SOME PEOPLE WHO DID NOT FLATTER.
They 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 to walk 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 your walk. 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 a doze, 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."
"You _suppose_ not? 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.