Part 23 (1/2)

”I wish you wouldn't bother, Maggie. You are so rough,” answered Ermengarde. ”I came out here just to have quiet, and to get rid of my headache, and of course you come shouting to me.”

”Oh, I'm ever so sorry--I forgot about your headache,” answered Marjorie. ”It's dreadful of me, I know.”

She walked on gravely by Ermengarde's side, the joy on her face a little damped. But presently, being a most irrepressible child, it bubbled over again.

”I wouldn't be so awfully, awfully glad, only you _have_ been at the Russells', Ermie. You spent a fortnight with them after Christmas, and Lily always promised that she'd have me asked next. I can't help being delighted about it,” continued Marjorie, ”for I do so love Lily.”

”You little minx! And I suppose you imagine that a big girl like Lilias Russell cares for you! Why, she's fifteen, and ever so tall.”

”But she said she was very fond of me,” answered Marjorie.

”Oh, she _said_ it! And you believed it, of course! Have you no observation of character? Can't you see, unless you're as blind as a bat, that Lilias Russell is one of those polite sort of people who always must say pleasant things just for the sake of making themselves agreeable? Well, my dear, go and wors.h.i.+p her, you have got a chance now for a week; only for goodness' sake don't worry me any more about it.”

Marjorie ran off in her stolid little way. Ermengarde watched her as her st.u.r.dy figure disappeared from view.

”Ridiculous child!” she said to herself, ”and so plain. I can't make out why people make such a fuss about her. She's always held up to me as a sort of model. How I detest models, particularly the Maggie kind!

Now I know exactly what will happen. She'll go to Glendower with father and Basil, and won't she gush just! I know how she'll pet Lilias Russell, and how she'll paw her. And Lilias is just that weak sort of girl with all her grace and prettiness, to be taken in by that sort of thing. Lilias fancies that she has taken quite a liking for Maggie--as if she could make a friend of her! Why, Maggie's a baby, and a very conceited, troublesome one too.”

It was now time for Ermengarde to go in. She pleaded a headache, and so escaped doing any more lessons that day, and in the afternoon she managed to make the hours pa.s.s agreeably over the ”Heir of Redclyffe,”

which she was reading for the first time, and so did not miss Basil's attention and companions.h.i.+p as much as she would otherwise have done.

All the rest of the children and Miss Nelson were busy and interested in preparing Marjorie for her visit to Glendower. Basil had gone out fis.h.i.+ng with his father; Eric had coaxed to be allowed to go with the under-gamekeeper to see the young pheasants. The house was very still, and Ermie had the pleasant old schoolroom to herself. She read eagerly; in spite of herself--perhaps unknown to herself--she was anxious to drown reflection.

It was late in the evening of that same day that Miss Nelson answered a knock which came to her sitting-room door, and was surprised to see Basil pop in his dark head.

”Oh, you're alone; that's right,” he said. ”May I come in for a minute?”

His manner was a little nervous and hurried, in perfect contrast to his usual open, frank sort of way.

”I've brought you this back,” he said, going up to Miss Nelson. ”I'm awfully sorry about it, and the worst of it is I can't give any explanation. It's disgracefully broken and injured, but I thought you would rather have it back as it is, than never to see it again.”

Miss Nelson turned very white while Basil was speaking. An eager, longing, hopeful look grew and grew in her eyes. She stretched out her hands; they trembled.

”My miniature!” she exclaimed. ”My picture once again. Oh, Basil, thank G.o.d! Oh, I have missed it!”

”Here it is,” said Basil. He had wrapped the poor little injured picture up in some white tissue-paper, and tied the parcel together with a bit of ribbon. He hoped Miss Nelson would say something before she opened it.

”Here it is--it isn't a bit the same,” he said.

She scarcely heard him. She began feverishly to pull the ribbon away.

”I wouldn't look at it just for a minute,” began Basil. He had scarcely spoken, before there came a knock at the door. A firm voice said, ”May I come in?” and Miss Wilton, who had returned from London about an hour before, entered the room. She came in just in time to see Miss Nelson remove the tissue-paper from the broken face of the miniature. The poor governess uttered a piercing cry, sank down on her knees by the center table, and covered her thin face with her hands.

”What is it, Basil? What is the matter?” asked Miss Wilton in astonishment. ”I come in to find high heroics going on. What is the matter?”

Basil did not say a word. Miss Nelson suddenly raised her pale face.

She rose to her feet. ”Not high heroics,” she said, ”but deep grief; I had a memento of the past--a young and happy past. I treasured it. It was stolen from me about ten days ago. I don't know by whom. I don't know why it was stolen. Now it has been returned--like this.”

Miss Wilton took the broken ivory in her hand.