"Now look here," he said. "I don't want to hector you, nor any nonsense of that sort, but you have got to tell me the truth without making any bones about it. What's up with you, Ermengarde--what's wrong?"

He had set the lamp on the mantelpiece, and stood himself facing its full light. His olive-tinted face looked stern and dark; there was no tenderness in his manner.

Ermengarde drew up her slight little figure proudly. "You are not my father," she said. "I won't answer you when you speak to me in that tone."

"All right! you shall come to the one who has a right to order you.

Come along."

"No, Basil, no; how _can_ you be so unkind?"

She wrenched her hand from his clasp. Her words came out in a sob, tears rushed to her eyes.

"O Basil, I have always loved you."

"Stuff, this is no minute for sentiment. _I_ love honorable and truthful girls; I loved a sister who was that. Now tell me the truth, and be quick about it, for if you don't, I'll take you to father; he's not in bed, but he will be soon, so you had better make up your mind at once."

"What am I to say to you, Basil?"

"That's for you to decide. _You_ know what's up; I don't. You know why you turned so queer this morning when Collins stopped the pony-trap, and why you are out all by yourself close on midnight."

"I went to see Susy Collins. I don't know why you should speak to me in that tone."

"_Do_ stop bothering about my tone, Ermie. Can't you see that you have done frightfully wrong? I--I----" He gulped down something in his throat. "There; I can't speak of it, I think I'm stunned. I simply can't make out what has come to you, having secrets with a girl my father has forbidden you to know!"

"I haven't secrets with her."

"You have. For goodness' sake, don't add lying to all the rest of it.

Would you have turned so white this morning if you hadn't a secret, and would you have crept out of the house in this disgraceful way if you hadn't a secret? Come, Ermie, I'm older than you--and--and--our mother isn't here. Tell me all about it, Ermie."

This was Ermengarde's chance. For the moment the severe young judge before her was softened; a memory of his mother had done it; that, and the knowledge that Ermengarde was younger and frailer than himself.

Had she told him the whole truth then, she might have saved herself with Basil. Like many another, however, she let the golden moment pa.s.s.

For half a minute she was absolutely silent. Then she said in her most stubborn voice: "I don't tell lies--I have no secret with Susy. I went to her to-night because I was sorry for her, and because I--I--I was afraid to stay long enough this morning. Everyone is so horridly hard on me because I befriend a poor little girl like Susy, and now when she is ill and all. That's why I went to her secretly, because--because people make me afraid."

"When you say people, you mean our father?"

"Well, yes; I think it is horrid of father to make such a fuss about my knowing Susy. Mother wouldn't have done it."

"Hush, don't bring mother into this conversation, Ermengarde," Basil knit his brows in pain.

"I suppose I may go to bed now," said Ermengarde, after a long pause.

"I have nothing more to say. I went to see Susy because I was sorry for her, and I--I was afraid--that's all. If I were to stay here till morning I could not say anything more."

Whatever effect these words of Ermengarde might have had upon Basil--whether he would have believed her, and only attributed to her the sin of disobedience in seeking another interview with Susy--can never be known; for, as the little girl, interpreting his silence for consent, was about to leave the room, she stumbled against a footstool, and the precious miniature fell from its place of concealment to the floor.

Ermengarde uttered a cry, but before she could even stoop to pick up the picture, Basil had seized it; he gave it one look, his lips twitched curiously, then he slipped it into the inner pocket of his Eton jacket.

"Basil, Basil, oh give it to me! Basil, Basil, _please_ give me that picture back!"

"No--it isn't yours--I know your secret. You can go to bed now. I don't want to say anything more to you to-night."

"Basil!"

In her terror and anguish Ermengarde went on her knees.

"O Basil, be merciful! I'll tell you everything. I will, really and truly."

"Get up, Ermengarde. For goodness' sake, don't make an exhibition of yourself. I don't want to hear anything more you have got to say. Go to bed, and leave me in peace."

"Give me back the miniature."

"Certainly not. It is not yours."

"What will you do with it?"

"Give it back to Miss Nelson, of course."

"Then I am lost." Ermengarde gave a bitter cry, and rushed to the door. Before she could reach it, Basil stepped before her.

"Don't go into hysterics," he said. "Go up to your room and keep quiet. You have done mischief enough, and caused suffering enough.

Don't add to it all by making a fuss and waking the house. I _have_ got some feeling, and I can _not_ speak to you to-night. This has somehow taken the--the courage out of me. I'll think it over to-night, and I'll see you again in the morning."

"O Basil! And you won't tell anyone till you have seen me again?"

Basil put his hand up to his forehead. He considered for a moment. "I think I may promise that," he said then slowly.

"And where am I to meet you, Basil?"

"Meet me in the shrubbery after morning school. Now go to bed."

He took up the lamp and left the schoolroom. Ermengarde watched him as he slowly ascended the stairs and turned down the corridor which led to the boys' bedrooms. He took the light away with him in more senses than one, but Ermengarde little recked of darkness just then. She threw herself on the floor in the old schoolroom, and gave vent to a pa.s.sion of weeping, shedding tears which not even her mother's death had wrung from her.

CHAPTER XII.

AFTER THE BIRTHDAY.

The usual effects of a holiday were visible the next morning. The children were all a little tired and out of sorts. It was difficult for the schoolroom party to get into harness again, and even Eric and the nursery children were somewhat captious and discontented.

"Father's birthday is the farthest off of all now," said little Molly, the five-year-old darling. "There's no birthday like father's, and it's the farthest off of all. I'm dreadful sorry."

"Oh, shut up," said Eric. "Who wants to hear that dismal dirge."

"Molly says that about the birthdays always the next morning,"

volunteered d.i.c.k, who was a year older, and who wanted to curry favor with Eric by agreeing with him. "Molly _is_ a silly, isn't she?" he added, fixing his big blue eyes admiringly on his brother.