Part 37 (1/2)

With a great effort Ermie raised her eyes.

”What did Susy Collins say to you, yesterday?”

”I--I don't want to tell you.”

”I desire you to tell me.”

”I--I can't.”

”You mean you won't.”

”I can't tell you, Miss Nelson.”

Ermengarde clasped and unclasped her hands. Her expression was piteous.

Miss Nelson was again silent for a few minutes.

”Ermengarde,” she said then, ”this is not the time for me to say I am sorry for you. I have a duty to perform, and there are moments when duties must come first of all. Susan Collins's excitement, her almost unnatural desire to see you, have got to be accounted for. There is a cloud over Basil that must be explained away. There is a mystery about a little old miniature of mine: it was stolen by some one, and broken by some one. The story of that miniature somebody must tell. At the risk of your father's displeasure I took Maggie to visit Susy Collins the other night. You were away on a visit with your father, and I allowed Maggie to fetch you home. There is undoubtedly an adequate reason for this, but I must know it, for I have to explain matters to Mr. Wilton; therefore, Ermengarde, if you will not tell me fully and frankly and at once all that occurred between you and Susy yesterday, I will go myself and see the Collinses, and will learn the whole story from Susy's own lips.”

”Oh, you will not,” said Ermengarde, ”You never could be so cruel!”

All her self-possession had deserted her. Her face was white, her voice trembled.

”I must go, Ermie. Wretched child, why don't you save yourself by telling me all you know at once?”

”I cannot, I cannot!”

Ermengarde turned her head away. Miss Nelson rose to leave the room.

”I am going to my room,” she said; ”I will wait there for half an hour. If at the end of half an hour you do not come to me, I must go to see the Collinses.”

Ermengarde covered her face with her hands. Miss Nelson left the room.

”Ermie,” said Marjorie in her gentlest voice.

”I wish you'd leave me,” said Ermengarde. ”There would never have been all this mischief but for you; I do wish you'd go away!”

”If you only would be brave enough to tell the truth,” whispered Marjorie.

”Do, do go away! Leave me to myself.”

With great reluctance the little girl left the room. As she sidled along the wall, she looked back several times. A word, a glance would have brought her back. But the proud, still little figure by the window did not move a muscle. The angry eyes looked steadily outward; the lips were firmly closed. Marjorie banged the door after her; she did not mean to, but the open window had caused a draught, and Ermengarde with a long s.h.i.+ver realized that she was alone.

”Now, that's a comfort,” she murmured; ”now I can think. Have I time to rush up to Susy, and tell her that she is not to let out a single word? Half an hour--Miss Nelson gives me half an hour. I could reach the Collinses' cottage in about ten minutes, if I flew over the gra.s.s; five minutes with Susy, and then ten minutes back again. I can do it--I will!”

She seized her hat, rushed to the door, ran along the corridor, and down the stairs. In a moment she was out. Her fleet young steps carried her lightly as a fawn over the gra.s.s, and down the path which led to Susy's cottage. How fast her heart beat! Surely she would be in time!

A short cut to the Collinses' cottage lay through a small paddock which cut off an angle of the park. Ermie remembered this, and made for it now. There was a stile to climb, but this was no obstacle to the country-bred girl. She reached the paddock, vaulted lightly over the stile, and was about to rush along the beaten path when she was suddenly brought face to face with the two people whom in all the world she wished least to see just then--her father and Basil. They, too, were walking in the paddock, and met Ermengarde close to the stile.

Ermie had never seen her father's face wear a sterner, or more displeased expression, but it was not his glance which frightened her most just then; it was a certain proud, resigned, yet strong look which flashed at her for an instant out of Basil's beautiful eyes.

This, joined to an expression of suffering round his lips, gave Ermengarde for the first time a glimpse of the abyss of deceit and wrong-doing into which she was plunging.

A great longing for Basil's love and approbation rushed over her. The desire for this was stronger in that first brief moment than her fear of meeting her father. She stood perfectly still, her hands dropped to her sides; she had not a word to say.