With a great effort Ermie raised her eyes.

"What did Susy Collins say to you, yesterday?"

"I--I don't want to tell you."

"I desire you to tell me."

"I--I can't."

"You mean you won't."

"I can't tell you, Miss Nelson."

Ermengarde clasped and unclasped her hands. Her expression was piteous.

Miss Nelson was again silent for a few minutes.

"Ermengarde," she said then, "this is not the time for me to say I am sorry for you. I have a duty to perform, and there are moments when duties must come first of all. Susan Collins's excitement, her almost unnatural desire to see you, have got to be accounted for. There is a cloud over Basil that must be explained away. There is a mystery about a little old miniature of mine: it was stolen by some one, and broken by some one. The story of that miniature somebody must tell. At the risk of your father's displeasure I took Maggie to visit Susy Collins the other night. You were away on a visit with your father, and I allowed Maggie to fetch you home. There is undoubtedly an adequate reason for this, but I must know it, for I have to explain matters to Mr. Wilton; therefore, Ermengarde, if you will not tell me fully and frankly and at once all that occurred between you and Susy yesterday, I will go myself and see the Collinses, and will learn the whole story from Susy's own lips."

"Oh, you will not," said Ermengarde, "You never could be so cruel!"

All her self-possession had deserted her. Her face was white, her voice trembled.

"I must go, Ermie. Wretched child, why don't you save yourself by telling me all you know at once?"

"I cannot, I cannot!"

Ermengarde turned her head away. Miss Nelson rose to leave the room.

"I am going to my room," she said; "I will wait there for half an hour. If at the end of half an hour you do not come to me, I must go to see the Collinses."

Ermengarde covered her face with her hands. Miss Nelson left the room.

"Ermie," said Marjorie in her gentlest voice.

"I wish you'd leave me," said Ermengarde. "There would never have been all this mischief but for you; I do wish you'd go away!"

"If you only would be brave enough to tell the truth," whispered Marjorie.

"Do, do go away! Leave me to myself."

With great reluctance the little girl left the room. As she sidled along the wall, she looked back several times. A word, a glance would have brought her back. But the proud, still little figure by the window did not move a muscle. The angry eyes looked steadily outward; the lips were firmly closed. Marjorie banged the door after her; she did not mean to, but the open window had caused a draught, and Ermengarde with a long shiver realized that she was alone.

"Now, that's a comfort," she murmured; "now I can think. Have I time to rush up to Susy, and tell her that she is not to let out a single word? Half an hour--Miss Nelson gives me half an hour. I could reach the Collinses' cottage in about ten minutes, if I flew over the gra.s.s; five minutes with Susy, and then ten minutes back again. I can do it--I will!"

She seized her hat, rushed to the door, ran along the corridor, and down the stairs. In a moment she was out. Her fleet young steps carried her lightly as a fawn over the gra.s.s, and down the path which led to Susy's cottage. How fast her heart beat! Surely she would be in time!

A short cut to the Collinses' cottage lay through a small paddock which cut off an angle of the park. Ermie remembered this, and made for it now. There was a stile to climb, but this was no obstacle to the country-bred girl. She reached the paddock, vaulted lightly over the stile, and was about to rush along the beaten path when she was suddenly brought face to face with the two people whom in all the world she wished least to see just then--her father and Basil. They, too, were walking in the paddock, and met Ermengarde close to the stile.

Ermie had never seen her father's face wear a sterner, or more displeased expression, but it was not his glance which frightened her most just then; it was a certain proud, resigned, yet strong look which flashed at her for an instant out of Basil's beautiful eyes.

This, joined to an expression of suffering round his lips, gave Ermengarde for the first time a glimpse of the abyss of deceit and wrong-doing into which she was plunging.

A great longing for Basil's love and approbation rushed over her. The desire for this was stronger in that first brief moment than her fear of meeting her father. She stood perfectly still, her hands dropped to her sides; she had not a word to say.

"You can go home," said Mr. Wilton, turning to his son; "I have expressed my opinion; I don't mean to repeat it--there is nothing further to say."

Basil did not make any reply to this speech, nor did he again look at Ermengarde. He went to the stile, vaulted over it, and disappeared.

"And now, Ermie, where are you going to?" said her father.

"Home," she answered confusedly. "I am going home."

"My dear, I never knew that this way through the paddock led home.

Come, Ermengarde, I am tired of prevarication. What does all this mean?"

"Don't ask me, father. I mean I'll tell you presently. I want to see Miss Nelson."

"Is Miss Nelson at the other side of this paddock? Ermengarde, I insist upon it, I will be answered."

"Give me half an hour, father, a quarter of an hour--ten minutes--just to see Miss Nelson, and--and--Basil."

"Then you are in league with Basil, too! A nice state I find my family in! I give a distinct and simple order to you, which you disobey.

Basil, whom I always supposed to be the soul of honor, has behaved with wanton cruelty toward a lady who was your mother's friend, whom I respect, and who has been placed more or less in authority over you all. Not a word, Ermengarde. Basil has as good as confessed his guilt, and I can only say that my old opinion of him can never be restored.

Then, I take you away on a visit, and Maggie comes to fetch you home, because, forsooth, the gamekeeper's daughter with whom I have forbidden you to have any intercourse is feverish, and wants to have a conversation with you. Nonsense, Ermie! you posed very well at the Russells' yesterday as a little philanthropist, but that role, my dear, is not yours. Susan Collins had a far stronger reason for recalling you from Glendower than the simple desire for your company.

Come, Ermie, this mystery has got to be cleared up. This is _not_ the road home, nor am I aware that Miss Nelson resides at the other end of the paddock. But this narrow path leads directly to Collins's cottage.

I presume you are going there. If you have no objection, we will go together, my dear."

"Yes, father, I have every objection. You need not go to Collins's.

I--I won't keep it in any longer."

"I thought I should bring you to your senses. Now, what have you got to say?"

"It's on account of Basil."

"Leave Basil's name out, please. I am not going to be cajoled into restoring him to my favor again."

Ermengarde's face, which had been growing whiter and whiter during this interview, now became convulsed with a spasm of great agony. She put up her trembling hands to cover it. This was not a moment for tears. Her hot eyes were dry.

"Father, you don't know Basil. _He_ has done nothing wrong, nothing.

It's all me. It's all me, father."

And then the miserable story, bit by bit, was revealed to Mr. Wilton; it was told reluctantly, for even now Ermengarde would have shielded herself if she could. Without a single word or comment, the narrative was listened to. Then Mr. Wilton, taking Ermie's hand, walked silently back to the house with her. Miss Wilton came down the steps of the front entrance to meet them.

"Good-morning, Ermengarde," she said. "How queer and dragged you look?

Roderick, I want to speak to you."

"I will come to you presently, Elizabeth. I am particularly engaged just now."

"But you are not going to take that child in through the front entrance?"