At eight o'clock the schoolroom party assembled for breakfast. Miss Nelson had decided not to say anything to Ermengarde until the meal was over. Her salutation of the little girl was scarcely more cold than usual, and Ermie sat down to the breakfast-table without the least idea that her delinquency of the day before had been discovered.
Marjorie was the late one on this occasion. She rushed into the room with her hair un-plaited and her cheeks glowing.
"A holiday! a holiday!" she cried. "Father has asked you to give us a holiday, please, Miss Nelson, in honor of the boys. A lovely whole holiday! Father has gone to London, but he scribbled you a message on this card. Here it is! You'll say yes, won't you, Miss Nelson? and oh, it is such a lovely day!"
"Get your hair plaited properly, Marjorie, and come and sit down to breakfast," said her governess. She received Mr. Wilton's card without comment.
Ermengarde and Basil, however, exchanged delighted glances, and Basil, bending forward in that courteous way which always won the heart of the governess, said, "You will let us all have the holiday together, as my father wishes it?"
"You can go, of course, Basil," replied Miss Nelson.
She laid a stress on the word "you," but neither Basil nor Ermengarde noticed it. They began to chat together over the delights of the day which lay before them. The holiday spirit was caught up by the younger children, and soon an uproar and excitement of delight arose, which even Miss Nelson could not stem.
In the midst of the general hubbub, she touched Ermengarde on her shoulder.
"I want a word with you, my dear. Come with me."
In some astonishment Ermengarde rose to comply. The governess took her into her own little room.
"Shut the door," she said.
She sat down herself, and Ermengarde stood before her. Her face was pale, her voice shook.
"Ermengarde, will you now repeat your imposition poem."
"Casabianca," said Ermengarde. She had felt a vague sense of uneasiness at Miss Nelson's manner. Now her brow cleared. She recited the whole poem with scarcely a mistake, and with some show of feeling.
"You have said it well," said the governess. "It relates the extraordinary exploit of a noble-hearted child. I grieve to say there are few such in the world. May I ask you when you learned this poem, Ermengarde?"
"Yesterday – " began Ermengarde.
"No, don't go on. I will save you, I must save you, poor child, from yourself. You would tell another lie. You would deceive again. Ermie, I have loved you. I – I – have suffered for you."
"I don't know what you mean," said Ermengarde, in a voice which shook with anger. "Am I to be – are dreadful things to be said of me? Why do you accuse me of telling lies? Why?"
"No more, my dear pupil. For, notwithstanding your refractory and rebellious state, you are still my dear pupil."
"You are not my dear teacher, there!"
"Hush, I cannot permit impertinence! Ermengarde, I did not look for open and direct disobedience from you. You are full of faults, but I did not think deceit was one of them. I have found out about your drive yesterday."
"Oh!" said Ermie. Her face grew very pale. "Did – did Marjorie tell you? If I thought that – "
"No matter who told me. Don't blame your sister. She's worth twenty of you. Think of your own sin. Ermengarde, you have hurt me deeply."
"I don't care," said Ermengarde. "I said I'd go, and I went. I don't care."
"Poor child! I can only be very sorry for you. I can only pray God to bring you to a different state of mind. You thought to hide your sin from me. God knew it all the time."
Ermengarde shuffled from one foot to another. There was not a trace of repentance about her face or manner.
"At one time I thought I must tell all to your father."
Ermengarde started at this.
"I resolved not to do so."
Her face grew relieved.
"But, Ermengarde," continued the governess, "it is my duty, my solemn duty, to punish you severely. The full extent of that punishment I have not yet determined on, but to-day you spend in this room, where your meals will be brought to you."
"Oh, no, no; not that," said Ermengarde suddenly. "Not to-day, not the holiday! Let my punishment begin to-morrow, please, Miss Nelson. Do say yes, Miss Nelson. It would be terrible not to have the holiday with Basil, and for Basil to know the reason. Do yield on this point, please, Miss Nelson, please, please, and I'll try to be a better girl in future, I will truly."
"No, Ermengarde; the punishment, being merited and severe, must begin on the day you feel it most. I am sorry for you, but I cannot, I dare not yield. God help you, poor child, to a sorrow which leads to repentance."
The governess left the room, locking the door behind her.
Ermengarde stood quite still for a moment, as if she was stunned. Then she rushed to the door and tried to open it.
Miss Nelson went back to the schoolroom.
"You can have your holiday, children," she said. "Ermengarde cannot come, nor am I at liberty to explain her absence. No, Basil; you must not ask me. You must be happy without your sister to-day, and trust that what is right is being done for her. Now, about the picnic. Maggie, come here, my love. You shall take a message to cook."
"You'll come too, won't you, Miss Nelson?" asked Marjorie.
"I must, my dear. I could not allow wild young creatures like you to embark on such an expedition without me."
"And may all the babies come, Miss Nelson?"
"Yes, if nurse can accompany them."
"It seems a pity about poor Ermie."
"Do not speak of her, Marjorie. You must trust your governess to do what is right."
Marjorie's round face looked full of concern. She had a way of putting her finger to her lip when she was harassed about anything. This trick gave her the appearance of a great overgrown baby.
"Go at once and see the cook, my dear," said the governess.
Marjorie turned and left the room. In the passage she met Basil.
"What is this about Ermie?" he said at once.
"I think I know," said Marjorie. "I think I can guess."
"You'll tell me, won't you, Maggie?"
"I don't think I can, Basil. Ermie is a little – little – headstrong, and Miss Nelson, sometimes Miss Nelson is severe to Ermie."
"I shan't like her if she is," said Basil. "I don't care a bit about the picnic without Ermengarde, and I do consider it provoking of Miss Nelson to keep Ermie at home on my very first holiday."
"Oh, but you know she must maintain discipline," said Marjorie, putting her finger to her lip again.
Basil burst out laughing.
"Don't use such solemn words, Mag," he said. "You are only a baby; words of wisdom don't suit you a bit."
"I'm eleven," said Marjorie, in a hurt voice.
She ran off to the kitchen, and delivered her message. The cook, who was fond of good-humored little Marjorie, consulted her about the viands. She replied solemnly, and tried to look interested, but the zest had gone out of her voice. The first moment she had to spare she rushed to her school-desk, and scribbled a note.
"Dear Ermie," she said, "I'm miserable that the wickedness is discovered. Don't be a bit frightened though, for Basil shan't guess anything. Your fond sister, Marjorie Wilton."
This note Marjorie inclosed in one of her favorite envelopes, with a forget-me-not wreath in blue on the flap, and before the schoolroom party started for the picnic, she pushed it under the door of Miss Nelson's sitting-room.
Ermengarde