BASIL’S OPINION.

At half-past eleven that day, Ermengarde found Basil waiting for her in the shrubbery.  He was walking up and down, whistling to himself, and now and then turning round to say a pleasant word to a small white kitten who sat on his shoulder and purred.  Basil was devoted to animals, and this kitten was a special favorite.

As Ermengarde advanced slowly through the trees to meet her brother, she saw this little scene, and a very bitter feeling came over her.

“He can be kind to everyone but me,” she thought.  “Even a stupid tiresome little cat can win kind glances from him.  But I’m not going to let him see that I care.  If he expects perfection in me, the sooner he is undeceived the better.  And as for me, I suppose I can do without his affection, if he won’t give it.”

Busy with these thoughts, Ermie’s face wore its most stubborn expression as she approached her brother.  The moment Basil saw her, he whisked the kitten off his shoulder, and came up to her side.

“I have thought it all out, Ermengarde,” he said, “and I have made up my mind what to do.”

Ermengarde did not speak.  She raised her eyes to Basil’s face.  There was entreaty in them, but he would not fully meet her glance.

“There is no use in my going over the thing with you,” continued Basil.  “If you could do it, no words of mine could make you see your conduct in its true light.  Besides, I am not the one to preach to you.  I am only a year older, and, as you reminded me last night, I have no sort of authority over you.”

“Forget what I said last night!” pleaded Ermengarde.

“No, that is just the point.  I can’t forget-I shall never forget.  The old relations between us are over, and as far as I am concerned it is impossible to restore them.”

“Oh, Basil, you kill me when you speak so unkindly.”

Ermengarde covered her face; her slight form was shaken by sobs.

“I am sorry,” he said; “I cannot imagine why you value my regard, for we have quite different codes of honor; we look at things from totally different standpoints.  I don’t want to hold myself up, but I couldn’t act as you have done, Ermengarde.”

“Oh, Basil, if you only would be merciful.”

Basil felt a growing sense of irritation.

“Will you stop crying, and listen to me?” he said.

Ermengarde managed, with a great effort, to raise her tear-stained face.

“You imagine that I have no feeling for you,” continued Basil.  “You are mistaken; I have, I used to put you on a pedestal.  Of course you have come down from that, but still I don’t forget that you are my sister, and as far as possible I intend to shield you.  The discovery that I made last night shall not pass my lips.  Miss Nelson must certainly get back the broken miniature of her little sister, but I am not going to tell her how it came into my possession.  That’s all-I’ll shield you.  You can go now.”

Ermengarde would have pleaded still further, but Basil at that moment heard some one calling him, and ran off, uttering boyish shouts as he did so.

“He doesn’t care a bit,” muttered Ermie.  She turned and walked back to the house.

For a time she felt stunned and sore; life scarcely seemed worth living out of the sunshine of Basil’s favor.  But after a time less worthy thoughts took possession of her, and she felt a sense of relief that the adventure of last night would never be known.

Marjorie came dancing down from the house to meet her sister.

“What do you think, Ermie?  I’m to go away to-morrow for a whole delicious week with father and Basil!  We are going to the Russells’-Basil has just told me.  Isn’t it perfectly, perfectly splendid!”

“I wish you wouldn’t bother, Maggie.  You are so rough,” answered Ermengarde.  “I came out here just to have quiet, and to get rid of my headache, and of course you come shouting to me.”

“Oh, I’m ever so sorry-I forgot about your headache,” answered Marjorie.  “It’s dreadful of me, I know.”

She walked on gravely by Ermengarde’s side, the joy on her face a little damped.  But presently, being a most irrepressible child, it bubbled over again.

“I wouldn’t be so awfully, awfully glad, only you have been at the Russells’, Ermie.  You spent a fortnight with them after Christmas, and Lily always promised that she’d have me asked next.  I can’t help being delighted about it,” continued Marjorie, “for I do so love Lily.”

“You little minx!  And I suppose you imagine that a big girl like Lilias Russell cares for you!  Why, she’s fifteen, and ever so tall.”

“But she said she was very fond of me,” answered Marjorie.

“Oh, she said it!  And you believed it, of course!  Have you no observation of character?  Can’t you see, unless you’re as blind as a bat, that Lilias Russell is one of those polite sort of people who always must say pleasant things just for the sake of making themselves agreeable?  Well, my dear, go and worship her, you have got a chance now for a week; only for goodness’ sake don’t worry me any more about it.”

Marjorie ran off in her stolid little way.  Ermengarde watched her as her sturdy figure disappeared from view.

“Ridiculous child!” she said to herself, “and so plain.  I can’t make out why people make such a fuss about her.  She’s always held up to me as a sort of model.  How I detest models, particularly the Maggie kind!  Now I know exactly what will happen.  She’ll go to Glendower with father and Basil, and won’t she gush just!  I know how she’ll pet Lilias Russell, and how she’ll paw her.  And Lilias is just that weak sort of girl with all her grace and prettiness, to be taken in by that sort of thing.  Lilias fancies that she has taken quite a liking for Maggie-as if she could make a friend of her!  Why, Maggie’s a baby, and a very conceited, troublesome one too.”

It was now time for Ermengarde to go in.  She pleaded a headache, and so escaped doing any more lessons that day, and in the afternoon she managed to make the hours pass agreeably over the “Heir of Redclyffe,” which she was reading for the first time, and so did not miss Basil’s attention and companionship as much as she would otherwise have done.

All the rest of the children and Miss Nelson were busy and interested in preparing Marjorie for her visit to Glendower.  Basil had gone out fishing with his father; Eric had coaxed to be allowed to go with the under-gamekeeper to see the young pheasants.  The house was very still, and Ermie had the pleasant old schoolroom to herself.  She read eagerly; in spite of herself-perhaps unknown to herself-she was anxious to drown reflection.

It was late in the evening of that same day that Miss Nelson answered a knock which came to her sitting-room door, and was surprised to see Basil pop in his dark head.

“Oh, you’re alone; that’s right,” he said.  “May I come in for a minute?”

His manner was a little nervous and hurried, in perfect contrast to his usual open, frank sort of way.

“I’ve brought you this back,” he said, going up to Miss Nelson.  “I’m awfully sorry about it, and the worst of it is I can’t give any explanation.  It’s disgracefully broken and injured, but I thought you would rather have it back as it is, than never to see it again.”

Miss Nelson turned very white while Basil was speaking.  An eager, longing, hopeful look grew and grew in her eyes.  She stretched out her hands; they trembled.

“My miniature!” she exclaimed.  “My picture once again.  Oh, Basil, thank God!  Oh, I have missed it!”

“Here it is,” said Basil.  He had wrapped the poor little injured picture up in some white tissue-paper, and tied the parcel together with a bit of ribbon.  He hoped Miss Nelson would say something before she opened it.

“Here it is-it isn’t a bit the same,” he said.

She scarcely heard him.  She began feverishly to pull the ribbon away.

“I wouldn’t look at it just for a minute,” began Basil.  He had scarcely spoken, before there came a knock at the door.  A firm voice said, “May I come in?” and Miss Wilton, who had returned from London about an hour before, entered the room.  She came in just in time to see Miss Nelson remove the tissue-paper from the broken face of the miniature.  The poor governess uttered a piercing cry, sank down on her knees by the center table, and covered her thin face with her hands.

“What is it, Basil?  What is the matter?” asked Miss Wilton in astonishment.  “I come in to find high heroics going on.  What is the matter?”

Basil did not say a word.  Miss Nelson suddenly raised her pale face.  She rose to her feet.  “Not high heroics,” she said, “but deep grief; I had a memento of the past-a young and happy past.  I treasured it.  It was stolen from me about ten days ago.  I don’t know by whom.  I don’t know why it was stolen.  Now it has been returned-like this.”

Miss Wilton took the broken ivory in her hand.

“Dear, dear,” she said.  “How disgracefully this miniature has been cracked and distorted.  A child’s face, I see, painted in a weak, washed-out style, and glass and ivory are both broken, and frame bent.  This miniature must have been subjected to very rough usage.  The miniature is yours, Miss Nelson?”

“Yes.  It is a likeness of my-my sister.  Give it back to me, please, Miss Wilton.”

“And you say it was stolen from you?”

“Yes.  It always hung over that mantelpiece.  It was taken away the day after the boys came home from school.”

Miss Wilton stood quite still for a moment; she was a very downright, practical sort of person.  “Extraordinary as my question must seem, Basil,” she said, turning suddenly to her nephew, “I am forced to ask it, as you appear to be mixed up in the affair.  Did you take the miniature?”

“I?  Certainly not,” said Basil, coloring high.

“But you know something about it?”

“Yes; I know something about it.”

“Who took it away?”

“I am not at liberty to tell you, Aunt Elizabeth.”

Miss Nelson gazed anxiously into Basil’s face.  She had put the broken bits of ivory on the table.  Now she tenderly laid the soft tissue-paper over them.

“You have brought me back the miniature, Basil,” she said.

“I have,” said Basil bluntly, “and that’s about all.  I don’t know how it was broken, and what else I know I am not going to tell.  I’m awfully sorry about the whole thing, but I thought you would rather have the miniature back as it is, than not get it at all, Miss Nelson.”

“That is true,” said Miss Nelson.

Basil was turning to leave the room, but Miss Wilton suddenly stepped before him to the door, and shut it.

“You shan’t leave, sir, until you tell everything!” she said. “I know what mischievous creatures boys are.  You took that miniature away out of wanton mischief; you fiddled with it, and broke it, and now you are afraid to confess.  But I’ll have no funking the truth.  Tell what you have done, this minute, you bad boy!”

“I found the miniature, and I’ve returned it to Miss Nelson,” replied Basil, in a quiet, still voice, which kept under all the anger which made his dark eyes glow.

“Yes, and you stole it in the first instance, and then broke it.  Out with the truth; no half-measures with me,” retorted Miss Wilton.

Basil laughed harshly.

“You’re mistaken, Aunt Elizabeth; I neither stole the miniature nor broke it.”

“I am sure Basil is speaking the truth,” said Miss Nelson.

“And I am sure of the reverse,” retorted Miss Wilton.  “There is guilt in his face, in his manner.  Naughty, defiant boy, you shall tell me what you know!”

“I am not naughty or defiant, Aunt Elizabeth, and I don’t wish to be rude to you or anyone.  I have told all I can about the miniature.  May I go now please, Miss Nelson?”

“Highty-tighty!” exclaimed Miss Wilton; “this is insubordination with a vengeance.  I shall call my brother here.  Basil, I insist upon your remaining where you are until your father arrives.”

Miss Wilton immediately left the room.  Basil went and stood by the window.  The blinds were up, and there was moonlight outside.  He could see the path across which Ermengarde had hurried the night before.

Miss Nelson came suddenly up, and touched the boy’s arm.

“Basil,” she said, “I wish to tell you that I fully believe in you.”

“Oh, thank you very much,” he answered, glancing at her for an instant, and then gazing once more out of the window.

“But,” continued the governess, “I wish you would trust me with the whole truth.”

He shook his head.  At this moment Mr. Wilton and his sister came in together.

“These are the circumstances, Roderick,” began Miss Wilton at once.  “Pray, Miss Nelson, allow me to speak.  Here is the miniature, broken in two, disgracefully injured.  Here, look at it-a deceased relative, I believe, of Miss Nelson’s-stolen out of her room ten days ago.  Basil, returns it this evening broken, says he does not know how it was broken and declines to tell how it got into his possession.”

Mr. Wilton took the pieces of ivory into his hand, looked at the poor little distorted face, put the pieces back on the table, and turned to his son.

“Is your Aunt Elizabeth’s version of this affair correct, Basil?” he inquired.

“Yes, father,” replied Basil.  “It is perfectly correct.  I found the broken miniature, and I have just returned it.”

“How did you find it?”

“I can’t say, sir.”

“You mean you won’t say?”

“Very well, father; I won’t say.”

Mr. Wilton colored.  Miss Wilton gave a triumphant “Humph!” and a muttered “I told you so.”  Miss Nelson nervously clasped and unclasped her thin hands.

“Basil,” said his father after a pause, “you are a very good lad, and I have every trust in you.  You have a reason for boldly defying your father’s wishes.  But when I, who am your father, and know a great deal better than you do what is right and wrong in this matter, desire you once again to tell me all you know, you will, of course, instantly obey me.”

“I am deeply and truly sorry, father, but I can’t obey you.”

“T’ch! no more of this! go to my study this moment, and wait there till I come to you.”