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.”