QUITE IN A NEW CHARACTER.

The day was lovely, and Ermengarde woke once more in the best of spirits.  Notwithstanding her unhappy day, she had enjoyed herself much the night before.  She had worn Lilias’s simple white dress, and Marjorie’s Maltese cross with its narrow gold chain had given to her appearance just that finish which best suited her youth.

Ermengarde had looked remarkably pretty, and many people had noticed the fact, and one or two of Mr. Wilton’s gentlemen friends had congratulated him in quite audible tones on having such a charming and lovely little daughter.  Ermengarde had herself heard these words, and had seen a glow, half of sadness half of pleasure, light up her father’s dark eyes, and her own heart had swelled within her.  She began to know the difference between real praise and flattery.  She thought how fascinating it would all be when she was really grown up, and dull lessons were over, and Miss Nelson was no longer of the slightest consequence, when she could dress as she pleased, and do as she liked.

In the agreeable feelings which these thoughts gave her, she forgot about Basil’s displeasure.  She ceased to remember that the dearest friendship of her life was in danger of being broken, was so jeopardized that it was scarcely likely that the severed threads could ever be reunited with their old strength.  Ermengarde was away from all unpleasant things, her fears about Flora were completely removed, and it was in her selfish and pleasure-loving nature to shut herself away from the memory of what worried her, and to enter fully into the delights of her present life.  She rose gayly, and no one could have been merrier than she when she joined Lilias at the breakfast-table.  The two girls had this meal again alone in Lilias Russell’s pretty boudoir.

“Shall we ride, or go out in the yacht?” said Lilias to her companion.  “I heard father making all arrangements for a sail last night, and I know he’ll take us if we ask him.  Which would you like best, Ermie?  If you are a sailor, I can promise you a good jolly time on board the Albatross.  I was so sorry you were not with us yesterday.”

“Oh, I am a capital sailor,” said Ermengarde.  “We were at the Isle of Wight last year, and Basil and I sailed nearly every day.  Maggie used to get sick, but we never did.”

“There’s just a lovely breeze getting up to-day,” said Lilias.  “I’m so glad you like sailing, Ermie, for I know we shall just have a perfect time.  If you’ll stay here for a few minutes, I’ll run and ask father if he will take us with them.”

Lilias stepped out through the open window, and Ermengarde leant against a trellised pillar in the veranda, and looked out over the peaceful summer scene, her pretty eyes full of a dreamy content.  She was so happy at the thought that Flora was really gone that she felt very good and amiable; she liked herself all the better for having such nice, comfortable, kindly thoughts about everyone.  Even Eric could scarcely have extracted a sharp retort from her at this moment.

Lilias came flying back.  “It’s all right!” she exclaimed.  “The Albatross sails in an hour, and we are to meet father and Mr. Wilton, and the other gentlemen who are going to sail, on the quay at half-past eleven.  I shall wear my white serge boating-costume.  Have you anything pretty to put on, Ermie?”

“Nothing as nice as that,” said Ermengarde with a jealous look.  “There’s my dark blue serge, but it will look dowdy beside your white.”

“I have two white serge boating-dresses,” said Lilias.  “I will lend you one if you will let me.  Our figures are almost exactly alike, and we are the same height.  My dress had scarcely to be altered at all for you last night.  Come, Ermie, don’t look so solemn.  You shall look charming, I promise, and I will make you up such a posy to wear in your button-hole.  Now, shall we stroll about, or just sit here and be lazy?”

“Do let us sit here,” said Ermengarde.  “You don’t know what a comfort the stillness is, Lily.  At this hour at home all the little ones are about, and they make such a fuss and noise.  I think it’s the worst management to allow children to keep bothering one at all hours of the day.”

“Well, I’m not tried in that way,” said Lilias, with a quick half-suppressed sigh, “and as I adore children, I am afraid I can’t quite sympathize-O Ermie, what a queer old shandrydan is coming up the avenue!  Who can be in it?  Who can be coming here at this hour?  Why, I do declare it’s the one-horse fly from the station!  Noah’s Ark, we call that fly, it’s so rusty and fusty, and so little in demand; for you know, when people come to Glendower, we always send for them, and I don’t think the station is any use except for shunting purposes, and to land our visitors.  Who can be coming in Noah’s Ark?”

Just then a very rough little head, surmounted by a brown straw hat, was pushed out of one of the windows of the old fly; a lot of wild, long, disordered hair began to wave in the breeze; and a hand was waved frantically to the two girls, as they sat in the cool veranda.

“Why, it’s Maggie!” exclaimed Lilias.  “It’s Maggie, the duck, the sweet!  How delicious! What has brought her?”

She took a flying leap down the veranda steps, and across the lawn, to meet the old fly.

“It’s Maggie!” echoed Ermengarde, who did not rush to meet her little sister.  “What has happened? what has gone wrong now?”

She rose from the luxurious chair in which she was lounging and, throwing back her head, gazed watchfully at the fervent meeting which was taking place between Lilias and Marjorie.

“Detestable of Maggie to follow me like this!” muttered Ermengarde.  “I wonder Miss Nelson allows it.  Really our governess is worse than useless, not a bit the sort of person to teach girls in our position.  Now, what can be up?  Oh, and there’s Hudson!  Poor, prim, proper old Hudson.  She has come to take care of the darling cherub who never does wrong.  Well I think it’s taking a great liberty with Lady Russell’s establishment, and I only trust and hope father will give it hotly to Miss Nelson.”

“Well, Maggie.”  Ermengarde advanced a step or two in a very languid manner.  “Oh, don’t throttle me, please.  How very hot and messy you look! and what has brought you to Glendower?”

“The dear kind train, and the dear kind Noah’s Ark,” interrupted Lilias.  “Don’t I bless them both!  Mag, I want to show you my grotto; I arranged the shells in the pattern you spoke of last year.  They look awfully well, only I’m not quite sure that I like such a broad row of yellow shells round the edge.”

Lilias spoke with some rapidity.  She was standing opposite the two sisters; she was not at all an obtuse girl, and she felt annoyed at Ermengarde’s coldness to Marjorie, and wanted to make up to her by extra enthusiasm on her own part.  Lilias had never seen the home side of Ermie’s character, and was amazed at the change in her expression.

“O Lily, I should love to look at the grotto!” exclaimed Marjorie, “and perhaps I’ll have time for just one peep.  But I’m going back again by the next train, and it’s awfully important that I should speak to Ermie-awfully important.”

Marjorie was never a pretty child, and she certainly did not look her best at that moment.  Fatigue had deprived her of what slight color she ever possessed; her hair was dreadfully tossed, her holland frock rumpled and not too clean, and her really beautiful gray eyes looked over-anxious.  Marjorie’s whole little face at that moment had a curious careworn look, out of keeping with its round and somewhat babyish form.

“If you want to talk to Ermie, I’ll run away,” said Lilias.  “I’ll find mother, and tell her that you’ve come, Maggie; and we must discover some expedient for keeping you, now that you have arrived.”

When Lilias finished speaking she left the room, and Ermengarde instantly turned to Marjorie.

“This is really too silly!” she said.  “I felt obliged to you two days ago, but I’d rather never have come than see you here now making such an exhibition of yourself.  Do you know that you have taken a very great liberty, forcing yourself into the house this way?”

“I’m going back again by the next train, Ermie, and I did think that you’d rather have me than a telegram.”

“You than a telegram?  I want neither you nor a telegram.  Maggie, I think you are the most exasperating child in the world!”

“Well, Ermie, you won’t let me speak.  I’ve come about Susy; she let out all about the miniature to me last night.”

“About the miniature!” echoed Ermengarde rather faintly.  Her defiant manner left her; her face turned pale.  “The miniature!” she said.  Then her eyes blazed with anger.  “Why have you interfered with Susy Collins, Maggie?” she said.  “Have you disobeyed my father, too?”

“No, Ermie.  I’ll tell you about it-you have got to listen.  I’ll tell you in as few words as I can.  You know, Ermie, that Basil has got into trouble with father.  He gave Miss Nelson back the miniature, and father thought that Basil had first stolen it, and then broken it; and father was very, very angry with Basil, so Basil wouldn’t come to Glendower, although he wanted to.  And last night Basil came to sit with me in my room, and I told him I meant to clear him, for I knew as well as anything that he had never stolen the picture or broken it, or done anything shabby.  And Basil said that I was not to clear him, that he didn’t wish to be cleared, and that he’d live it down.  Basil and I went away to father’s room to look at the moon, and Basil asked me to leave him there, for he wanted to be alone with mother’s picture.  Then I went away, and it was late, and I was going to bed, when Hudson came and told me that Mrs. Collins had come, and that she wanted you; and Mrs. Collins was crying awfully, and she said Susy was very bad, and she was always calling out for you, and if you didn’t go to see her, perhaps Susy would die.

“So then I went to see Susy, and she really was awfully ill; she had fever, and was half delirious; and she talked about the picture, and about its being broken, and she wanted you so dreadfully.  Then I promised I’d bring you to her to-day, and that quieted her a little, and no one else heard what she said about the miniature.  Miss Nelson went with me to the Collinses’ cottage last night, and I told her how important it was that you should see Susy, but she does not know the reason.  No one knows the reason but me.”

“And you-” said Ermengarde.

“Yes, Ermie, I know.  I couldn’t help guessing, but I haven’t told.  I have left that for you.”

Ermengarde turned her head away.

“I thought I’d be better than a telegram,” began Marjorie again.

“O Maggie, do stop talking for a moment, and let me think.”

Ermengarde pressed her hand to her forehead.  She felt utterly bewildered, and a cold fear, the dread of exposure and discovery, gave a furtive miserable expression to her face.

Just then Lilias came into the room.

“I hope your great confab is over?” she exclaimed.  “Mother is so pleased you have arrived, Maggie, and of course she insists on your remaining, now that you have come.  Hudson can go home and pack your things, and send them to you, and you shall come out in the yacht with us; we’ll have twice as jolly a day as we would have had without you, Maggie.”

“But I must go home, really,” said Marjorie, “and-so must Ermie, too, I’m afraid.”

“Yes,” said Ermengarde, rousing herself with an effort, and coming forward.  “Maggie has brought me bad news.  There’s a poor little girl at home, the daughter of our head gamekeeper.  She broke her leg a week ago, and she’s very ill now with fever or something, and she’s always calling for me.  I-I-used to be kind to her, and I think I must go.  Maggie says she never rests calling for me.”

“It’s very noble of you to go,” said Lilias.  “This quite alters the case.  Let me run and tell mother.  Oh, how grieved I am! but dear Ermie, of course you do right.  That poor little girl-I can quite understand her looking up to you and loving you, Ermie.  Let me fly to mother and tell her.  She’ll be so concerned!”

In a very few moments Lady Russell and Mr. Wilton had both joined the conference.  Mr. Wilton looked grave, and asked a few rather searching questions, but Marjorie’s downright little narrative of Susy’s sufferings softened everyone, and Ermengarde presently left the house, with the chastened halo of a saint round her young head.

Her saint-like conduct, and the romantic devotion of the poor retainer’s daughter, made really quite a pretty story, and was firmly believed in by Lady Russell and Lilias.  Mr. Wilton, however, had his doubts.  “Ermie in the rôle of the self-denying martyr is too new and foreign for me,” he muttered.  “There’s something at the back of this.  Basil in disgrace (which he well deserves, the impudent young scoundrel), and Ermengarde the friend and support of the suffering poor! these things are too new to be altogether consistent.  There’s something at the back of this mystery, and I shall go home and see what it means to-morrow.”