The Children of Wilton Chase

"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.

CHAPTER XX.

WHAT DID BASIL MEAN?

It was rather late on the evening of the second day after Ermengarde and her father had gone to Glendower, that Marjorie, who had been playing with the nursery children, and dragging the big baby about, and otherwise disporting herself after the fashion which usually induces great fatigue, crept slowly upstairs to her room.

She was really awfully tired, for the day had been a hot one, and nurse had a headache, and Clara, the nursery-maid, was away on a holiday. So Marjorie had scarcely breathing time all day long. Now she was going to bed, and the poor little girl looked rather limp and abject as she crept along the passage to her room.

"I do hope Ermie is having a jolly time," she murmured to herself. "I can just fancy how delicious it is at Glendower now. It is such a beautiful, perfect place, just hanging over the sea. And there's going to be a moon. And the moon will shine on the sea, and make it silver."

Marjorie reached her room. She climbed up on the window-ledge and gazed out.

"Yes, the moon is getting up," she said, speaking her thoughts aloud, which was one of her old-fashioned ways. "Oh, how beautiful the moon must look on the sea. I wonder if Ermie is looking at it. Not that poor Ermie cares for moons, or things of that sort; but Lilias does. Who's that? O Basil, is it you? Have you come to talk to me? How awfully jolly! There's lots of room for both of us on the window-ledge. Squeeze in, Basil; there, aren't we snug? Please, may I put my arm round your neck to keep myself tight?"

"All right, Mag. Only don't quite throttle me if you can help it. I thought you had some one with you. I heard you chattering."

"Only to myself. It's a way I have."

"Well, go on, never mind me; I'm nobody."

"Oh, aren't you, just! Why, you are Basil, you're the eldest of us all and the wisest, and the best."

"Hush, Maggie."

Basil's brow was actually contracted with pain.

"Yes, you are," repeated Marjorie, who saw the look, and began to feel her little heart waxing very hot. "O Basil, I meant to spend all to-day and yesterday clearing you; yes, I did, darling, I did! And I never thought, when it was made to be my plain duty to stay at home, that I was only to help in the nursery all day long. O Basil, I am so sorry."

"I don't know what you mean, Maggie, by clearing me," said Basil. "Clearing me of what?"

"Why, of course, you have been unjustly accused by father."

"Stop, Maggie. I have not been unjustly accused by anyone."

"Basil, you know you didn't break the little sister's miniature, nor steal it from Miss Nelson. You know you never did!"

Basil put his arm round Marjorie's waist.

"You think not?" he said with a slow, rather glad sort of smile.

"Think not? I know you didn't do it! You do anything mean and horrid and wicked and shabby like that! You? Look here, Basil, even if you told me you did it, I wouldn't believe you."

"All right, Mag; then I needn't say anything."

"Only you might just tell me – "

"What?"

"That you didn't do it. That you are shamefully and falsely suspected."

"No, I could not tell you that, Maggie. My father has every right to be annoyed with me."

"Basil!"

"I can't explain, my dear little Mag. You must just take it on trust with me. I am not falsely accused of anything."

Marjorie unlinked her hand from Basil's clasp. She sprang off the window-ledge on to the floor.

"Look here," she said, "I can't stand this! There's a mystery, and I'm going to clear you. Oh, yes, I will; I am determined!"

"No, Maggie, you are not to clear me. I don't wish to be cleared."