy, and soon managed to bring back the
ever-bubbling humor to the little boy's lips.
About a quarter of an hour later, a sort of bundle rolled rather than
walked into the Collinses' neat little cottage. Mrs. Collins uttered
an exclamation and darted forward. She did not at once recognize that
the bundle consisted of Marjorie and Eric, who, with peals and bursts
of laughter, had in this style intruded themselves into her modest
dwelling.
"Let go, Mag, don't throttle me!" screamed Eric.
"Well, leave the apple in my pocket; I'm going to feed Shark."
Mrs. Collins conducted her two little visitors to the yard, where
Shark and his companion ferret resided in their wire cage. Marjorie
sank down in front of the cage, and gazed at the ferrets quite as long
and as earnestly as Eric could desire.
"They are beautiful," she said at last. "More especially Shark."
Eric felt that if it were not undignified, he could have hugged his
sister. They left the yard, and re-entered Mrs. Collins's house the
dearest of friends.
They were going into the kitchen to beg for a piece of brown cake,
which they knew Mrs. Collins could make to perfection, when, hearing
voices raised in dispute, Marjorie drew Eric back.
"Let's come another time for the cake," she whispered. "The
passage-door is open, we can go out that way."
"Wait a second, Mag. I forgot to take a squint at Lop-ear. Just stay
where you are, I'll be with you in a twinkling."
Marjorie stood still; Eric departed. The following words fell on
Marjorie's ears:
"It's all very well to talk, Susy, but I'm quite sick of you and your
mysteries, and I _will_ know what you're hiding under your apron."
"I can't tell you, mother. It's a secret between Miss Ermengarde and
me."
"Well, show it to me, anyhow. _I_ don't mind your talking to miss,
though the family make such a fuss about it. If it's anything she gave
you, you might as well show it to your mother, Susy."
"Yes, she did give it to me; she gave it to me yesterday."
"Well, show it to me."
"No, no; that I won't."
"What is it? you might tell me that."
Marjorie distinctly heard Susy's pleased childish laugh.
"Oh, you'll never guess," she said; "it is so pretty--all sorts of
color, blue and pink and white, and--and----But you _shan't_ see, that
you shan't."
Before Marjorie could hear more Eric hurried back.
"Now we'll have a game of cricket," he said to his sister.
Marjorie followed him without a word. She was a very good cricketer
for a little girl, and she and Eric often had a jolly game together.
The two went to the cricket-field, and the game began.
On Eric's side it was vigorously played; but had Marjorie's arm lost
its cunning? Her bowling went wide of the mark, Eric proposed that he
should bowl, and she should bat. This made matters no better. Finally
he stopped the game in disgust.
"You're awfully changed, Mag," he said, half between sorrow and anger.
And then he marched out of the field. He felt an intense pity for
Marjorie. "She always was a good, boyish sort of a girl," he said to
himself, "but she's getting like the rest of them. Girls are a poor
lot, and she's like the rest."
At another time Marjorie could not have borne to see Eric look at her
sorrowfully. She took no notice now, however, but the moment her
brother left the field, she turned on her own heel and went back to
the Collinses' cottage. Mrs. Collins had gone out, but Susy was
standing by the door. Susy wore a blue cotton frock to-day, and her
curly hair was pushed back from her fair and pretty face. She was
standing in the porch talking to the canary. He was pouring out a
flood of song, and Susy was looking up at him, and trying to bring
notes something like his from her rosy lips.
On ordinary occasions Marjorie, remembering the home mandate, would
not have entered into any prolonged conversation with Susy. She forgot
all this now in her eagerness and desire for information.
"Susy!"
"Yes, Miss Marjorie."
Susy had no particular love for Marjorie. Marjorie was downright in
manner, plain in face, no flatterer. Susy came out of the cottage
slowly, looking behind her, as she did so, at the singing canary.
"Come here, Susy, come quickly; I want to say something to you."
"Yes, Miss Marjorie, what is it?"
"What were you saying to your mother just now? I overheard you in the
passage. What was it all about?"
"I don't remember, miss, I'm sure."
Susy's color had changed from red to white.
"Where were you, miss, when I was talking?" she said after a pause.
"I was in the passage, waiting for Eric. You must remember what you
said. Your mother was asking you to show her something. Something you
said Ermengarde had given you."
"Oh, I remember now, miss. Miss Ermie do give me things now and then."
"But you said she gave you this, whatever it was, yesterday."
"I couldn't have said yesterday, Miss Marjorie."
"You did, Susy; I heard you."
"I couldn't have said yesterday, really, miss."
"But you did, Susy; you said yesterday as plain as possible. You said
'she gave it to me yesterday'; those were your very words."
"I must have meant another day, miss; I'm careless in my words, often
and often."
"What did she give you, Susy? Do tell me."
"Only a yard of blue stuff to make a frock for my doll."
"But how could a yard of blue stuff be pink white and all sorts of
colors?"
"Well, miss, I suppose I meant my doll. She's pink and white enough,
I'll show her to you, if you like, and then you'll believe me. Shall I
run and fetch her to show you, miss?"
"Oh, if you are as sure as all that, you needn't trouble," said
Marjorie.
She left the cottage without even waiting to bid Susy good-by. Eric
was still lounging about, waiting for her, and Marjorie ran up to him,
all her usual spirits once more shining in her face.