The Children of Wilton Chase

CHAPTER XVI.

THE BEAUTIFUL DRESS

That evening, as Ermengarde was standing in her room, surveying with critical eyes the heaps of finery she had brought with her, Lilias knocked at her door.

"Come in," said Ermengarde.

Lilias had on a blue flannel dressing-jacket, and her long, bright, golden hair was streaming down her back.

"I've rushed in to tell you," she exclaimed excitedly, "we are both to come down to dinner to-night. Two guests have disappointed mother. She has just had a telegram; Colonel Vavasour is ill, and of course his wife can't leave him, so you and I are to fill the vacant places at table. I do hope you won't mind, Ermie."

"I?" said Ermengarde, her eyes sparkling. "Oh, no; I shan't mind; I like dining with grown people. I think it will be rather fun."

"It's sweet of you to take it in that way," said Lilias. "I had planned a lovely walk by the lake, and we might have got into the boat, and brought in some water-lilies. Late dinner takes a long, long time, and it will be much too dark to go to the lake when it is over."

"I don't mind, really," repeated Ermengarde. She did not want to tell her friend that her worldly little soul infinitely preferred late dinner and a talk with some of the grown-up guests to a ramble with Lilias by the side of the lake.

"We can go to the lake another time, Lilias," she said, "and it seems only right to oblige your mother now."

"Thank you for putting it in that way to me," said Lilias. She went up to Ermengarde and kissed her. "What have you got to wear?" she asked. "I know mother would like such young girls as we are to be dressed very simply. I shall just put on a white muslin, a white silk sash round my waist."

"Oh, I have a white dress, too," said Ermengarde, in a careless tone. "I am sure I shall manage very well."

Her dark eyes grew brighter and brighter as she spoke.

"I must not stay to chat with you, Ermie," said Lilias, looking at her friend with admiration. "Mother is so afraid you will miss your maid, you shall have as much of Petite's time as ever I can possibly spare."

"Who is Petite?" asked Ermengarde.

"Oh, she's my dear little maid. We brought her over from France last year. She was never out anywhere before, and I'm so fond of her. Her name is Lucile Marat, but I call her Petite, because she is on a small scale, and so neat in every way. It was she who unpacked your things. I'll send her to you in a minute."

Lilias ran out of the room, and Ermengarde, closing the door, opened a long drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe, and taking out her white chiffon dress, viewed it with great complacency. This dress had been given to Ermengarde by Aunt Elizabeth; she had brought it from Paris, intending to wear it at a county ball herself, but finding it too juvenile, she had handed it on to her niece. The local dressmaker had cut it down to fit Ermengarde, and ever since she possessed it, Ermie had sighed and longed for the occasion when she might don the lovely robe.

The dress was in truth an exquisite one; it was delicately spangled with what looked like dewdrops, and had a great deal of rich soft silk introduced here and there, but if it was too young for Aunt Elizabeth, it was a great deal too old for Ermie. It's voluminous and graceful pillows of white were not suited to her slim little figure. It was a grown girl's dress, and Ermie was only a child.

Still the occasion, the longed-for, the sighed-for occasion, when she might dress herself in Aunt Elizabeth's white chiffon, had arrived.

Ermie pulled the dress out of the drawer, shook out its folds, and regarded it with rapture.

There came a modest knock at the room door, and Petite, got up in truly French fashion, entered. She was a rosy-cheeked, round-faced girl, with sparkling black eyes, and rolls of black hair, picturesquely arranged on the top of her head.

"I hope she understands English," thought Ermengarde. "French is not my strong point, and I really must get her to dress my hair in some grown-up fashion to-night."

Petite soon, however, relieved Ermengarde's fear.

"I have come to help you, ma'mselle," she said in her cheerful tones. "Will you let me brush out your hair?"

"Thank you," said Ermie. "I want you to dress it on the top of my head, please —high– something like an old picture – you understand?"

Petite's eyes sparkled.

"I know what you mean," she said. "Pouffed, ever so – like the pictures of the ancient ladies in the picture-gallery."

"Yes," said Ermengarde. "I want my hair to be arranged like a young grown-up lady. You understand?"

"Perfectly, ma'mselle. I will go and fetch hair-pins. But we haven't too much time; Ma'mselle Lilias is dressed. She wears her hair straight down her back."

Ermengarde said nothing. The mysteries of the toilet proceeded, and at the end of half an hour Lilias knocked at her friend's door.

Ermengarde was now arrayed in the white chiffon dress; it touched the ground, and swept away in a short train at the back. It was cut a little open at the neck, and the round childish arms were bare to the elbow. Round her throat Ermengarde had hung Marjorie's Maltese cross, and among the masses of her high piled-up hair reposed a lovely pearl butterfly. The dress was most unsuitable, but the childish face, colored high now with excitement and gratified vanity, looked quite radiant in its loveliness.

Petite was in ecstasies.

"Ma'mselle looks as if she had stepped out of one of the old picture-frames," she said. "Look how beautiful I have contrived her hair to sit."

Lilias did not say much. She was an intensely polite girl, and she crushed back the exclamation of dismay which rose to her lips. Her own appearance was the extreme of simplicity. Her muslin frock was short; her little white shoes and silk stockings were visible. Round her waist she wore a plain white sash, and her golden hair fell in masses down her back.

While Petite was dressing her, Ermengarde's silly heart was mounting on higher and higher wings of gratified delight. But when she looked at Lilias, an uneasy sensation came over her for the first time.

"Come," said Lilias in her gentle voice, "we'll go down to the drawing-room, and stay together near one of the windows. I don't suppose anyone will take us in to dinner; but that does not matter – we'll take one another in."

"Do you like my dress?" suddenly asked Ermengarde.

"Well, Ermie, isn't it just a little old?"

"Nonsense, Aunt Elizabeth gave it to me. She ought to know, I suppose."

Ermengarde did not care to mention then that the dress was a cast-off garment of her Aunt Elizabeth's.

The two girls went downstairs hand in hand. Ermie's long dress and train made her feel awkward. She began to be more and more sure that her evening attire, notwithstanding its great beauty, was unsuitable. She hoped no one would specially notice her. She felt uncomfortable as she saw several pairs of eyes fixed upon her, as she and Lilias walked across the drawing-room.

The two girls got behind the shelter of a curtain, and Ermengarde rejoiced in the fact that her father had not yet come downstairs.

A few more minutes went by; the guests arrived in twos and threes – then dinner was announced. As Lilias had foretold, she and Ermengarde were to take each other in to dinner. They were the last to enter the dining-room. Lady Russell had arranged that the two little girls were to sit together, but at the very last moment some change was made, and Ermie to her horror found herself between her father and a stout old gentleman, who was inclined to regard her as an overdressed, but pretty little doll.

Mr. Wilton never fussed about dress, but he had a keen eye for the proprieties. He saw at a glance that Lilias looked exactly as she ought, and that Ermengarde did not, but he could not tell where the difference lay. Ermie as a rule was one of the neatest of little maids. To-night she was not untidy, and yet – he could not tell why – she looked all wrong.

Mr. Wilton sighed, thought of his dead wife, wondered how he could ever manage his fast growing-up family, and then slightly turning his back on Ermie, tried to forget his cares in conversation with his neighbor on his other side.

The fat old gentleman began to talk to Ermengarde.

"Home for the holidays, eh, my dear?" he began, half-winking at her.

"I don't go to school," answered Ermengarde. She flushed angrily, and her reply was in her primmest voice.

The fat old gentleman finished his soup calmly. Ermie's prim indignation amused him. He glanced from her childish face to her grown up head, and then said in a semi-confiding whisper: "Tell me, do you consider a classical education essential to the development of women's brains?"

"Oh, I don't know," stammered poor Ermie.

"Then you're not a Girton girl?"

"No; why do you ask?" answered Ermengarde. She began to feel a little flattered. The old gentleman must certainly consider her quite grown-up.

"Well," he replied, with another comical twinkle in his eyes, "I thought you seemed so intelligent, and although you have a young face, you have somehow or other an old way about you. You'll forgive my speaking frankly, my dear, but I notice that most old-young girls attend some of the colleges."

Ermengarde felt delighted. She changed her mind about the fat old gentleman, and began to regard him as a most agreeable person. He considered her face remarkable for intelligence, and although she was quite grown up, she looked sweetly youthful. She leant back in her chair, and toyed with her food.

"I'm not very old," she began.

"Not more than eighteen, I should think," replied the old gentleman.

Ermengarde gave vent to a silvery laugh.

"Eh? You're not more than that, are you?" asked her companion.

"No, sir," she answered. "I am not more than eighteen."

Although he was talking very earnestly to his neighbor, Mr. Wilton heard his daughter's laugh. It sounded to him a little forced and strained. His undefined sensation of discomfort increased. He turned and looked at Ermengarde. There certainly was something quite unusual about her. Now he raised his eyes to her hair.

"Ermie!" he exclaimed, "what have you done to your head? My dear child, what a show you have made of yourself!"

His voice was quite clear enough for the old gentleman to hear him.

Ermengarde blushed painfully. She muttered something inaudible, and looked down.

"What possessed you to make such a guy of yourself?" continued her father, in a vexed tone, which was very low now. "A little girl like you aping young ladyhood! I am very much annoyed, Ermengarde; I did not think you could be so silly."

Then he turned his back once more, and addressed his neighbor on the other side.

Poor Ermie felt her eyes swimming in tears. The mortification to which her father had subjected her just at her moment of triumph was very bitter. She could not eat a delicious entrée which was being offered to her at that moment, and it is possible that, notwithstanding her pride, she might have given way completely to her outraged feelings had not the old gentleman come to her rescue. He was sorry for the poor little maid who had aped the ways of the grown-up. He dropped his quizzical manner, and entered into a pleasant conversation. He drew Ermengarde on to speak of her home, and in especial of her brother Basil, and he thought the little girlish face very charming indeed when Ermie spoke eagerly of her favorite brother.

The rest of the dinner passed off fairly well, and Ermengarde hoped she might be able to retire into a corner when she got into the drawing-room, and so escape any more of her father's censure.

This, however, was difficult, for Lady Russell called both the girls forward, and in especial introduced Ermengarde to several friends of her own. Some of these ladies knew her mother, and they looked kindly at Ermie, and only whispered together behind her back about the extraordinary costume the poor little girl was got up in.

These ladies evidently blamed Ermengarde's father, and spoke of her as a sadly neglected child.

Ermie felt that the ladies were whispering about her, and she began to hate the beautiful chiffon dress, and to long to tear it off her back.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE MORE BEAUTIFUL FACE

Two tall girls were standing near the piano; one had just sung a song in a very brilliant style, the other was complimenting her; the gentlemen had not yet come in.

"Flora, do look at that queer little personage over there!" exclaimed the singer, glancing in Ermengarde's direction. "Did you ever see such a little comicality? Why, she can't be more than twelve years old, and she is dressed in much older style than you or I."

"Stop, Kate, I'm sure she hears you," said Flora.

"I don't care if she does, conceited little monkey. Who in the world is she?"

"Her name is Ermengarde Wilton. Yes, of course, the dress is unsuitable, but small piece of gorgeousness that she is, I'd give a good deal to possess her handsome face; and so would you, for the matter of that, Kate."

Ermengarde was standing near a window. Now she pushed a muslin curtain aside, and hid herself behind its folds.

"There! She did hear you this time, Flora," said Kate.

"I meant her to," replied the other. "You were humiliating her so horribly, Kate."

The two girls whispered a little longer, then they parted company. Ermengarde stood behind the shelter of the window curtain. Her heart was beating fast, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes had a triumphant light in them.

Yes, she had heard what those horrid girls were saying. She had heard every word. They had abused her dress, but they had praised her face. This praise made up for all. What mattered the dress which could be so easily removed, compared with the face which would remain.

Ermengarde's heart thrilled within her at the delicious words of flattery. These grown-up girls envied her! Oh, she could bear anything after that.

She was standing thus, thinking her own thoughts, when the light swish of silken drapery near caused her to look round, and to her astonishment the girl who was called Flora stood in the shelter of the window by her side.

"I hope I am not crowding you," she said in a gracious voice to Ermengarde. "It is so hot in the drawing-room; I have just come here to get cool before the gentlemen come in."

"You don't disturb me at all," said Ermengarde.

"Thank you. Are you Miss Wilton? I think you must be. My mother knows your father very well."

"And your name is Flora something?" answered Ermengarde, looking up with proud defiance in her face. "And you were speaking about me to a girl called Kate, and you abused my dress, and said that I was a little piece of gorgeousness, and that I was only twelve years old. I am not twelve – I am fourteen and three months."

"Oh, my dear child, you should not have been eavesdropping."

"I wasn't. You spoke out very loud. I thought you knew I must hear you."

"Dear, dear, I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt your feelings, really, Miss Wilton. Of course the dress is lovely. Catch Kate or me aspiring to anything half so fine. But then, you did look very young in it. Are you really fourteen! You don't look it."

"Yes, I am fourteen and three months."

"Of course that makes a great difference. Come, now, let's be friends. My name is Flora St. Leger, and mother and I are going to stay at Glendower for a couple of days. Are you staying here?"

"Yes, with my father. We came to-day."

"Oh, I suppose you are Lilias Russell's friend. Isn't she a prim little piece?"

"I don't know," answered Ermengarde angrily. "I only consider that she is the dearest and most beautiful girl in the world."

"Oh, folly! she can't hold a candle to you. I'd like to see you when you're dressed for your first drawing-room. You know, Ermengarde – I may call you Ermengarde, may I not – I did say something very nice about your face, even when I abused your dress. You heard that part too, didn't you, sly monkey?"

"Yes," said Ermie, in a low voice. Then she added, "But it is not true about my being more beautiful than Lilias, and I don't like you even to say it."

"Well, puss, you can't help facts: Lilias is very well in her way; you are twice as striking. Oh, there comes George Martineau. I promised to play his accompaniments for him; he will sing some German songs in a minute. You listen when he does. He has a remarkably fine tenor voice for an amateur."

Flora St. Leger glided away from the recess of the window, and Ermengarde was left alone. She did not mind this in the least, her meditations were so pleasant; and Flora had given her such agreeable food for thought that she was quite delighted to be able to have a quiet few minutes to think over everything. She had quite forgiven Flora's unkind words for the sake of her flattering words. Flora had said the sort of things that Susy had often regaled her with before, but how much more important were the honeyed speeches coming from the lips of this grown-up and beautiful young lady. Ermengarde felt herself quite in love with Flora. Poor Lilias was nothing, compared to the friend she had just made. She was glad to know that Flora was going to spend a couple of days at Glendower. She earnestly hoped that she might see a good deal of her during these few days.

The evening passed somehow, and Ermie managed to escape to her room without again meeting her father.

Petite was helping her to undress, when to her surprise Lady Russell herself came in.

"My dear little Ermengarde," she said. She went up to the young girl and kissed her affectionately. "You can leave us, Petite," said Lady Russell to the maid. When they were alone, she turned to Ermie.

"My love, I am sorry to appear interfering, but you are a motherless little girl. Your dress to-night was very unsuitable."

"Aunt Elizabeth gave it to me," said Ermengarde, pouting.

"Yes, my dear; but, pardon me, we won't go into the question of how you came by the dress. You are at least ten years too young to be dressed in a fanciful costume of that kind. Your father does not wish you to wear that dress again, Ermie, nor to arrange your hair as you did to-night. Have you got a simple white dress with you, my child?"

"No," said Ermie, still pouting and frowning; "I thought the white chiffon was exactly what I needed."

"Poor child, you sadly miss your mother. Well, my love, don't do it again; that's all. I will get Petite to alter one of Lilias's frocks for you to wear to-morrow evening. Now, good-night, dear; sleep sound. I am glad you have come to keep our Lilias company for a few days."

Lady Russell kissed Ermengarde and left her. She took no notice of the little girl's sullen face, nor of her rude manner. She went away looking what she was, a gracious motherly woman.

"I am deeply sorry, both for Ermengarde and her father," she said to herself. "Anyone can see that the poor man does not know how to manage all those children. Marjorie takes after her sweet mother, but Ermengarde! she is not an easy child to influence, and yet what a beautiful face she has!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

IN THE TOILS

The summer at Glendower was always a gay time. The house was usually full of guests, and as there were horses and carriages, and a yacht and a sailboat, as well as two or three rowboats, the guests had certainly all possible advantages of locomotion.

The next morning was a glorious one, and Lilias and Ermie, after breakfasting together in Lilias's own special boudoir, put on their shady hats, and went out to walk about the grounds. The air was so delicious, and Lilias was so sweet and bright and unselfish, that it was impossible for Ermie not to feel in the best of spirits.

She ceased to desire to be grown up, and was satisfied to run races with Lilias in the simple pink cambric frock, which suited her infinitely better than the gorgeous chiffon.

Ermengarde's life was not without care just then, but at this moment she forgot her anxieties about Susy and Basil, and the broken miniature. She forgot her mortification of the night before, and looked what she was, a happy child.

Lilias was talking eagerly about the plans for the day's entertainment. The whole party were to drive to a certain point about eight miles from Glendower. There they were to picnic, and afterward, with the tide in their favor, would return home by water.

"And mother says I may drive my own ponies," said Lilias. "You haven't seen my Shetlands yet, have you, Ermie? Oh, they are such lovely pets, and father has given me real silver bells for their harness."

Ermengarde was about to make a reply, when a voice was heard calling Lilias.

"I'll be back in a minute, Ermie," said Lilias. "I suppose mother wants me to arrange about something. Don't go far away; I'll be with you directly."

She ran off, and Ermengarde, finding a rustic bench under a tree, sat down and looked around her. She had scarcely done so, when she was joined by Flora St. Leger.

"I saw you alone, and I rushed out to you, my love," said the young lady. "I want to speak to you so badly. Where can we go to be by ourselves?"

"But I am waiting here for Lilias," said Ermengarde.

"Oh, never mind. What does it matter whether Lilias finds you here when she comes back or not? She doesn't really want you, and I do."

Now this was all immensely flattering, for Flora was quite grown up, and Ermengarde had already lost her silly little heart to her.

"I should like to oblige you," she said.

"Well, do oblige me! Let us fly down this side-walk. There's a shrubbery at the farther end, where we shall be quite alone. Come, give me your hand."

Ermengarde could not resist. A moment later she and Flora were pacing up and down in the shrubbery.

"Ermengarde," said Miss St. Leger eagerly, "are you going to that stupid, stupid picnic to-day?"

"Why, of course," said Ermengarde, looking up in astonishment.

"You may call me Flora if you like, my dear love. What a sweet, pretty pet you are! Now that I look at you by daylight, I think it's a perfect sin that, with a face like yours, you should have to wear short frocks."

Ermie sighed. Miss St. Leger's tone was full of delicious sympathy, and when the next moment she slipped her arm round the little girl's waist, Ermie experienced quite a thrill of delight.

"I have fallen in love with you, that's a fact," said Miss St. Leger; "but now, about that picnic; you don't really want to go?"

"Oh, yes, Flora. Lilias is going to drive me in her pony-carriage."

"Lilias! Let her take a child like herself. You ought to be with the grown-ups."

"Everyone treats me exactly as if I were a child," said Ermengarde. "I do think it's a great shame, for I don't feel in the least like one."

"Of course you don't, pet. Now listen to me. I'm not going to this stupid, horrid picnic."

"Aren't you, Flora?"

"No, I'm going to stay at home, and I want you to stay with me. You won't be dull, I promise you."

"But what excuse can I give?"

"Oh, say you're tired, or have a headache, or something of that sort."

"But I'm not tired, and I haven't got a headache."

Flora pouted.

"After all, you are only a baby," she said. "I made a mistake; I thought you were different."