The Children of Wilton Chase Part 4

"Thank you," said Miss Nelson. The flush on her face had changed to pallor.

"You did not know of this?" continued Miss Wilton eagerly. "You are astonished!"

Miss Nelson was silent for several seconds.

"I will speak to Ermie," she said; then in a low voice, "there has been a misunderstanding."

She did not add any more, and Mr. Wilton, thinking that the governess looked tired and ill, tried to engage her in some general conversation. She answered a question or two in a very abstracted manner, and presently left the room.

Miss Nelson had a private sitting-room, which was not thrown open to her pupils. It was a tiny room, but the governess loved it very much.

She kept her favorite photographs here, and her best prized books.

Here she was absolutely her own mistress, and she sometimes called the little room "Home, sweet Home." Miss Nelson was a well-educated woman; she was between forty and fifty years of age; she had a staid and somewhat cold manner, but she was a good disciplinarian, and thoroughly conscientious. When Mrs. Wilton had died three years ago, Miss Nelson had come to the Chase. Mrs. Wilton on her deathbed had asked her husband to secure Miss Nelson's services, if possible, for the children, and this fact alone would have prevented his ever parting with the governess.

Miss Nelson was all that was honorable and kind, but a sort of impenetrable reserve prevented her showing the real affection she felt for her pupils. Consequently Ermengarde disliked her, Lucy tolerated her, the nursery children were supremely indifferent to her, and Marjorie alone loved her. This latter fact did not raise Miss Nelson in anyone's estimation. It was Marjorie's fashion to love people; it would have been unnatural, uncanny to hear round, good humored Marjorie abusing people. Marjorie's affection was bestowed on all creatures, therefore being common, it was in Ermie's opinion at least, a rather worthless thing to secure.

Miss Nelson went into her private room now, shut and locked the door, sat down in her easy-chair, and burst into tears. She was shocked at Ermengarde's disobedience; Ermie's open defiance of her authority almost terrified her. She loved all the children whom she taught, she would have done anything, gone to the length of any sacrifice, for their sakes. She wanted them to grow up good, honorable, worthy of their mother, whose memory she revered. It was easy to prophesy a bright future for Marjorie. Little Lucy, too, was a fairly amenable child; but Ermengarde, who was as proud and reserved as Miss Nelson herself--the governess trembled when she reflected how small was her power over this wayward child.

She thought for a long time; three courses of action were open to her.

She might go to Mr. Wilton, open her heart to him, tell him all her doubts and fears, and ask him to remove Ermengarde from her care. Or she might talk to the little girl, tell her that she would shield her from her father's anger, show her in gentle words how wrong her action had been, a.s.sure her of the deep love she really felt for her, and finally forgive her. Or again she might speak severely to Ermengarde, and her severe words might be followed by severe discipline. She could promise not to reveal her pupil's guilt to Mr. Wilton, but the punishment she would herself inflict would be a grave one.

Miss Nelson thought far into the night, Before she went to bed, she decided to pursue the last idea which came to her, for it seemed quite plain to her own mind that Ermengarde's sin could not be expiated except through punishment.

CHAPTER IV.

THE DAY OF THE PICNIC.

Early the next morning Marjorie stirred in her white bed, Then she opened her eyes, raised her head from her comfortable pillow, and gazed around her.

Ermie was fast asleep. The sun was pouring into the room; the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to six.

Softly, very softly, Marjorie poked her pink toes from under the bedclothes. Then the whole of her feet appeared, then she stood upright on the floor. No one should help her over her toilet this morning; she would dress, and go out into the garden. The boys were at home; it was going to be a brilliant day. Marjorie's contented heart danced within her. She washed and dressed herself with expedition. It was not necessary to be particularly quiet, for nothing ever disturbed Ermengarde's slumbers.

Having dressed and plaited her thick hair as well as she could without aid, she knelt down by her bedside, clasped her hands over her plump face, and repeated her prayers. Once, long ago now, Mrs. Wilton had given the children, Marjorie among them, a little model prayer to repeat. One of the phrases in it was this: "Please make me a faithful servant of Jesus Christ."

Marjorie remembered quite well the first time she had used this prayer. She recalled the expression on her mother's face, and could have told anyone who asked her her mother's explanation of the word servant.

The other children had forgotten the model prayer, but Marjorie used it always. Every morning she asked G.o.d to make her a faithful servant.

It was not at all difficult for this humble little girl really to pray. No one in the house guessed at Marjorie's prayer, or troubled their heads about her comforting, comfortable, unselfish ways. She was there, a plain child, useful enough, and obliging enough, but no one thanked her, or wondered if they should miss her if she were not in the house.

She was leaving the room this morning, when Ermengarde stirred and opened her eyes.

"Is that you, Maggie? oh, you're dressed. Don't go for a minute, I want to speak to you."

Marjorie closed the door which she had half opened, and went and stood by Ermengarde's bed.

"Well?" she said.

"I'm sleepy; it's frightfully early. If I talk to you, I'll get wide-awake. Can't you just wait in the room for a little?"

"I'm going into the garden, and I'll come back again, Ermie. Eric may be up, and he has promised to show me Shark. I don't believe he has got six rows of teeth."

"How you chatter, Maggie! Now I'm quite woke up. I'll have a headache most likely this afternoon. I generally do when my first sleep is disturbed."

"You have had a very long first sleep," said Marjorie. "It's half-past six o'clock."

"Is it? It's all the same to me what the time is; I'm woke up now, and it's your fault. You might be considerate, Maggie; you're the most thoughtless child. If you had sat quietly by my bedside I wouldn't be wide-awake now."

"Well, what can I do for you now that you are awake, Ermie?" asked Marjorie. "Please tell me quickly, for I can't keep Eric waiting."

"Oh, it will be all Eric with you from this out. I might have guessed that."

"No, it won't. It will be all everybody. Now, what am I to do for you?"

Ermengarde laughed.

"Maggie, don't put on that solemn face. Of course you are a good little thing. Now listen. Last night Basil and I made a plan."

"O Ermie! Weren't you in luck that Miss Nelson never found out about your wickedness yesterday?"

"My wickedness?"

Ermengarde colored brightly.

"Don't you remember, Ermie? Going in the carriage when Miss Nelson told you not. Of course you were dreadfully wicked, but I'm glad you were not found out. Now, what's the plan?"

"You're so rude and frank, Maggie. It's a horrid habit you have. I had forgotten all about that drive. And now you remind me and spoil my pleasure. You are a tactless creature!"

"Never mind about me. What's the plan?"

"It's this. Dear, I hope the day is fine!"

"Yes, Ermie, it's a lovely day."

"Well, Basil thinks--are you sure the sky is not cloudy, Mag?"

"No, perfect, not a flake anywhere; go on, Ermie."

"Jolly! Basil thinks we ought to have a whole holiday to-day--we girls, I mean. He says we might have a picnic, and go up the lake, and land and dine on Pearl Island."

"Lovely!" said Marjorie, clasping her hands. "Only Miss Nelson said----"

"That's just it, you always will think first of Miss Nelson."

"Ermie, you said I thought first of Eric a minute ago."