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The Children of Wilton Chase, a fiction by L. T. Meade |
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Chapter 19. Some People Who Did Not Flatter |
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_ CHAPTER XIX. SOME PEOPLE WHO DID NOT FLATTER They were not an agreeable-looking pair; they had evidently been dining, and their faces were sticky. They had also been quarreling, for they cast scowling glances at each other, and were in far too bad a temper to be civil to the newcomer. "I don't want her to play with us," said Tootsie, and he half turned his back. "I'm sure then she shan't play with me," said Fanny. "I don't wish to play with anyone, I'm sick of play. It's just like that horrid Maisie." "She isn't a bit more horrid than you and Tootsie!" suddenly remarked Ermengarde, finding her voice, and speaking with what seemed to the two children slow and biting emphasis. "You're all horrid together; I never met such horrid people. You are none of you ladies and gentlemen. I wouldn't play with you for the world! Good-by; I'm going home." Ermengarde turned her back, and began to walk rapidly away from the picnic party. Whether she would have succeeded in finding her way back to Glendower remains a mystery, for she had not gone a dozen yards before she encountered a stout old lady, who spread out her arms as she approached, and made herself look like a great fan. "Whither away, now, little maid of the woods?" she said. "Oh, I suppose you are the little girl called Wilton, whom Florrie brought over from Glendower with her. Maisie told me of you." "I'm going home; please let me pass," said Ermengarde. "Oh, highty-tighty! not a bit of you, dearie. You'll stay here till Florrie wants to go back. You'd get her into no end of a scrape if you were to leave her now. You must stick to her, my love. It would be unkind to desert poor Florrie in that fashion. I thought Maisie had left you with Fanny and Tootsie." "Yes, but they are horrid rude children. I could not possibly play with them." "Well, they are handfuls," said the stout lady. "I'm their mother, so I ought to know. You don't mind staying with me, then, love, do you?" "I'd much rather go home," repeated Ermengarde. "But you can't do that, my dear child, so there's no use thinking about it. Come, let us walk about and be cozy, and you tell me all about Glendower." The old lady now drew Ermengarde's slim hand through her arm, and she found herself forced to walk up and down the greensward in her company. Mrs. Burroughs was a downright sort of person. After her fashion she was kind to Ermie, but it never entered into her head to flatter her. She was a gossiping sort of body, and she wanted the child to recount to her all the tittle-tattle she knew about Glendower. Ermengarde had neither the power nor the inclination to describe the goings on at Glendower graphically. The stout lady soon got tired of her short answers, and began to survey her from head to foot in a critical and not too kindly spirit. "Dear, dear!" she said, "what an overgrown poor young thing you are! But we must all go through the gawky age; we must each of us take our turn. Maisie is just through her bad time, but when she was fourteen, wasn't she a show just! You're fourteen, ain't you, my love?" "Yes," said Ermengarde. "Ah, I thought as much! I said so the moment I set eyes on you. I knew it by your walk. Neither fish, flesh nor good red herring is a maid of fourteen; she's all right once she passes seventeen, so you take heart, my love. I dare say you'll be a fine girl then." "Mrs. Burroughs," interrupted Ermengarde, "I really must look for Flora. It is time for us to be going back. I must find her, and if she won't come, I'll go alone." She wrenched her hand away from the stout lady's arm, and before she could prevent her, began running through the woods to look for Flora. Miss St. Leger was nowhere in sight, so Ermie, feeling her present position past enduring, determined that, whatever happened, she would go back to Glendower. She was fortunate enough to meet one of the gamekeepers, and guided by his instructions presently found herself back in the house. Weary and stiff, her head aching, she crept up to her room, and threw herself on her bed. Oh, what horrid people Flora knew! Oh, what a horrid girl Flora really was! Ermengarde wondered how she could ever have liked or admired Flora, or made a friend of such a girl. She lay on the bed and listened intently, wondering what would happen if the picnic party returned before Flora chose to put in an appearance. In that case, would she, Ermengarde, be blamed? Would suspicion attach to her? Would her father discover how deceitfully she had behaved? "He would send me straight home if he knew it," thought Ermie. "Oh, what a lot of scrapes I've been getting into lately! What with Susy and the miniature, and Miss Nelson and Basil, and now this horrid mean Flora? Oh dear, oh dear? I'm sure I'm not a bit happy. I wish I could get straight somehow, only it's hopeless. I seem to get deeper and deeper into a dark wood every day. Oh dear! there is nothing whatever for me but to hope that things won't be found out." There came a gentle knock at Ermengarde's door. "Come in," she said, in a shaking voice. Her fears made her tremble at every sound. Petite appeared, bringing in a tempting little tray, with tea, and bread-and-butter, and cake. She inquired if Ermengarde knew where Miss St. Leger was. Ermie murmured something which the French maid tried to interpret in vain. "I'll look for ma'mselle in her room," she said. She arranged the tea-tray comfortably for Ermie, and withdrew. The little girl drank her tea; it soothed and comforted her, and she was just falling into a doze, when her room door was opened without any preliminary knock, and Flora, flushed, panting, and frightened, ran in. "Ermengarde, they are all returning. They are in the avenue already. Oh, how cruel of you to come home without me! You might have got me into an awful scrape." "I could not help it, Flora. You should not have left me with such people. They are not at all in our set. Father would not wish me to know them." "Oh, nonsense! They are as good as anybody." "They are not; they are not good at all. They are vulgar and horrid. I am surprised you should have taken me to see such people." "Well, well, child, it's all over now. You'll never tell about to-day, will you, Ermengarde?" "Oh, I suppose not, Flora." "You _suppose_ not? But you must promise faithfully. You don't know what mischief you'll make, if you tell. Promise now, Ermengarde; promise that you won't tell." "Very well, I promise," replied Ermie, in a tired-out voice. "That's a darling. I knew you were a pretty, sweet little pet. If ever I can do anything for you, Ermie, I will. Kiss me now, love. I hear their voices in the hall, and I must fly." Flora rushed noisily out of the room, and Ermie breathed a sigh of relief. That evening at dinner the stout old gentleman was very kind to the little girl who, with her hair down her back, and in a very simple muslin frock, sat by his side. In fact he took a great deal more notice of her than he did of the richly-attired young lady of the previous evening. In the course of the meal he imparted one piece of information to Ermengarde, which put her into extremely good spirits. He told her that Miss St. Leger and her mamma were leaving by a very early train on the following morning. Ermengarde quite laughed when she heard this, and the old gentleman gave her a quick pleased wink, as much as to say, "I thought you were too sensible to be long influenced by the flattery of that young person." Flora herself avoided Ermengarde all through the evening. She left her entirely to the society of her child friend Lilias, and finally went to bed without even bidding her good-by. _ |
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