The Children of Wilton Chase

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."