Part 9 (2/2)
She says you'll find the box in the nursery cupboard. Will you fetch them in a hurry? Baby is so hungry.”
”Oh, what nonsense!” said Basil, who had now come up. ”The idea of sending Ermie! Where's the nursemaid?”
”Alice went to the house with another message. You had better go, Ermengarde; nurse is in a hurry.”
”I don't mind going a bit,” said Ermengarde. She looked ready to fly.
Her lips were trembling.
”You look as tired as anything now, Ermie,” said Basil. ”I'll go, if it comes to that. Where are those wretched rusks to be found, Maggie?”
”You can't go, Basil. You are to light the fire for the gypsy tea.”
”It's lighting.”
”Well, it's going out again. I know it is; or the kettle is sure to boil over, or something. Do be on the spot, and let Ermie make herself useful for once in a way.”
Ermengarde ran off; the tension of her feelings would permit of no further delay. She heard Basil scolding Marjorie as she hurried across the hay-field. Ermengarde had never run so fast in her life. What should she find when she got back to that sitting-room. Would Susy be dead? If so----But her terrified thoughts would take her no further.
She was not a particularly active little girl, and her quick running soon deprived her of breath. Oh, what a distance lay between that hay-field and the house! At last the lawn was gained, then the gravel sweep, then the side-door. She could only totter upstairs, and by the time she reached Miss Nelson's room she was really almost fainting.
She managed to stagger across to the cupboard, unlocked it, and then sank down in a chair. Susy instantly made her appearance; she was not dead, but she was extremely red in the face and very angry.
”You did serve me a trick, Miss Ermie! Oh, my word, I didn't think as you'd treat me as bad as that! Why, I might have been--I thought I was to be suffocated, miss.”
”Never mind now,” said Ermengarde. ”I'm ever so sorry; I----” Her voice faltered. In her relief and thankfulness at finding Susy alive and well, she went up to the little girl and kissed her. Then she burst into tears.
”Miss Ermie!”
If Susan Collins was fond of anyone, it was Ermengarde.
”Don't you take on, miss,” she said affectionately.
Ermie's tears touched her so much that she felt she would have endured another half-hour of the cupboard to help her.
”Don't cry, please, Miss Ermie,” said Susy. ”I know you couldn't help yourself. I didn't want you to have a scolding; no, that I didn't; so it's all right, miss; I'm none the worse. I was a bit choky in the cupboard, but I'm as well as ever now.”
Ermengarde soon dried her tears.
”I must go back to the hay-field at once,” she said, ”I'll leave you now, Susy. Don't be long here. Run downstairs while there's no one about. Good-by, Susy. I'm glad you are not hurt.”
Ermengarde nodded to Susan Collins, and with a light heart left the room. She went to the nursery, secured the baby's rusks, and returned to the hay-field.
During the rest of that evening no one seemed happier, or laughed more often than Ermengarde. She thought herself safe, and it never occurred to her as possible that the doings of that day could ever be known.
CHAPTER VI.
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