The Children of Wilton Chase

CHAPTER VI.

A STOLEN TREASURE

When Ermengarde left the room, Susy looked round her. She was a thoroughly comfortable young person; her nature had plenty of daring in it, and she was not prone to timidity. She was not much afraid of being caught, and she did not feel at all inclined to hurry out of the governess's room.

Susy was one of those unfortunate little mortals whose pretty face, instead of bringing with it a blessing, as all beauty ought, had quite the reverse effect upon her. It made her discontented. Like many other foolish little maids, she longed to have been born in a higher station than Providence intended; she longed to be rich and a lady.

Susy was an only child, and her mother, who had once been a lady's-maid, always dressed her neatly and with taste. Susy spoke with a more refined accent than most children of her class; her dress, too, was better than theirs; she thought a very little would make her what she most desired to be, a lady. And when Ermengarde began to take notice of her, she felt that her ambition was all but fulfilled.

Ermie had often met Susy in the grounds, and, attracted by her beautiful little face, had talked to her, and filled the poor child with conceit. Mr. Wilton had once seen Ermengarde and Susy chatting in a very confidential manner together. He at once separated the children, told Ermie she was not to make a friend of Susan Collins, and told Susan Collins that she was to mind her place, and go back to her mother. These instructions he further reiterated to Miss Nelson and to Susan's father. The children were forbidden to speak, and Ermengarde, proud, rebellious, without any real sense of right or honor, instantly contrived to evade her father's commands, and saw more of Susy than ever.

Not until to-day, however, had Susan Collins been inside Wilton Chase. Over and over she had longed to see the interior of what her mother was pleased to call the 'noble pile.' But not until to-day had this longing been gratified. In a most unexpected way she at last found herself at the Chase. She had enjoyed a good dinner there. That dinner had been followed by nearly an hour of great misery and terror. Still, she had been there, and she reflected with pride that, in consequence, she could now hold up her head higher than ever.

She was certainly not in a hurry to go away. Miss Nelson's room seemed a magnificent apartment to Susy. She was sure no one could come into it at present, and she walked round and round it now, examining its many treasures with a critical and somewhat envious spirit.

Once again, in the course of her wanderings, she came opposite the picture of the old-fashioned child – the child whose hair was curled in primitive and stiff ringlets, whose blue eyes looked out at the world with a somewhat meaningless stare, and whose impossible and rosy lips were pursed up in an inane smile.

Susy gazed long at this old-world portrait. It was set in a deep frame of blue enamel, and inside the frame was a gold rim. Susy said to herself that the picture, old-fashioned though it was, had a very genteel appearance. Then she began to fancy that the blue eyes and the lips of the child resembled her own. She pursed up her cherub mouth in imitation of the old-world lady. She smiled into the pictured eyes of the child of long ago.

In short Susy became fascinated by the miniature; she longed to possess it. With the longing came the temptation. Why should she not take it? The theft, if it could be called by such an ugly name, could never be traced to her. Not a soul in the place would ever know that she had been shut up in Miss Nelson's room. Only Ermengarde would know, and Ermie would not dare to tell.

Susy looked and longed and coveted. She thought of the pleasure this picture would give her in her own little attic-room at home. How she would gaze at it, and compare her face with the face of the old-fashioned child. Susy hated Miss Nelson, and if that good lady valued the picture, she would be only the more anxious to deprive her of it.

Miss Nelson had often and often snubbed Susy; she had also been cruel to Ermengarde. Susy could avenge Ermie as well as herself, if she took away the miniature.

Susan was not the child long to withstand any sudden keen desire. She stretched up her hand, lifted the little miniature from its hook on the wall, and slipped it into the pocket of her pink frock.

Its place looked empty and deserted. Susy did not want its loss to be discovered too soon. She looked around her, saw another miniature on the mantelpiece; without waiting even to look at it, she hung it in the place where the child's picture had been, and then, well pleased, turned to go. First of all, however, she performed an action which she thought particularly clever and praiseworthy.

Poor Ermengarde had left the cupboard open when she rushed from the room, but Susy took the precaution to lock it, and taking out the key, threw it carelessly on the floor behind a chair. Then, satisfied that she had done her best both for Ermie and herself, she left Miss Nelson's room, running fearlessly down the now deserted back-stairs, and out into the courtyard.

She went round to the laurel bush behind which she had concealed her basket of eggs, picked it up, delivered its contents to the cook, and ran home singing a gay song.

Her mother remarked on Susy's long absence, but when the little girl said she had been tempted to linger in the meadows, Mrs. Collins did not question her any further. She hastened to prepare an extra good tea for her darling, for of course Susy's dinner with Ermengarde could not be mentioned.

Meanwhile all went merrily in the hay-field. Eric excelled himself in his rare power of story-telling. Basil and Ermie sat side by side, and whispered together. Miss Nelson had seldom seen a softer look on her elder pupil's face than now. She determined that Basil and his sister should be together as much as possible during the holidays.

Presently the little ones went home, and by and by the elder children followed their example. Miss Nelson saw that Marjorie was tired – that Ermie, too, looked pale – and she made them both go to bed early.

It was rather late when the governess returned to the schoolroom. She only went there to fetch one of her pupils' exercise-books, but seeing Basil reading on one of the sofas, she stopped to talk to him. She was a very direct person, and in conversation she always went straight to the point.

"It is a great comfort to me to have you at home, Basil," she said.

Basil looked up at her. Then he dropped his book and started to his feet.

"Won't you sit down?" he said politely.

"No, I am going into my own room directly. I repeat that I am glad you are at home, Basil. There was a talk of your going north instead, was there not?"

"Yes. Uncle Charlie wanted me to fish with him."

"It is on Ermengarde's account that I am glad," pursued the governess.

Basil nodded.

"I came back on account of Ermie," he said. Then he colored, and added quickly, "But I like being at home best."

"Yes, my dear boy, I understand. You are unselfish. You and Marjorie are remarkably unselfish. Basil, you have a great influence over your eldest sister; oh yes, I can see. In many respects Ermengarde is a difficult child; I want you to use your influence well, and – Will you come into my room, Basil?"

Basil picked up his book. Of course he would go. He did not want to; he thought it was rather fudge talking about his influence; and as to his being unselfish, he liked his own way as well as any one else. Had he not almost blubbered about not going to Scotland, and although he had thought of Ermie, still he had given up his desires with a pang. He hated Miss Nelson to think better of him than he deserved, but he did not know how to explain himself, and he followed her in rather a limp fashion into her private sitting-room.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, when he got there, "what a tiny room! Do they put you off with this? Oh, I say, I call it a shame!"

Miss Nelson loved her private sitting-room, and hated to hear it abused. She also particularly disliked the expression with which Basil had commenced his speech.

"I don't wish to interfere, my dear boy, but those words – you will excuse me – I am shocked."

"Do you mean 'by Jove'?"

"Yes; don't repeat the expression. It sounds like a calling upon false gods."

"Oh, I say, all our fellows do it."

"Does that make it right?"

Basil fidgeted, and wished himself back in the schoolroom.

"You were going to speak about Ermie," he said.

Miss Nelson seated herself by the open window. It was a warm and very beautiful summer's night. A gentle breeze came in, and fanned the governess's tired brow.

"What about Ermie?" said Basil. He wanted to get back to his book, and to the unrestraint of the dear old schoolroom.

"I think you have a good influence over Ermengarde," said Miss Nelson, raising her face to his.

"Yes, yes," he answered impatiently; "more than one person has said that to me. I have a good influence, but why should I have a good influence? I mean, why is it necessary? Ermie isn't worse than other people. It sounds as if you were all abusing her when you talk of my good influence. I hate humbug. I'm no better than other fellows. I'm fond of Ermie I suppose, and that's about the beginning and end of my influence."

"Exactly," said Miss Nelson. She was not listening to all the boy's words. Her thoughts were far away.

"Ermie is difficult," she began. Then she stopped and uttered an exclamation.

"Look, Basil, is that a key at your feet?"

Basil stooped, and picked up the key of Miss Nelson's cupboard.

"Put it in the lock of the cupboard behind you, my boy. I am glad it is found – truly glad. I thought I could not have put it away. And yet Ermengarde seemed so sure that it was not in the lock when she was in the room."

"Oh, it fell out, I suppose," said Basil. He was not interested in the key, and he stood up now, prepared to go.

"Those photographs I spoke about are in the cupboard, Basil. I could not bring them to you because I could not find the key. Would you like to see them now?"

"Thanks," said Basil. "Perhaps, if you don't mind, I had better look at them by daylight."

When Basil said this, Miss Nelson also stood up. He looked at her, being quite sure now she would wish him good-night and let him go. Her eyes had a peculiar, terrified, staring expression. She rushed to the mantelpiece; then she turned and grasped the boy's arm.

"Basil," she said, "the picture is gone!"

"What picture?" he asked. He was really frightened at the anguished expression in Miss Nelson's matter-of-fact face.

"Mine," she answered, clasping his hand tighter. "My treasure, the picture of my – " here she broke off. "It is gone, Basil – see, and another put in its place! My miniature is gone! it has been stolen!"

"No, no," said Basil. "It couldn't have been. People don't steal pictures at the Chase. There are no thieves. Let me look for it for you."

"My miniature – my portrait. I don't speak of it – I can't!" Her voice shook. "No, no; it is gone. You see, Basil, it always hung here, and now another has been put on the same hook. That shows that the deed was intentional; the miniature is stolen!"

She sat down and clasped her hands over her face; her thin long fingers trembled.

"I'm awfully sorry for you," said Basil. He could not understand such emotion over any mere picture, but he had the kindest of hearts, and distress of any sort always moved him.

"I'm awfully sorry," he repeated.

Miss Nelson looked up at his tone.

"Basil," she said, "when you have very few things to love, you value the few intensely. I did – I do. You don't know, my boy, what it is to be a lonely woman. May you never understand my feelings. The miniature is gone; it was stolen, purposely."

"Oh, we'll find the thief," said Basil. "If you are sure the picture was taken, we'll make no end of a fuss, and my father will help. Of course you must not lose anything you value in this house. You shall have it back; we'll all see to that."

"Thank you, Basil; I'm sure you'll do your best."

Miss Nelson's face looked as unhappy as ever.

"You must try and cheer up, Miss Nelson," said the school-boy. "You shall have your picture, that I promise you."

Miss Nelson was silent for a minute.

"Perhaps I shall get it back," she said after a pause. "But it won't be the same to me again. No, nothing can be the same. I've got a shock. Basil, I have worked for you all. When your mother died, I came – I came at her request. A more brilliant governess could have taught your sisters, but I can truly say no one more conscientious could have ministered to them, and no one on the whole could have loved them more faithfully. I have, however, been misunderstood. Only one of your sisters has responded to me. Marjorie has been sweet and true and good; the others – not that I blame little Lucy much – a child is always led by her elders – but – "

"What does all this mean?" said Basil, almost sternly. He knit his brows. He felt that he was going to be somebody's champion, and there was fight in his voice.

"This is what it means, Basil," said Miss Nelson. "I am sorry to pain you, but I believe Ermengarde has taken my miniature."

"Ermie a thief? What do you mean? She's my sister – she's a Wilton! How can you say that sort of thing, Miss Nelson? No wonder poor Ermie does not quite get on with you."

"She never gets on with me, Basil. She is disobedient, she is unresponsive. I have taken more pains for her than for the others. To-day I was obliged to punish her for two offenses of a very grave character. She took my miniature out of revenge; I am sure of it."

"No, I am certain you are mistaken. You have no right to accuse her like this."

"I wish I could think I was mistaken, Basil, but all circumstances point to the fact that Ermengarde in revenge took away my portrait. I locked her into this room as a punishment, as a severe punishment for a most grave offense. She was very angry and very defiant. The picture was in its usual place when I locked her into the room. She spent the greater part of the day here. When I come here to-night the portrait has been exchanged for another."

"Yes; your room has been empty for hours. Some one else has come in and done the thing, if indeed it has been done at all."

"What do you mean? The picture is gone!"

"The housemaid may have been dusting, and put another in its place."

"No, Basil, the housemaid would not touch my private possessions; I dust them and arrange them myself. I dusted my miniature only this morning, and this white rosebud and maidenhair I placed under it. I always put fresh flowers under my portrait; I did so to-day as usual. No, as you say, there are no thieves at Wilton Chase. Ermie has taken the miniature out of revenge. She knew I valued it."

"You are mistaken," said Basil, "and I think you are cruel!"

He left the room in a great rage.

CHAPTER VII.

A GOOD, BOYISH SORT OF GIRL

The next day was Saturday. The lessons done this morning by Ermengarde, Marjorie, and Lucy were little more than nominal. A master came to give the little girls instruction in music at eleven o'clock, and after their half-hour each with him, they were considered free to spend the rest of the day as they pleased.

Rather to Basil's surprise Miss Nelson said nothing whatever to Ermie about the loss of her miniature. The governess's face was very pale this morning, and her eyes had red rims round them, as though she had wept a good deal the previous night. She was particularly gentle, however, and Basil, who alone knew her secret, could not help being sorry for her.

He was still angry, for he thought her idea about Ermengarde both unjust and cruel; but her softened and sad demeanor disarmed him, and he longed beyond words to give her back the miniature.

Ermie was in excellent spirits this morning. She thought herself well out of yesterday's scrape, and she looked forward to a long and happy afternoon with her brothers. She was particularly bright and attentive over her lessons, and would have altogether won Miss Nelson's approval, had not her sad mind been occupied with other matters.

Marjorie was the first to go to her music lesson this morning. She returned from it at half-past eleven, and then Ermengarde went to receive Mr. Hill's instructions.

Basil was standing in the passage, sharpening a lead pencil as she passed.

"I'll be free at twelve, Basil," she called to him. "Where shall I find you?"

"I'll be somewhere round," he replied, in a would-be careless tone. "Maggie, is that you? I want to speak to you."

He seemed anxious to get away from Ermengarde, and she noticed it, and once more the cloud settled on her brow.

"Come out, Mag; I want to speak to you," said Basil. "You are free at last, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes; I'm free. What were you so chuffy to Ermie, for? You seemed as if you didn't care to have her with you!"

"Oh, don't I care? I'm thinking of her all the time. It's about her I want to speak to you, Maggie, But, first of all have you heard of Miss Nelson's loss?"

"No, what loss?"

"Some one has taken a miniature out of her sitting-room."

"A miniature? Which – which miniature? Speak, Basil."

"You needn't eat me with your eyes, Maggie. I don't know. I didn't do it!"

"Oh, no; but what miniature is it, Basil?"

"I tell you, I didn't see it, Maggie. It hung over her mantelpiece, and she kept flowers under it. She seemed to prize it a great lot."

"Not the picture of a rather silly little girl with blue eyes and a smile? Not that one? Don't tell me it was that one, Basil."

"Then you do know about it. I suppose it was that one. She was in an awful state."

"No wonder. Oh, poor Miss Nelson!"

"Do talk like a reasonable being, Maggie. What was there so marvelously precious in the picture of a silly little girl?"

"Yes, but that silly little girl was her own – not her child, but her sister, and she loved her beyond all the world, and – the little sister went to the angels. Once she told me about her – only once. It was on a Sunday night. Oh, poor Miss Nelson!"

"Well, don't cry, Mag – she must have the picture back. She has got a horrid thought in her head about it, though."

"A horrid thought? Miss Nelson has a horrid thought? Oh, Basil, don't you begin to misunderstand her."

"Shut up!" said Basil. "Who talks about my misunderstanding her? She has got a wrong notion into her head about Ermie, that's all. She thinks Ermie took the miniature out of revenge. There! Is not that bad enough? Now, what's the matter, Maggie? You are not going to tell me that you think Miss Nelson is right?"

"No," said Marjorie, shaking her fat little self, after an aggravating habit of hers when she was perplexed. "Of course I don't think anything of the kind, still – " She was remembering Ermengarde's agitation of the day before – her almost frantic wish to return alone to the house.

Marjorie grew quite red as this memory came over her.

"Well, won't you speak?" said Basil. "Miss Nelson must get back her miniature."

"Of course she must, Basil."

"She believes that Ermengarde took it."

"Yes; of course she is mistaken."

"She is very positive."

"Oh, that's a way of hers. She's quite obstinate when she gets an idea into her head."

"A fixed idea, eh?" Basil laughed.

Marjorie did not join in the laugh, she was feeling intensely solemn.

"Miss Nelson is very angry, and in dreadful trouble," Basil went on presently. "I quite thought she would speak to Ermengarde this morning."

"She has not said a word, Basil."

"I know that."

"Basil, let me speak to Ermie."

"But now, you're not going to accuse her, or any rubbish of that sort, Maggie?"

"As if I would, Basil!"

"Then I wish you would speak to her. I'm uncomfortable enough about the whole thing, I can tell you. I hate to have anybody think such thoughts of Ermie."

"I'll tell her," said Marjorie eagerly. "I'll tell her the miniature is lost."

She ran off, and Basil took another pencil out of his pocket and began to sharpen it. He did not like the aspect of affairs at all. His interview with Marjorie had given him no real satisfaction. Marjorie had not thrust the idea of Ermie's guilt from her with the horror he had expected. Of course she had agreed with him, but not with that emphasis he had desired. He felt rather sickened. If Ermengarde could be mean and shabby, if by any possibility, however remote, Ermengarde had stooped to theft for the sake of a petty and small revenge, then he was very sorry he had not gone to Scotland, that was all. He'd give up Ermie if she was that kind, but of course she wasn't. It was horrid of him to lend even half credence to such a belief. He would go and have a game of cricket with Eric, and get such a monstrous idea out of his head.

When they were preparing for dinner, Marjorie told her sister about the stolen miniature. She told the story in her own characteristic way. She was determined to take no unfair advantage of Ermie, and so, while washing her hands, and purposely splashing the water about, and with her back so turned that she could not get a glimpse of Ermie's face, she burst forth with her news. When she turned round, Ermengarde was calmly combing out her long hair.

"It's dreadful, isn't it?" said Marjorie.

"Dreadful," echoed Ermengarde, but her voice did not sound excited.

"And she was so fond of that little sister," continued Marjorie.

"I never heard of any sister," said Ermengarde in a profoundly uninterested voice. "Let us come down to dinner, Maggie; the gong has sounded."

Marjorie gave vent to a very heavy sigh. She had got no satisfaction out of Ermengarde, and yet her manner gave her a sense of insecurity. She recalled again Ermie's strange excitement of the evening before, and wondered in vain what it all meant.