"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 role 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."



CHAPTER XXIII.

BLESSED AND HAPPY.

Ermengarde was sitting in her own room, and Marjorie was standing by her side. It was the day after Ermie's unexpected return home. She had spent a couple of hours with Susy, and Miss Nelson had given her a grave but kind welcome. Now the first day was over, the first night had gone by, and Ermengarde was sitting, resting her cheek upon her hand, by the open window of her pretty bedroom.

Marjorie was lolling against the window-ledge; her anxious eyes were fixed on Ermengarde, who was looking away from her, and whose pretty face wore a particularly sullen expression.

"Well, Ermie, what will you do?" asked Marjorie, in a gentle voice.

"Oh, I don't know—don't worry me."

"But you must make up your mind. Miss Nelson is waiting."

"Let her wait; what do I care?"

"Ermie, what's the good of talking like that? Miss Nelson is our governess, and mother used to be fond of her. You know it was mother asked her to come and take care of us when she knew that God was going to take her away. So, Ermie, there's no use in being disrespectful to her, for, even if it wasn't very wrong, father wouldn't allow it for a minute. Ermie, do you know that father has come back?"

"No! What can he have come back for?" Ermengarde raised her brows in some alarm. "I can't make out why he should have shortened his visit to Glendower," she added anxiously.

"I can't tell you, Ermie. He's talking to Basil now; they are walking up and down in the shrubbery."

"Oh, well, Basil—Basil is all right."

Marjorie felt a flood of indignant color filling her face.

"Basil won't tell," she said, in her sturdy voice. "That's quite true. Basil has promised, and he'd never break his word. But Miss Nelson is different, and she—she has determined to find out the truth."

Ermengarde sprang from her chair.

"What do you mean, Maggie?"

"I'm awfully sorry, Ermie, but I really mean what I say. Miss Nelson says she is determined to find out everything. She has sent for you to speak to you. You had much better come to her. Oh, now, I knew you'd be too late! That's her knock at the door."

The rather determined knock was immediately followed by the lady in question. Miss Nelson was a very gentle woman, but her eyes now quite blazed with anger.

"Ermengarde, it is quite a quarter of an hour since I sent for you."

Ermie lowered her eyes—she did not speak. Miss Nelson seated herself.

"Why did you not come to me, Ermengarde, when I sent Maggie for you?"

"I—I didn't want to."

Miss Nelson was silent for a minute.

"I anticipated your saying something of this kind," she remarked presently. "So, as it is necessary we should meet, I took the trouble to come to you. Ermengarde, look at me."

With a great effort Ermie raised her eyes.

"What did Susy Collins say to you, yesterday?"

"I—I don't want to tell you."

"I desire you to tell me."

"I—I can't."

"You mean you won't."

"I can't tell you, Miss Nelson."

Ermengarde clasped and unclasped her hands. Her expression was piteous.

Miss Nelson was again silent for a few minutes.

"Ermengarde," she said then, "this is not the time for me to say I am sorry for you. I have a duty to perform, and there are moments when duties must come first of all. Susan Collins's excitement, her almost unnatural desire to see you, have got to be accounted for. There is a cloud over Basil that must be explained away. There is a mystery about a little old miniature of mine: it was stolen by some one, and broken by some one. The story of that miniature somebody must tell. At the risk of your father's displeasure I took Maggie to visit Susy Collins the other night. You were away on a visit with your father, and I allowed Maggie to fetch you home. There is undoubtedly an adequate reason for this, but I must know it, for I have to explain matters to Mr. Wilton; therefore, Ermengarde, if you will not tell me fully and frankly and at once all that occurred between you and Susy yesterday, I will go myself and see the Collinses, and will learn the whole story from Susy's own lips."

"Oh, you will not," said Ermengarde, "You never could be so cruel!"

All her self-possession had deserted her. Her face was white, her voice trembled.

"I must go, Ermie. Wretched child, why don't you save yourself by telling me all you know at once?"

"I cannot, I cannot!"

Ermengarde turned her head away. Miss Nelson rose to leave the room.

"I am going to my room," she said; "I will wait there for half an hour. If at the end of half an hour you do not come to me, I must go to see the Collinses."

Ermengarde covered her face with her hands. Miss Nelson left the room.

"Ermie," said Marjorie in her gentlest voice.

"I wish you'd leave me," said Ermengarde. "There would never have been all this mischief but for you; I do wish you'd go away!"

"If you only would be brave enough to tell the truth," whispered Marjorie.

"Do, do go away! Leave me to myself."

With great reluctance the little girl left the room. As she sidled along the wall, she looked back several times. A word, a glance would have brought her back. But the proud, still little figure by the window did not move a muscle. The angry eyes looked steadily outward; the lips were firmly closed. Marjorie banged the door after her; she did not mean to, but the open window had caused a draught, and Ermengarde with a long shiver realized that she was alone.

"Now, that's a comfort," she murmured; "now I can think. Have I time to rush up to Susy, and tell her that she is not to let out a single word? Half an hour—Miss Nelson gives me half an hour. I could reach the Collinses' cottage in about ten minutes, if I flew over the grass; five minutes with Susy, and then ten minutes back again. I can do it—I will!"

She seized her hat, rushed to the door, ran along the corridor, and down the stairs. In a moment she was out. Her fleet young steps carried her lightly as a fawn over the grass, and down the path which led to Susy's cottage. How fast her heart beat! Surely she would be in time!

A short cut to the Collinses' cottage lay through a small paddock which cut off an angle of the park. Ermie remembered this, and made for it now. There was a stile to climb, but this was no obstacle to the country-bred girl. She reached the paddock, vaulted lightly over the stile, and was about to rush along the beaten path when she was suddenly brought face to face with the two people whom in all the world she wished least to see just then—her father and Basil. They, too, were walking in the paddock, and met Ermengarde close to the stile.

Ermie had never seen her father's face wear a sterner, or more displeased expression, but it was not his glance which frightened her most just then; it was a certain proud, resigned, yet strong look which flashed at her for an instant out of Basil's beautiful eyes. This, joined to an expression of suffering round his lips, gave Ermengarde for the first time a glimpse of the abyss of deceit and wrong-doing into which she was plunging.

A great longing for Basil's love and approbation rushed over her. The desire for this was stronger in that first brief moment than her fear of meeting her father. She stood perfectly still, her hands dropped to her sides; she had not a word to say.

"You can go home," said Mr. Wilton, turning to his son; "I have expressed my opinion; I don't mean to repeat it—there is nothing further to say."

Basil did not make any reply to this speech, nor did he again look at Ermengarde. He went to the stile, vaulted over it, and disappeared.

"And now, Ermie, where are you going to?" said her father.

"Home," she answered confusedly. "I am going home."

"My dear, I never knew that this way through the paddock led home. Come, Ermengarde, I am tired of prevarication. What does all this mean?"

"Don't ask me, father. I mean I'll tell you presently. I want to see Miss Nelson."

"Is Miss Nelson at the other side of this paddock? Ermengarde, I insist upon it, I will be answered."

"Give me half an hour, father, a quarter of an hour—ten minutes—just to see Miss Nelson, and—and—Basil."

"Then you are in league with Basil, too! A nice state I find my family in! I give a distinct and simple order to you, which you disobey. Basil, whom I always supposed to be the soul of honor, has behaved with wanton cruelty toward a lady who was your mother's friend, whom I respect, and who has been placed more or less in authority over you all. Not a word, Ermengarde. Basil has as good as confessed his guilt, and I can only say that my old opinion of him can never be restored. Then, I take you away on a visit, and Maggie comes to fetch you home, because, forsooth, the gamekeeper's daughter with whom I have forbidden you to have any intercourse is feverish, and wants to have a conversation with you. Nonsense, Ermie! you posed very well at the Russells' yesterday as a little philanthropist, but that role, my dear, is not yours. Susan Collins had a far stronger reason for recalling you from Glendower than the simple desire for your company. Come, Ermie, this mystery has got to be cleared up. This is not the road home, nor am I aware that Miss Nelson resides at the other end of the paddock. But this narrow path leads directly to Collins's cottage. I presume you are going there. If you have no objection, we will go together, my dear."

"Yes, father, I have every objection. You need not go to Collins's. I—I won't keep it in any longer."

"I thought I should bring you to your senses. Now, what have you got to say?"

"It's on account of Basil."

"Leave Basil's name out, please. I am not going to be cajoled into restoring him to my favor again."

Ermengarde's face, which had been growing whiter and whiter during this interview, now became convulsed with a spasm of great agony. She put up her trembling hands to cover it. This was not a moment for tears. Her hot eyes were dry.

"Father, you don't know Basil. He has done nothing wrong, nothing. It's all me. It's all me, father."

And then the miserable story, bit by bit, was revealed to Mr. Wilton; it was told reluctantly, for even now Ermengarde would have shielded herself if she could. Without a single word or comment, the narrative was listened to. Then Mr. Wilton, taking Ermie's hand, walked silently back to the house with her. Miss Wilton came down the steps of the front entrance to meet them.

"Good-morning, Ermengarde," she said. "How queer and dragged you look? Roderick, I want to speak to you."

"I will come to you presently, Elizabeth. I am particularly engaged just now."

"But you are not going to take that child in through the front entrance?"

"Will you allow me to pass, please?"

Mr. Wilton's voice was so firm that his sister made no further comment, but with a shrug of her shoulders turned aside.

"If only Elizabeth were a different woman, I might not have scenes like this," murmured the poor man.

He went to his study, and there, to his great astonishment, found Marjorie and Basil both waiting for him.

"We saw you coming up the field" said Marjorie at once. "And I knew Ermie had told. I knew it by her face, and the way she walked. I told Basil so, and I said we would come in here, for I guessed you'd bring Ermie here. Dear Ermie, you are brave now! Dear Ermie!"

Marjorie ran up to her sister.

"It's all going to be quite right now," she said. And she raised her flushed eager face, and looked at her father.

Mr. Wilton went straight to Basil's side.

"I misunderstood you, my boy; forgive me," he said.

Ermengarde stood erect and stiff. She had not shed a tear, nor made any response to Marjorie's words. Her whole soul was in her face, however. She was watching her father's greeting of Basil. She waited for its effect.

The few words uttered by Mr. Wilton were magical. Something seemed to flash out of Basil's eyes. They looked straight up into his father's, then dropped to the ground.

"Father," he murmured. His father grasped his hand.

"O Basil," suddenly sobbed Ermie. Her fortitude gave way; she rushed to her brother and almost groveled at his feet.

"Now, what's to be done?" said Mr. Wilton, turning in a perplexed kind of way to his younger daughter. "I confess it, I never felt more confused and put out in all my life. I brought Ermengarde here to punish her most severely."

"Oh, please, father, don't! Let it be a full, complete, jolly kind of forgiveness all round. Look at Basil, father."

Mr. Wilton turned his head. Basil was on his knees, and his arms were round Ermie, her head rested on his shoulder.

"Oh, father, do let us come out and leave them together for a little!"

"Really, Maggie, you don't treat me with a bit of respect," said Mr. Wilton. But his voice was low, the frown had cleared from his brow, and he pinched Marjorie's firm round cheek.

"I suppose I must humor you, little woman," he said, "for after all you are the only member of my family who never gets into scrapes."

"Oh, father, I'm so happy!" They were out side the study door now, and Marjorie, still clinging to her father's hand, was skipping up and down. "Everything will be as right as possible now, and no one, no one in all the world can help Ermie as Basil can."

"I believe you are right there, Maggie," said Mr. Wilton. "My poor lad, he certainly has done a noble, Quixotic sort of thing. I can't forgive myself for being so harsh with him."

"Oh, father, Basil quite understood. He didn't wish to be cleared, you know."

"Yes, yes, I see daylight at last."

"Father, what do you mean by Basil being Quixotic?"

"I'll tell you another time, puss. And so you knew of this all the time?"

"Only since the night before last. I wanted Ermie to tell you herself. Basil wouldn't tell, and he wouldn't let me. Now it's all right. Oh, how happy I am! Now it's all right."

"And you really mean me to let Ermengarde off her punishment, Mag?"

"Well, father?"

Marjorie put her head a little on one side, and adopted her most sagacious and goody-goody manner.

"Wouldn't it be well to see if Ermie hasn't learnt something by this lesson, you know? I expect Ermie has suffered a lot."

"Not she—not she."

"Oh, but, father, I think she has. Couldn't you wait until the next time to punish Ermie, father?"

"Well, you're a dear child," said Mr. Wilton, "and perhaps, for your sake——"

"Oh, no, father, for Basil's sake."

"Well then, for Basil's sake."

Marjorie kissed her father about a dozen times.

"You'll let Ermie just learn by her experience to be better another time, and that will be her only punishment," said Marjorie, in her wisest manner.

"Well, Maggie, I suppose I must yield to you. And now, as this is to be, and I am not to assume the role of the severe father—between ourselves, Maggie, I hate roles—do let us drop the subject. I feel inclined for a game with the young ones. What do you say?"

"I say that the sun has come out, and I am as happy as the day is long," replied Marjorie. "Give me another kiss, please, father. Lucy, is that you? Father is coming to have a romp with us all. Just one minute, please, father. I must go and tell Miss Nelson the good news."

"What a blessed, happy, dear little thing Maggie is!" thought Mr. Wilton as, holding Lucy's hand, he walked slowly to the nursery playground. "She's more like her mother than any of them. Yes, this may be a lesson to Ermengarde. Poor child, I hope so."

* * * * *

It was late that evening when Ermengarde and Basil, standing side by side under their mother's picture, solemnly kissed each other.

"Basil, you will never love me in the old way again."

"I love you better than anyone else in all the world, Ermie. Look up into mother's eyes; they are smiling at you."

"I know what they are saying," answered Ermengarde. She clasped her hands; there was a stronger, better look than Basil had ever noticed before on her pretty face. "Mother's eyes are saying, 'You have been very selfish, Ermie, and very——' What is it, Basil?"

"Yes," interrupted Basil. "I think selfishness was at the root of all this trouble. I never knew any one so unselfish as Maggie."

"And mother's eyes say," continued Ermengarde, "'Take courage—and—and——'"

"I think mother is telling you to try to copy our dear little Maggie," said Basil.

THE END.

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