Part 35 (1/2)
”I'm sorry enough, miss, but I think Miss Ermie is as bad as me. I'd never have done it, never, but for Miss Ermie. I think it's mean of her to keep away from me when I'm ill.”
”Ermengarde is not at home, Susy; but if you want her very badly, if you really want her for anything important, I will write to her, and she shall come home--I know she will.”
”Thank you, Miss Marjorie; I didn't think nothing at all about what I did when I was well, but now it seems to stay with me day and night, and I'm sorry I was so spiteful and mean to Miss Nelson. But it wasn't _my_ fault, miss--no, that it wasn't--that the picture was broke. What is it, Miss Marjorie? How you start.”
”Nothing,” said Marjorie; ”only perhaps, Susy, you'd rather tell Ermie the rest; and she _shall_ come back; I promise you that that she shall come back.”
”Thank you, Miss Marjorie; you are real good, and you comfort me wonderfully when you hold my hands.”
”Well, I wish you'd let me put your sheets a little straight; there, that's better. Now I'm going to turn your pillow. And Susy, do let me push all that tangled hair out of your eyes. Now I'm going to kneel here, and you must shut your eyes. I promise you shall see Ermie.
Good-night, Susy; go to sleep.”
Miss Nelson waited quietly in the little kitchen downstairs. The voices in Susy's sickroom ceased to murmur; presently Mrs. Collins stole softly upstairs. She returned in a few minutes accompanied by Marjorie. There were tears in the poor woman's eyes.
”My Susy's in a blessed, beautiful sleep!” she exclaimed. ”And it's all owing to this dear little lady; may Heaven reward her! I don't know how to thank you, Miss Marjorie. Susy hasn't been in a blessed healthful sleep like that since she broke her leg. It puts heart into me to see the child looking quiet and peaceful once again. And now I'll go upstairs and sit with her.”
Miss Nelson and Marjorie walked quickly home together. When they reached the house, the little girl made one request of her governess.
”I want to write to Ermie. May I do it to-night?”
”No, my love, I must forbid that. You are much too tired.”
”But it _is_ so important--far more important than I can tell you, and I promised Susy.”
”Maggie, do you want Ermengarde to come home?”
”Oh, yes; she must come home.”
”Then you shall send her a telegram in the morning.”
”But that seems cruel. My letter will be far, far better. I could explain things a little in a letter.”
Miss Nelson considered for a moment.
”I have great trust in you, Maggie,” she said. ”I won't question you, for I daresay you have heard something from Susan Collins in confidence. I am sure you would not wish to recall Ermengarde unless there was great need.”
”There is; oh, really, there is.”
”Then you shall go to bed now, and I will send you to Glendower with Hudson by the first train in the morning.”
CHAPTER XXII.
QUITE IN A NEW CHARACTER.
The day was lovely, and Ermengarde woke once more in the best of spirits. Notwithstanding her unhappy day, she had enjoyed herself much the night before. She had worn Lilias's simple white dress, and Marjorie's Maltese cross with its narrow gold chain had given to her appearance just that finish which best suited her youth.
Ermengarde had looked remarkably pretty, and many people had noticed the fact, and one or two of Mr. Wilton's gentlemen friends had congratulated him in quite audible tones on having such a charming and lovely little daughter. Ermengarde had herself heard these words, and had seen a glow, half of sadness half of pleasure, light up her father's dark eyes, and her own heart had swelled within her. She began to know the difference between real praise and flattery. She thought how fascinating it would all be when she was really grown up, and dull lessons were over, and Miss Nelson was no longer of the slightest consequence, when she could dress as she pleased, and do as she liked.
In the agreeable feelings which these thoughts gave her, she forgot about Basil's displeasure. She ceased to remember that the dearest friends.h.i.+p of her life was in danger of being broken, was so jeopardized that it was scarcely likely that the severed threads could ever be reunited with their old strength. Ermengarde was away from all unpleasant things, her fears about Flora were completely removed, and it was in her selfish and pleasure-loving nature to shut herself away from the memory of what worried her, and to enter fully into the delights of her present life. She rose gayly, and no one could have been merrier than she when she joined Lilias at the breakfast-table.
The two girls had this meal again alone in Lilias Russell's pretty boudoir.