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The Children of Wilton Chase, a fiction by L. T. Meade |
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Chapter 11. After The Fun |
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_ CHAPTER XI. AFTER THE FUN There was wild fun at Salter's Point. A cove was found with yellow sand as smooth as glass; here the picnic dinner was spread, and here the boys and girls laughed heartily and enjoyed themselves well. There seemed no hitch anywhere, and if Basil kept a little aloof from Ermengarde, and if Ermengarde was a trifle more subdued and had less of a superior air than was her wont, no one noticed these small circumstances. Marjorie laughed until she cried; Eric stood on his head and turned somersaults, and performed conjuring tricks, and was really the most witty, fascinating little fellow. Even Miss Nelson laughed at Eric, and Mr. Wilton openly regretted that the old established position of the family at Wilton Chase prevented his making his son a clown at the pantomime. But the brightest days come to an end, and when the picnic dinner was eaten, the dishes washed and replaced in their baskets, when each child, aided by patient Marjorie, had secured a liberal supply of shells, and each little chubby face had gazed with ecstasy into the pools which contained the wonderful gardens of sea-weeds and sea-anemones, it was time to pack the wagonette once more, to fill the pony-carriage, and to start for home. Ermengarde once more seated herself in the pony-carriage. Basil was standing near. "Come," she said to him. "Miss Nelson can go home in the wagonette, and then you and I can have these comfortable seats facing the horses. Come! what are you standing dreaming there for?" "I beg your pardon," said Basil starting. "No. I promised Maggie to go back in the wagonette, and here comes Miss Nelson. Oh, Miss Nelson, you do look fagged out. Here's a jolly seat for you next to Ermengarde, in the pony-trap, and these three young 'uns can be packed together at the other side. Now then, babies, pop in. Look out, Lucy; don't tread on Polly's toes--off you go." The ponies started forward at a round pace; a deep flush mounted to Ermengarde's brow. What was the matter with Basil? He was always good-natured, certainly, but at another time he would have jumped at her offer, for Miss Nelson would really have been just as happy in the wagonette. Ermengarde now remembered that Basil had been a little queer to her all day, a tiny bit distant, not quite his cordial self. Could he suspect anything? But no, that was absolutely impossible. Miss Nelson thought her eldest pupil rather sulky during the drive back. She sighed once or twice as she glanced at the girl's irresponsive face. Ermengarde was certainly difficult to manage. Should she continue to take charge of her? Would it not be best to own at once that over this girl she had no influence, and to ask Mr. Wilton to remove Ermengarde from her care? The party reached home, and supper and fireworks, according to Marjorie's programme, were all crowded into the happy day. But at last tired eyes could keep open no longer, the small children were tucked into their nests, and the elder ones were by no means sorry to follow their example. "Oh, I am tired out," said Marjorie to Ermengarde. "It _is_ nice to think of getting into one's bed, and going off into a long, long sleep. And hadn't we a happy day, Ermie?" "Yes," said Ermengarde, in an abstracted voice. She was standing by the window. She had not attempted to undress. Hudson generally helped the little girls to prepare for the night, but as she was particularly busy reducing Chaos to order downstairs, Marjorie had said they could get on quite well alone for this one evening. She now came to Ermengarde, to ask her to unfasten a knot in her dress. "And why don't you take off your own things, Ermie?" she said. "There's no particular hurry," said Ermengarde. "But aren't you dreadfully tired?" "No. I did not get up at four o'clock this morning." "Oh, what fun we had waking father!" began Marjorie, "If you had only seen Eric; and father's face when first he opened his eyes. I do believe--why, what's the matter, Ermie, have you a headache?" "No; how you do worry one, Maggie! Go to bed, and try to stop talking; I want to think, and to be let alone. I'll come to bed when I feel inclined." A torrent of words came to the tip of Marjorie's tongue, but she restrained them. It was Ermie's custom sometimes to be very snappy and uncommunicative. She concluded the wisest policy was to let her sister alone, and to go to sleep herself as fast as possible. Accordingly she knelt for a few moments by her bedside in her little white nightdress, and then tumbled into it, and with a happy sigh went into the land of dreams. A moment or two later Ermengarde softly opened the door of the sleeping-room and went out. It was ten o'clock, and the household, tired from the day's pleasuring, were all preparing to go to bed. Ermengarde ran along the corridor, flew downstairs the back way, and found herself in the schoolroom part of the house. She took her waterproof cloak and an old garden-hat from a peg on the wall, and let herself out by a side-door. If she ran very fast she would probably be back before George, the old butler, had drawn the bolts and put the chain on for the night. If not, she knew that it would not be difficult to open one of the schoolroom windows, which were low, and as often as not unhasped. Ermengarde had herself noticed that the bolt of one was not fastened that evening. If the worst came, she could return to her little bed that way, but she fully expected to be in time to come back by the door. The moment she got out, she slipped on her waterproof and hat, and then, with the speed and lightness of a little fawn, flew down the narrow pathway which led first to the park, and then across it to the keeper's cottage. The moonlight lay in silver bars over the grass, and when Ermengarde got under the trees their great shadows looked black and portentous. At another time she might have felt some sensations of fear at finding herself at so late an hour alone in the woods, but she was too intent now on the object of her mission to have any room for nervousness. She was out of breath when she reached the cottage, but to her relief saw that its inmates were not yet in bed, for light shone from the kitchen and also from Susy's bedroom. Ermengarde's knock at the kitchen door was answered by Mrs. Collins herself. "Oh, Miss Wilton, I am pleased to see you," she said. "Susy was fretting ever so for fear you wouldn't be able to keep your word. Come in, miss, please; and has Master Basil come with you? or maybe it's Hudson? I hope whoever it is will be pleased to walk in and wait in the kitchen." "No, I've come alone," said Ermengarde shortly. "You know I am not allowed to be with Susy, so how could I possibly ask anyone to come with me?" "Oh, my dear young lady, as if my poor child could harm any one! You are good and brave, Miss Ermengarde; as brave as you're beautiful, and I'm sure we'll none of us ever forget it to you. No, that we won't." Ermengarde was never proof against flattery. A satisfied smile stole now over her face. "I was not at all afraid," she said. "I had given my word that I would come, and of course a lady's word must always be kept. How _is_ Susy, Mrs. Collins?" "Oh, my dear, but poorly. Very fractious and feverish, and her pain is considerable. But she'll be better after she has seen you, my sweet young lady, for no one knows better than Susy how to appreciate condescension." "Well, I can't wait more than a minute, Mrs. Collins. I'll just run up and say good-night to Susy, and then I must be off." "Shall I light you up, miss?" "No, thank you, I can see my way perfectly." Ermengarde ran up the little wooden ladder-like stairs, and bounded somewhat noisily into Susy's bedroom. "Here I am, Susy; now give me the miniature at once. I'll hide it under my waterproof cloak." "I can't reach to it, miss," said Susy. "It's where you put it this morning, atween the mattress and the paillasse, and I had the greatest work keeping mother's hands off it, for she was bent on making the bed all over again." "Well, I'll take it now. Yes, here it is." Ermengarde pulled the little case from under the bed. "O Susy!" she said, uttering an exclamation of dismay, "what shall we do? The ivory on which the picture is painted is cracked right across! Oh, what a queer expression it gives to the little girl's face, and what will Miss Nelson say?" "Now, miss, you're not going to betray me about it, and me so bad and ill?" "No, you little coward, you shan't get into any scrape. How _did_ this happen? The picture was right enough this morning." "I expect it was the way you pushed it under the bed, miss. It got knocked most likely, and father was sitting just over it for an hour and more this afternoon, and he's a goodish weight." "Well, I shall take the miniature away now, so good-night, Susy. I'm very sorry I ever made such a little thief as you are my friend. A nice scrape you've got me into!" Ermengarde thrust the miniature under her waterproof, and rushed downstairs. "Good-night, Mrs. Collins," she said. "Stay a minute, miss. Collins is just coming in, and he'll see you home." "No, I can't possibly wait. I think Susy is better--good-night." "But ain't you afeared to go right across the park by yourself at this hour, miss?" "No--no--no; good-night, good-night!" Ermengarde's voice already sounded far away. Her feet seemed to have wings, she ran so fast. As she ran she heard the stable-clock strike eleven. "Oh, I do trust they have not locked up the house!" she exclaimed. "Suppose they have, and suppose George has put the bolt on the schoolroom window? He's as careless as possible about fastening the bolts of the windows as a rule, but it would be like him to do it to-night of all nights. Oh, what shall I do, if that has happened?" Ermengarde's heart beat so fast at the bare idea that she could scarcely run. She stumbled, too, over a piece of twig which lay across her path, and falling somewhat heavily scraped her forehead. She had no time to think of the pain then. Rising as quickly as possible, she passed along the familiar road. How weary it was! How tedious! Would it never, never end? At last she came under the shadows caused by the rambling old house. She flew down a side-walk which led through a shrubbery; now she was passing under the window of Miss Nelson's private room, now she saw the three long low windows of the dear cozy old schoolroom. The blinds were drawn down, and there was light within--a faint light, it is true, but still light. Ermengarde felt a sense both of relief and fear. The side-entrance door was reached at last. She turned the handle. Her fingers were cold and trembling. The handle turned, but the door did not move. Had she turned the handle of the door quite round--were her fingers too weak for the task? She tried again in vain. Then she uttered a sound something between a sob and a cry--she was really locked out! "What _shall_ I do?" murmured the unhappy child. She looked around her wildly. She did not dare try the schoolroom window while that light remained within. She leant up against the locked door, trembling, incapable of action; a very little would have made her lose her self-control. At this moment her sharp ear heard a sound; the sound was made by a movement in the schoolroom. Ermengarde started away a step or two from the hall-door; she saw some one go up to one of the windows and, without drawing up the blind, put a hand underneath to feel if the fastening was to. It was not, but was immediately bolted. The steps then went across the room. At this moment Ermengarde felt desperate. Old George was faithful to-night, of all nights. Dreadful, terrible old George! Suddenly in her despair she seized upon the last chance of succor. She would call to George to let her in, and afterward trust to her wits to bribe the old servant to silence. No sooner did this idea come to her than she acted on it, and in a frenzy of terror began to call George's name through the keyhole. A step came into the passage, there was a surprised pause, then a rush to the door, which was quickly opened. Basil, not George, stood before Ermengarde. "Ermie!" he exclaimed. His face got crimson, then it turned white. His first exclamation had been full of astonished affection and concern, but in a flash his manner altered; he caught Ermengarde roughly by the shoulder, and dragged her into the house. "Come into the schoolroom," he said. "O Basil, don't--don't look at me like that." "I'm not looking at you in any way. I must lock this door, I suppose. Did you know it was past eleven o'clock?" "Yes, yes, I heard the stable-clock strike. Oh, I was so terrified. Basil, why are you looking like that?" "I'm not looking any way. Don't be a goose. Here, come into the schoolroom." "No, I am tired. I want to go to bed. I'll--I'll explain every thing to you to-morrow." "Look here, Ermengarde." Basil held a lamp in his hand, and its light fell on Ermengarde's face. "You have got to come into the schoolroom and make no words about it, or I'll--I'll take you, just as you are, straight away to father, to his study." "You are very cruel," sobbed Ermengarde. But she went into the schoolroom without another word. Basil followed her, and shut the door behind him. "Now look here," he said. "I don't want to hector you, nor any nonsense of that sort, but you have got to tell me the truth without making any bones about it. What's up with you, Ermengarde--what's wrong?" He had set the lamp on the mantelpiece, and stood himself facing its full light. His olive-tinted face looked stern and dark; there was no tenderness in his manner. Ermengarde drew up her slight little figure proudly. "You are not my father," she said. "I won't answer you when you speak to me in that tone." "All right! you shall come to the one who has a right to order you. Come along." "No, Basil, no; how _can_ you be so unkind?" She wrenched her hand from his clasp. Her words came out in a sob, tears rushed to her eyes. "O Basil, I have always loved you." "Stuff, this is no minute for sentiment. _I_ love honorable and truthful girls; I loved a sister who was that. Now tell me the truth, and be quick about it, for if you don't, I'll take you to father; he's not in bed, but he will be soon, so you had better make up your mind at once." "What am I to say to you, Basil?" "That's for you to decide. _You_ know what's up; I don't. You know why you turned so queer this morning when Collins stopped the pony-trap, and why you are out all by yourself close on midnight." "I went to see Susy Collins. I don't know why you should speak to me in that tone." "_Do_ stop bothering about my tone, Ermie. Can't you see that you have done frightfully wrong? I--I----" He gulped down something in his throat. "There; I can't speak of it, I think I'm stunned. I simply can't make out what has come to you, having secrets with a girl my father has forbidden you to know!" "I haven't secrets with her." "You have. For goodness' sake, don't add lying to all the rest of it. Would you have turned so white this morning if you hadn't a secret, and would you have crept out of the house in this disgraceful way if you hadn't a secret? Come, Ermie, I'm older than you--and--and--our mother isn't here. Tell me all about it, Ermie." This was Ermengarde's chance. For the moment the severe young judge before her was softened; a memory of his mother had done it; that, and the knowledge that Ermengarde was younger and frailer than himself. Had she told him the whole truth then, she might have saved herself with Basil. Like many another, however, she let the golden moment pass. For half a minute she was absolutely silent. Then she said in her most stubborn voice: "I don't tell lies--I have no secret with Susy. I went to her to-night because I was sorry for her, and because I--I--I was afraid to stay long enough this morning. Everyone is so horridly hard on me because I befriend a poor little girl like Susy, and now when she is ill and all. That's why I went to her secretly, because--because people make me afraid." "When you say people, you mean our father?" "Well, yes; I think it is horrid of father to make such a fuss about my knowing Susy. Mother wouldn't have done it." "Hush, don't bring mother into this conversation, Ermengarde," Basil knit his brows in pain. "I suppose I may go to bed now," said Ermengarde, after a long pause. "I have nothing more to say. I went to see Susy because I was sorry for her, and I--I was afraid--that's all. If I were to stay here till morning I could not say anything more." Whatever effect these words of Ermengarde might have had upon Basil--whether he would have believed her, and only attributed to her the sin of disobedience in seeking another interview with Susy--can never be known; for, as the little girl, interpreting his silence for consent, was about to leave the room, she stumbled against a footstool, and the precious miniature fell from its place of concealment to the floor. Ermengarde uttered a cry, but before she could even stoop to pick up the picture, Basil had seized it; he gave it one look, his lips twitched curiously, then he slipped it into the inner pocket of his Eton jacket. "Basil, Basil, oh give it to me! Basil, Basil, _please_ give me that picture back!" "No--it isn't yours--I know your secret. You can go to bed now. I don't want to say anything more to you to-night." "Basil!" In her terror and anguish Ermengarde went on her knees. "O Basil, be merciful! I'll tell you everything. I will, really and truly." "Get up, Ermengarde. For goodness' sake, don't make an exhibition of yourself. I don't want to hear anything more you have got to say. Go to bed, and leave me in peace." "Give me back the miniature." "Certainly not. It is not yours." "What will you do with it?" "Give it back to Miss Nelson, of course." "Then I am lost." Ermengarde gave a bitter cry, and rushed to the door. Before she could reach it, Basil stepped before her. "Don't go into hysterics," he said. "Go up to your room and keep quiet. You have done mischief enough, and caused suffering enough. Don't add to it all by making a fuss and waking the house. I _have_ got some feeling, and I can _not_ speak to you to-night. This has somehow taken the--the courage out of me. I'll think it over to-night, and I'll see you again in the morning." "O Basil! And you won't tell anyone till you have seen me again?" Basil put his hand up to his forehead. He considered for a moment. "I think I may promise that," he said then slowly. "And where am I to meet you, Basil?" "Meet me in the shrubbery after morning school. Now go to bed." He took up the lamp and left the schoolroom. Ermengarde watched him as he slowly ascended the stairs and turned down the corridor which led to the boys' bedrooms. He took the light away with him in more senses than one, but Ermengarde little recked of darkness just then. She threw herself on the floor in the old schoolroom, and gave vent to a passion of weeping, shedding tears which not even her mother's death had wrung from her. _ |
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