Kitabı oku: «The Children of Wilton Chase», sayfa 8

CHAPTER XIV.
I SERVE

"Maggie," said her governess, early the next morning, "Maggie, dear, wake up at once."

Marjorie opened her sleepy gray eyes with a start, sprang up in bed, and began to rub them violently.

"Oh, Miss Nelson, is that you? What is the matter?"

"I want you to get up, and not to wake Ermengarde. Dress as quickly as possible, and then come to me to my room."

"What can be the matter? Isn't it awfully early? Aren't we going to Glendower to-day?"

"It is half-past six. Yes, you are going to Glendower by and by. Now dress, and come to me at once."

Miss Nelson left the room. Marjorie tumbled into her clothes in a most untidy manner, and joined her governess, looking what she was, very unkempt and tumbled.

"I have been quick, haven't I, Miss Nelson?"

"Yes, dear. Come over, my love, and sit by me on the sofa. Maggie, my dear, do you know that Basil is in trouble?"

"Basil!" exclaimed Marjorie. "How? Has he hurt himself?"

"He brought me back my miniature last night, Maggie, broken – injured; don't start so, my dear, dear child. He would not tell how it was broken, nor how it got into his possession, and your Aunt Elizabeth happened most unfortunately to come into the room at the moment, and she made a great fuss, and fetched your father; and the end of it is that they both believe Basil to have done something very wrong – in short, that he had something to say to the disappearance of the miniature, and he – he is in disgrace."

"Oh, Miss Nelson, how can father and Aunt Elizabeth be so cruel and unjust?"

"Hush, dear! whatever your father does, you must not speak of him so."

"But don't they both know him better? Did he ever in all his life do anything dishonorable or mean?"

"Maggie, I fully believe in him."

"Of course you do, dear darling Miss Nelson."

"I wish," continued Miss Nelson, "that we could really find out who took the miniature."

Miss Nelson was looking at Marjorie while she spoke, and now she was surprised to see a wave of crimson slowly dye the child's cheeks, and cover her brow.

"Why do you look like that, Maggie?" asked the governess. "Do you suspect anything?"

Maggie was silent for a moment. Then she looked up in her frank way.

"I don't really know anything," she said.

"But you have a suspicion."

"I'm not even sure that I have."

"Maggie dear, I would far rather never recover the miniature than get Basil into trouble. My conviction is that he is concealing some knowledge which has come to him for the sake of another. He is making a mistake, of course, but his motives are good. If you can help him, Maggie, if you have any clew by which we can get at the real truth, use it, and quickly, dear child."

Marjorie put on that little important air which sometimes made her brothers and sisters call her goody-goody.

"It seems a pity that I should be going away to-day," she said.

"Oh, you must not be disappointed, Maggie," said her governess. "You don't often get a treat, and you have been so looking forward to spending a few days with Lilias Russell."

"I do love Lily," replied Marjorie. "Only Ermengarde said – " then she stopped.

"What is it, dear?"

"I don't think I'll tell, Miss Nelson, please. I'm afraid, when Ermie said it, she was feeling awfully disappointed. I'll try to forget it. Now, Miss Nelson, what shall I do?"

"Put your wise little brains to work. Try to think how you can clear Basil from suspicion without doing anything shabby or underhand. I know your father is fearfully hurt with him. Much more hurt with him than with Ermengarde, for he has always had such a very high opinion of Basil. Now run away, Maggie, dear, and do your best; but remember I do not wish you to give up your visit. I called you early on purpose that you should have time to think matters over."

Miss Nelson kissed Marjorie, who went solemnly back to her own room.

The sun was now streaming in through the closed blinds, and some of his rays fell across the white bed where Ermengarde lay. The little girl was still fast asleep; all her long hair was tossed over her pillow, and one hand shaded her cheek. Ermengarde was a very pretty girl, and she looked lovely now in the innocent sweet sleep which visits even naughty children.

Marjorie went and stood at the foot of the bed.

"Poor Ermie," she said to herself, "I don't want to think that she could be mean, and yet – and yet – she was in Miss Nelson's room the day the miniature was stolen, and she did seem in a desperate state of trouble that time when she asked me to make an excuse for her to go back to the house. And then what funny words Susy did use that day in the cottage, although she explained them all away afterward. Dear, dear, dear, it's horrid to think that Ermie could do anything wrong. And she looks so sweet in her sleep. I wish Miss Nelson hadn't woke me, and told me to be a sort of spy. But oh, poor Basil! I'd do anything in all the world – I'd even be mean, to help Basil."

Marjorie sat down on her own little bed, which was opposite to Ermengarde's. The motto which her mother had given her long ago, the old sacred and time-honored motto, "I serve," floated back to her mind.

"It will be horrid if I have to give up going to Glendower," she whispered under her breath. "I am unlucky about treats, and I do love Lily. Still, I remember what mother said, 'When you are a servant to others, you are God's servant, Marjorie.' Mother died a week afterward. Oh dear, oh dear, I can't forget her words; but I should dearly like to go to Glendower all the same."

As Marjorie sat on her little bed, she was kicking her feet backward and forward, and not being a particularly gentle little mortal, she knocked over a box, which effectually wakened Ermengarde.

"What are you doing there?" asked the elder sister. "What in the world are you dressed for, Maggie? It surely is not seven o'clock yet?"

"Yes, it is; it's a quarter-past seven," replied Marjorie.

"Oh, I suppose you are so excited about your stupid old Glendower."

"I'm thinking about it but I'm not excited," answered Marjorie a little sadly.

"Well, for goodness' sake don't put on that resigned, pious, martyr sort of air. You are going to have your treat, and take it cheerfully. You know you are dying to go, and your heart is going pit-a-pat like anything."

"I wish you wouldn't be so cross with me, Ermie."

"Oh, of course, I'm always cross; no one ever has a good word for me. Now, Maggie, don't begin to argue the point. I wish to goodness you would stay in bed until it is your proper time to rise, and not wake me up before it is necessary. I might have had a quarter of an hour's more sleep if it had not been for you."

"I could not help myself this morning," answered Marjorie. "Miss Nelson came and woke me soon after six o'clock."

"Miss Nelson?" Ermengarde was suddenly aroused to interest. "Whatever for?"

"Oh, Ermie, you must hear about it – poor Basil."

Ermengarde half sat up in bed.

"I wish you'd speak right out, Maggie. Has Basil hurt himself? Is he ill? What is wrong?"

"Basil isn't ill in body, Ermie, only – oh, it's so dreadful. He found the miniature."

Ermengarde flung herself back again on her bed.

"How sick I am of that stupid miniature!" she muttered.

"Well, Ermie, you want to hear the story about it, don't you? Basil found it, and it had got cracked across, and the poor little sister, she does squint so fearfully now, and she – "

"Oh, never mind about that," retorted Ermengarde. With all her care there was a sort of breathless earnestness in her voice. "What did Basil do?"

"He gave the miniature back to Miss Nelson, and of course Miss Nelson was awfully cut up about it being broken, and just at the minute who should come in but Aunt Elizabeth! and she got into a rage, and she asked Basil how he had got the miniature, and how it was broken, and Basil refused to tell, and there was such a fuss, and father was sent for, and father asked Basil to tell, and Basil refused even to tell father, and father took Basil away to his study, and Miss Nelson doesn't know what happened there, only that dear darling Basil is in disgrace."

"Of course he didn't do it," murmured Ermengarde.

"Do it, Ermie! Basil wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone do such a shabby, shabby, cruel, mean thing as to take away Miss Nelson's dear picture. O Ermie, I thought you at least loved Basil more than anybody, more even than I love him."

"Yes, I do," said Ermengarde; "I love him more than anybody else in the world. Now Maggie, if you don't mind leaving the room, as you happen to be dressed, I'll get up."

"Yes," answered Marjorie, "I'll go away at once." She trotted out of the room.

"I must make up my mind to do it," she said to herself when she reached the landing. "Perhaps Ermie will believe then that I love her a little bit. There's no help for it at all. It's just a plain case of horrid duty, and there's no getting out of it."

Marjorie ran off in the direction of her father's room. She had to push aside the oak doors, and she had to go softly, for Aunt Elizabeth was now at home, and the part of the house behind the oak doors was no longer the children's property. Marjorie ran softly down the long corridor, and when she reached her father's door, she put her ear against the keyhole.

"I mustn't go in until he is up," she said to herself. "I must wait until I hear a little noise. Perhaps when he's shaving he'll have time to listen to me."

Marjorie's little heart was now beating fast enough, for she was dreadfully afraid that Aunt Elizabeth would come out of the bedroom at the other side of the passage, and order her back to the schoolroom regions.

"Oh, I do hope father won't be dreadfully lazy this morning," she murmured. At last welcome sounds from within reached her ears. Mr. Wilton had evidently retired into his bath-room. Presently steps were distinctly audible in the dressing-room; now Marjorie could venture softly to turn the handle of the great bedroom door, it yielded to her pressure, and she somewhat timidly entered. Mr. Wilton was in his dressing-room, the door of which was ajar, and Marjorie had come some distance into the outer room before he heard her.

"Who is there?" he asked suddenly.

"Please, father, it's me; it's Maggie."

"Come along in, and say good-morning, Maggie. I hope you are getting all your possessions together for our visit to Glendower. I shall take the twelve o'clock train. We'll arrive at four."

"Yes, father." Marjorie was now standing by her father's dressing-table. He was shaving, and in consequence his sentences were a little jerky.

"What a quiet Maggie," he said suddenly, looking down at her. "You're delighted to come, aren't you, little one?"

"I was – I loved it. Please, father, I don't want to go now."

"You don't want to go?" Mr. Wilton laid down his razor and looked almost severely into Marjorie's honest but now clouded face. "You don't want to go? Tut!" he repeated. "Don't talk nonsense – you know you are all agog to be off!"

"So I was, but I'm not now. I've changed my mind. That's why I've come in here, and why I'm bothering you while you are shaving."

"You don't bother me, Maggie; you're a good little tot. But about going to Glendower, it's all settled. You're to come, so run away and get Hudson to put up your finery."

"Father, I want you to let Ermie go instead of me."

"No, that I won't; she has been a very disobedient girl. Run away, now, Maggie; it's all settled that you are to go."

"But Ermie was asked in the first instance?"

"Yes, child, yes; but I've explained matters to Lady Russell."

"And Lilias is Ermie's friend."

"What a little pleader you are, Maggie. Ermie should be a good girl, and then she'd have the treats."

"Father, couldn't you punish me instead of her? That is sometimes done, isn't it?"

"Sometimes, Maggie, But I think Ermengarde would be all the better for going through the punishment she richly merits."

"Truly, father, I don't think so, and I know Ermie so well. I know, father, she's awfully unhappy, and she's getting so cross and hard, and perhaps this would soften her. I can't make out what's up with her, but I think this might soften her. Do try it, father; do, please, father."

"Come and sit by me for a moment on this sofa, Maggie. I see you're frightfully in earnest, and you're a dear good child. Everyone speaks well of you, Maggie, so I'm bound in honor to hear you out. You'll tell me the whole truth, whatever it is, won't you, Maggie?"

"Oh, won't I just! What a dear, darling father you are! Nearly as nice as the birthday father!"

"Nearly, puss? Not quite, eh? Well, you suit me uncommonly well, and it is a comfort to have an honest outspoken child. What with Ermengarde's disobedience, and Basil's disgraceful want of openness, I scarcely know what to do at times."

"Father, Basil has done nothing wrong."

"Oh, you take his part, eh? You wouldn't, if you had seen that obstinate young dog last night. I see you know all about it, and I may as well tell you, Maggie, that I am deeply displeased with Basil. I am much more angry with him than I am with Ermengarde, for somehow or other I measured him by his mother's standard, and she often said that Basil couldn't be underhand."

"Mother was right," said Marjorie; "he couldn't."

"My dear Maggie, events have proved the reverse. But now we won't discuss this matter. Here, pop under my arm; let's have a cozy five minutes while I listen to all your wonderful reasons for not going to Glendower."

CHAPTER XV.
LILIAS

Ermengarde had just finished her morning toilet when the bedroom door was banged violently open. It shut with a loud report and Marjorie, breathless and triumphant, appeared before her.

"What will you give for some good news?" she said, dancing excitedly up and down. "There, you shall give three guesses. Something so good, so jolly. You will be delighted. Now guess! What's going to happen?"

Ermengarde was in one of her worst humors. Everything had gone wrong with her. There was a load of oppression and care on her heart, and now she was seriously uneasy about Basil. She was not brave enough to exonerate him by confessing her own sins, but it was torture to her to think that he should be unjustly suspected of anything mean and dishonorable.

"Do guess! It's something so delightful. You will be pleased," repeated Marjorie, continuing to dance wildly up and down.

"I do wish, Maggie, you'd understand that other people are not in the frantic state of bliss you are in. Your manners lately are too intolerable. I shall ask father if I cannot have a separate bedroom, for I will not have you banging in and out of the room in the horrid tomboy way you have. I don't want to hear your good news. It's nothing that can concern me, that I am sure."

"Oh, indeed, truly it concerns you."

"I don't want to hear it. I know you and your raptures. It will be a perfect comfort when you are at Glendower, and I can have a little peace!"

"That's just it! I'm not going to Glendower."

"Oh! You have got into a scrape too? Well, I must say I think it's time your righteous pride should have a fall. I have no patience with little girls who are always in everyone's good books, and who are set up as patterns. But what's the matter? You seem uncommonly delighted at losing your fine treat."

"I would be, if you'd speak ever so little kindly to me, Ermie, I really am not the horrid girl you think."

"I don't think anything about you, child."

"Well, you shouldn't say things about me. You shouldn't say what you don't think."

"Oh, for goodness' sake, don't begin to moralize! Was that the breakfast gong?"

"Yes. And you'd better be quick eating up your breakfast, Ermie, for you won't have too much time."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you'll have to tell Hudson about your dresses and things. You are going to Glendower!"

The dull look left Ermengarde's eyes. They began to sparkle. She stood quite still for a moment. Then she turned slowly round and faced her little sister. All Marjorie's soul was shining out of her face at this moment.

"Do you mean this, Maggie?" asked Ermengarde.

"Of course I mean it. Aren't you glad? Aren't you delighted?"

"But how has it been managed? Father said he'd punish me for talking to Susan Collins, and he said you were to go in my stead."

"Well, now, you are to go instead of me. It's just turned round. Aren't you very glad?"

"Well, I did want to see Lilias. She's more the sort of friend for me than for you; isn't she, Maggie?"

"I suppose so," said Marjorie, suppressing a quick sigh.

"And of course Lady Russell wanted me, not you."

"Yes, I told father I was sure she'd like you best."

"Oh, you spoke to father about it?"

"Why, of course, Ermie."

"Then you haven't got into disgrace yourself?"

"No, it wasn't that – it wasn't because I was in – " Marjorie turned her head away, and tears welled up slowly into her big wide-open gray eyes.

"You did it for me, then?" said Ermengarde. "You gave up your own pleasure for me? I didn't see it until this moment; I didn't really! or I wouldn't have been so cross. Kiss me, Maggie. I'm awfully obliged. But how did you come round father?"

"Oh, never mind now; it's done, and father's quite satisfied. He expects you to go with him, and he told me to tell you to be sure to be ready in good time, as he cannot miss the midday train."

"No fear. I'll be ready, I'm only too glad to get away from the Chase just now. Is that Hudson I see in the passage? Run to her, Maggie, I must speak to her about my white chiffon dinner dress."

Marjorie darted away; her face was looking perfectly contented again. She had not expected any more thanks from Ermengarde, and it was her nature when she did give, to give lavishly. Now she was all eagerness to assist in the necessary preparations for Ermie's sudden visit, and was much more inclined to make large proffers of help than was the somewhat offended Hudson.

"I had your clothes all ready, Miss Marjorie, and I have not got everything Miss Ermengarde requires at a moment's notice."

"Oh, but you will do your very best for Ermie, Hudson, and she can have all my clean handkerchiefs and sashes, and my Maltese gold cross, with the little chain. You will help to send her off nice, won't you, Hudson?"

"I'll do anything for your sake, my dear little lady," said the maid.

And Marjorie, well satisfied, trotted down to breakfast in Ermengarde's wake.

The usual party were assembled in the schoolroom, and Ermengarde once more found herself by Basil's side. He just nodded to her when she came in, and then bent his head over "Westward Ho!" which he was reading as he ate his breakfast.

"I wonder if he's coming with me, and if I'm to be treated to these sort of manners all the time," thought Ermengarde. "What will Lilias think?"

But just then Marjorie's voice arrested attention. "Don't poke me so, Eric; it isn't me – it's Ermie; she's going."

"Oh, galopshious! And you'll stay at the Chase! I was looking forward to a black time. You and Basil away, and Miss Sulky-face for my sole companion."

"Do hush, Eric; you say such horrid unkind things. I won't talk to you or be a bit nice."

Eric continued to chatter in a loud, aggravating whisper. His buzzing words were distinctly audible at the other end of the long table. Ermengarde heard herself spoken of as Miss Sulky-face, but she was far too contented with the present state of affairs to mind what such a very unimportant person as Eric said about her. Basil raised his head for a moment from his book.

"Are you going to Glendower instead of Maggie?" he asked, darting a quick glance at his sister.

Her heart swelled with sudden pain at his tone.

"Yes," she said. Her voice was humble and almost deprecating.

"Maggie has given up her wishes then?"

"I am going instead of Maggie," said Ermengarde, her manner once more proud and defiant.

Basil resumed his reading of "Westward Ho!" Miss Nelson called to him to say that his breakfast was getting cold. The moment she spoke, he shut up his book.

"I don't wish to eat anything more, Miss Nelson," he said. "And I want to know if you will excuse me, and let me leave the table now. I wish to say a word to father before he leaves the study."

"You can certainly go, Basil," replied the governess.

He went away at once. A moment later, Basil was standing in his father's presence.

"Do you expect me to go with you to-day to Glendower, father?" he asked.

Mr. Wilton was reading an important letter. He looked up impatiently.

"Yes," he said. "You and Marjorie – I mean you and Ermengarde are to come."

"But I have displeased you, and this is a – a pleasure trip."

Mr. Wilton threw down his letter.

"Look here, Basil," he said, "you are too old to be punished in the sort of way I punish Ermengarde, or Marjorie, or Eric."

"I am only a year older than Ermengarde,"

"Don't contradict me, sir. I repeat, you are too old, and you are different. I have regarded you hitherto as a manly sort of fellow, and even after last night I cannot treat you as a child. Come to Glendower; only understand that, until you explain yourself fully, you suffer from my displeasure."

"If that is so, father" – Basil's lips quivered, his dark eyes glowed with pain – "if that is so, I would rather stay at Wilton Chase."

"Then stay. Until you are once more the frank fellow I have always regarded you, your movements do not interest me."

"I will stay at home then, father."

"Very well."

Mr. Wilton opened another letter, and began to read it. Basil lingered for a moment, as if he hoped for another softer word; then he turned on his heel and left the room.

In due time Ermengarde and her father started on their journey. Ermengarde carried away with her every conceivable bit of finery which Marjorie could stow into her trunk, and Hudson, finding herself helpless to stem the tide of events, at last rose to the occasion, and did her best to send off her young lady suitably prepared for her visit.

Ermengarde looked very pretty and graceful as she seated herself beside her father in the carriage, and although the children were conspicuous by their absence, and there were no sorrowful looks to witness her exit, she did not concern herself very much over such trivial matters.

Marjorie's farewell was all that was warm and affectionate, and as it was Mr. Wilton's fashion to forgive absolutely when he did forgive, Ermengarde had a very comfortable journey.

The travelers arrived in good time at Glendower, and Ermengarde really forgot all the worries, the miseries, the sins of the last few days, when Lilias Russell threw her arms round her neck, and warmly bade her welcome.

Lilias was a very beautiful girl. She had that radiant sort of almost spiritual loveliness which is generally accompanied by a very sweet, noble, and upright nature. Her complexion was very fair, her eyes large, soft, and brown; her hair was the finest, palest gold. She was a slightly made girl, but she had no look of ill-health about her. On the contrary, her elastic young figure was full of strength and vigor. She was a great favorite with all her friends, for she was unselfish, loving, and straightforward. She was slow to think evil of people, and was generally affectionately rapturous over the girls and boys who came to visit her at Glendower. Although the only child of very wealthy parents, she was too simple-minded to be spoiled. She received lots of flatteries, but they did her no harm, because she failed to see them. Her beautiful face was praised to her many times, but no one yet had seen a conscious or conceited expression cross it.

"I'm delighted you have come, Ermie," she said, "but I scarcely expected you, for mother had a letter from your father, who said he was obliged to bring Maggie instead."

Ermengarde colored. There is no saying what reply she would have made, but at that moment Mr. Wilton stepped forward and answered Lilias's look of inquiry himself.

"Maggie gave up her pleasure to Ermie," he said. "She is an unselfish child, and she saw how very much Ermie wished to spend a few days with you, Lilias."

"How sweet of Maggie!" replied Lilias. "I do think she is one of the very dearest little girls in the world. Of course I'm delighted to have you with me, Ermengarde; but I only wish your father had brought Maggie, too."

"And where is my special favorite, Basil?" asked Lady Russell, who had been listening with an amused smile to the above conversation.

"Basil is not in my good graces at present," replied Mr. Wilton. "Pardon me. I make no complaints. He was free to come, but he elected to stay at home; under the circumstances, I think his choice was wise."

Lady Russell and Mr. Wilton walked slowly away together, and Lilias linked her hand affectionately through Ermengarde's arm.

"If there is a mystery, you will tell me about it presently," she said, "and I am not going to worry you now. I am so pleased to have you with me, Ermie, and there are a whole lot of things I am going to consult you about. But first of all, just come to my grotto. I want you to see in what a pretty pattern I have arranged the shells. Here we are; enter, fair and welcome guest! Oh, you must stoop your tall head a little, Ermie. Pride must bend when it enters a humble grotto like mine. Now then, look around you."

Ermengarde was feeling tired, hot, and thirsty. She had hoped to have been treated to nice grown-up tea in one of the drawing-rooms, and she felt just a little annoyed at being carried off at once to look at Lilias's stupid shells, or to behold the most charming grotto that was ever built. Ermengarde had no love for natural history, and fond as she was of Lilias, she felt just a wee bit cross.

But the moment she entered the grotto, the clouds fled like magic from her face. There were shells, of course, and sea-weeds, and a deep pool which contained sea-anemones; and into which a fountain continually dripped. But there was also tea on a charming little rustic table, and two rustic easy-chairs, and two egg-shell china cups and saucers, and a wee silver jug full of cream, and a dish of hot muffins, and a little basket full of grapes and peaches.

Lilias watched her friend's face.

"She wants her tea, poor Ermie does," she whispered to herself; "I know Maggie would have rushed at the shells first of all, and she'd have asked me a thousand questions about my sea-anemones and my fountain. Still, it's perfectly natural that Ermie should be thirsty and want her tea."

So the two little friends sat down, and had a very cozy and merry time together.