The Children of Wilton Chase

At dinner-time Miss Nelson's face was paler than ever. It was noticed now by the three people who shared her secret. Eric and Lucy were perfectly comfortable and easy in their minds, but the older children felt a sense of constraint. After dinner Eric asked Marjorie to come with him to visit his ferrets.

"They are at Collins's, you know," he said. "I hope Collins is treating them properly. If he does not, Shark will pay him out; that's a certainty. Come along, Mag."

"I will presently," said Marjorie.

"Oh, no; you must come at once. I have a lot to do this afternoon; you can't keep me waiting."

A good-humored smile played over Marjorie's sunny face. "Other people have a good deal to do too," she said. "I'll come soon, Eric. You can wait for me outside. I won't keep you long; but I have something important to do first."

Eric went away feeling very cross. If Marjorie took to giving herself airs, the world might as well stop at once. What use was Marjorie except to be at everybody's beck and call; and more especially at his – Eric's – beck and call. He kicked his heels into the gravel, thrust his hands into his trousers pockets, and put on all the airs of an ill-used mortal.

Meanwhile Marjorie, whose important business made her round face look intensely solemn, was trotting down the corridor to Miss Nelson's sitting-room. She guessed that she would find the governess there. To her gentle little tap Miss Nelson replied at once, and the little girl came in and stood before her.

"What is it, Marjorie?" said her governess. "Have you anything to say to me? I am busy. Why don't you go out with your brothers?"

"I wanted to give you a kiss," said Marjorie, "and to tell you – to tell you – that if the other little girl loved you, so do I. I thought I'd tell you; I know it won't be a real comfort, but I thought perhaps you ought to know."

"It is a real comfort, Marjorie," said Miss Nelson in a softened voice. "Give me that kiss, dear. Thank you, my love. You are a good child, Marjorie – a dear child. Now run away and play."

"You have a headache, I know," said Marjorie, "and see how the sun does stream in at this window. May I pull down the blinds? And will you lie on the sofa? Do, and I will bathe your head with eau de Cologne. I wish you would let me."

"No, dear, the others are waiting for you."

"Let them wait. Eric wants me to see his ferrets. I'd much rather stay with you."

Miss Nelson knew that Marjorie adored Eric, and that whatever pets of his happened to be in vogue had the strongest fascination for her. Nevertheless she did lie down on the sofa, and her little pupil's gentle hand felt all that was delightful and soothing as it touched her brow. When Marjorie stole out of the room, Miss Nelson had dropped asleep.

Eric was still waiting. He was amusing himself peeling an early autumn apple, eating it in a discontented sort of way, for he was not very hungry, and watching the windows for Marjorie to appear. He was delighted when he saw her, but he would not show his pleasure.

"Come on," he said, in a gruff voice. "I don't know why I waited for you. Half the evening is gone already. Do be quick, Mag; how you loiter!"

"I've an apple in my pocket for Shark," said Marjorie.

She tucked her hand comfortably through Eric's arm. She was feeling very sunshiny and happy, and soon managed to bring back the ever-bubbling humor to the little boy's lips.

About a quarter of an hour later, a sort of bundle rolled rather than walked into the Collinses' neat little cottage. Mrs. Collins uttered an exclamation and darted forward. She did not at once recognize that the bundle consisted of Marjorie and Eric, who, with peals and bursts of laughter, had in this style intruded themselves into her modest dwelling.

"Let go, Mag, don't throttle me!" screamed Eric.

"Well, leave the apple in my pocket; I'm going to feed Shark."

Mrs. Collins conducted her two little visitors to the yard, where Shark and his companion ferret resided in their wire cage. Marjorie sank down in front of the cage, and gazed at the ferrets quite as long and as earnestly as Eric could desire.

"They are beautiful," she said at last. "More especially Shark."

Eric felt that if it were not undignified, he could have hugged his sister. They left the yard, and re-entered Mrs. Collins's house the dearest of friends.

They were going into the kitchen to beg for a piece of brown cake, which they knew Mrs. Collins could make to perfection, when, hearing voices raised in dispute, Marjorie drew Eric back.

"Let's come another time for the cake," she whispered. "The passage-door is open, we can go out that way."

"Wait a second, Mag. I forgot to take a squint at Lop-ear. Just stay where you are, I'll be with you in a twinkling."

Marjorie stood still; Eric departed. The following words fell on Marjorie's ears:

"It's all very well to talk, Susy, but I'm quite sick of you and your mysteries, and I will know what you're hiding under your apron."

"I can't tell you, mother. It's a secret between Miss Ermengarde and me."

"Well, show it to me, anyhow. I don't mind your talking to miss, though the family make such a fuss about it. If it's anything she gave you, you might as well show it to your mother, Susy."

"Yes, she did give it to me; she gave it to me yesterday."

"Well, show it to me."

"No, no; that I won't."

"What is it? you might tell me that."

Marjorie distinctly heard Susy's pleased childish laugh.

"Oh, you'll never guess," she said; "it is so pretty – all sorts of color, blue and pink and white, and – and – But you shan't see, that you shan't."

Before Marjorie could hear more Eric hurried back.

"Now we'll have a game of cricket," he said to his sister.

Marjorie followed him without a word. She was a very good cricketer for a little girl, and she and Eric often had a jolly game together. The two went to the cricket-field, and the game began.

On Eric's side it was vigorously played; but had Marjorie's arm lost its cunning? Her bowling went wide of the mark, Eric proposed that he should bowl, and she should bat. This made matters no better. Finally he stopped the game in disgust.

"You're awfully changed, Mag," he said, half between sorrow and anger. And then he marched out of the field. He felt an intense pity for Marjorie. "She always was a good, boyish sort of a girl," he said to himself, "but she's getting like the rest of them. Girls are a poor lot, and she's like the rest."

At another time Marjorie could not have borne to see Eric look at her sorrowfully. She took no notice now, however, but the moment her brother left the field, she turned on her own heel and went back to the Collinses' cottage. Mrs. Collins had gone out, but Susy was standing by the door. Susy wore a blue cotton frock to-day, and her curly hair was pushed back from her fair and pretty face. She was standing in the porch talking to the canary. He was pouring out a flood of song, and Susy was looking up at him, and trying to bring notes something like his from her rosy lips.

On ordinary occasions Marjorie, remembering the home mandate, would not have entered into any prolonged conversation with Susy. She forgot all this now in her eagerness and desire for information.

"Susy!"

"Yes, Miss Marjorie."

Susy had no particular love for Marjorie. Marjorie was downright in manner, plain in face, no flatterer. Susy came out of the cottage slowly, looking behind her, as she did so, at the singing canary.

"Come here, Susy, come quickly; I want to say something to you."

"Yes, Miss Marjorie, what is it?"

"What were you saying to your mother just now? I overheard you in the passage. What was it all about?"

"I don't remember, miss, I'm sure."

Susy's color had changed from red to white.

"Where were you, miss, when I was talking?" she said after a pause.

"I was in the passage, waiting for Eric. You must remember what you said. Your mother was asking you to show her something. Something you said Ermengarde had given you."

"Oh, I remember now, miss. Miss Ermie do give me things now and then."

"But you said she gave you this, whatever it was, yesterday."

"I couldn't have said yesterday, Miss Marjorie."

"You did, Susy; I heard you."

"I couldn't have said yesterday, really, miss."

"But you did, Susy; you said yesterday as plain as possible. You said 'she gave it to me yesterday'; those were your very words."

"I must have meant another day, miss; I'm careless in my words, often and often."

"What did she give you, Susy? Do tell me."

"Only a yard of blue stuff to make a frock for my doll."

"But how could a yard of blue stuff be pink white and all sorts of colors?"

"Well, miss, I suppose I meant my doll. She's pink and white enough, I'll show her to you, if you like, and then you'll believe me. Shall I run and fetch her to show you, miss?"

"Oh, if you are as sure as all that, you needn't trouble," said Marjorie.

She left the cottage without even waiting to bid Susy good-by. Eric was still lounging about, waiting for her, and Marjorie ran up to him, all her usual spirits once more shining in her face.

CHAPTER VIII.

FATHER'S BIRTHDAY

The great event of the year at Wilton Chase came in the summer. It came just at the time when all the children could enjoy it – when they were all at home and together.

This event was Mr. Wilton's birthday. It had been his custom, as long as any of the children could remember, to devote this day to them. He was their willing slave, their captive to do what they pleased with during the long hours of that summer day.

Aunt Elizabeth, who hated being brought into close contact with what she termed "unfledged creatures," generally left the house for that occasion. The oak doors which divided the schoolroom from the grown-up portion of the building were thrown open, and happy rioters might have been seen darting about in all directions. In short, during this day Chaos reigned instead of order. Each child did as he or she liked best, with a reckless disregard to all future consequences.

In preparation for the feasting which went on during father's birthday, nurse was wont to see that all the useful unpleasant nursery bottles were well filled. She sent them to the chemist a week before, and when they were returned, put them grimly away in the cupboard.

"These," she would remark, "have nothing to do with father's birthday, but they come in handy the day after."

Miss Nelson also made preparations for the after effects of this day of unrestraint. She laid in a good store of clean manuscript paper, for she knew many impositions would have to be written, and she looked well through the poetry books and books of French selections, to see which on an emergency would be suited to the capacities of the delinquents, who would be certain to have to learn them amidst tears and disgrace.

The children's maid, too, laid in stores of buttons and hooks, and tapes and ribbons, for the repairing of the clothes which must come to grief in the general riot.

Thus all that the careful elders could do was done, but the children cared for none of these things. To the children the day itself stood before them in all its glory, and they gave no thought or heed to any after-time of reckoning.

Mr. Wilton's birthday arrived in the beginning of the second week of the summer holidays. The first exuberance of joy, therefore, at having the boys at home again, was past, and all the young folk could give themselves up to the ecstasy which the day itself afforded.

"Good-by, Roderick," said Miss Elizabeth Wilton to her brother. She came in in her neat traveling-dress, and surprised him over a late breakfast.

"Why, where are you off to?" he asked.

"Where am I off to? I'm going to town, of course."

"To town, in August! What do you mean, Lizzie?"

"You may well shrug your shoulders, and ask me what I mean. You, Roderick, are the cause. Your birthday comes to-morrow."

"Good gracious! And I had forgotten all about it."

"Well, the children remember it, and so do I. Good-by, Roderick. I'll be home again on Friday evening. I don't want to stay longer in that stifling London than I can help."

Miss Wilton took her departure, and Mr. Wilton stretched out his hand to the toast-rack, took a piece of toast which he absently broke in two, and once more buried his head in his Times. There were a good many interesting items of intelligence this morning, and Mr. Wilton was a keen politician. Between him, however, now, and the clearly printed type of the paper, came the vision of to-morrow. To-morrow – his birthday, and the day when everything was turned topsy-turvey, and the children and Chaos reigned supreme.

Mr. Wilton was a very affectionate father, but no one must think the worse of him for shrinking at this moment from the ordeal which lay before him. When the day came, he would throw himself into the fun, heart and soul – he would be the life of the rioters, the ringleader of the pleasure-seekers. He would do this, and he would enjoy himself, but in anticipation the prospect was not cheerful. He had forgotten all about his birthday; he had further made arrangements for to-morrow – he was to see a friend in the neighboring town; they were to lunch together, and discuss the autumn shooting. Afterward he had intended to ride some miles farther on and visit a lady, a certain Mrs. Gray, who had been a great friend of his wife's, and whom he had rather neglected of late. He had made all his plans; they were none of them vital, of course, and they could be postponed, but it was disagreeable to have to do this.

Mr. Wilton pushed his Times aside, rose from the breakfast-table and went out. He must order his horse and ride over at once to Quarchester, and put his friend off. How ridiculous if would sound to have to say, "My dear Furniss, the young ones are celebrating my birthday to-morrow, so I can't come."

Mr. Wilton stood on the gravel sweep, called a groom, gave the necessary directions, and looked around him. He was glad none of the children were about – he did not want to discuss the birthday until he felt in a better humor. What a good thing the children were employed elsewhere!

Just then, however, he heard a shrill childish laugh, and the next moment little Lucy, hotly pursued by fat Marjorie, dashed into view. Lucy rushed up to her father, clasped her arms round his legs and looked up into his face.

Marjorie panted up to her. "No, no, Lucy, you are unkind," she said. "It is wrong of you to run away like this, and when Miss Nelson is so sad, too."

"Hullo, Maggie, have you no word of greeting for me?" asked her father.

"Oh, father, I beg your pardon; I wanted to catch Lucy and bring her back to prayers. She's quite wild this morning; I expect it's because of the birthday being so near, but it does tease Miss Nelson so when the children don't come in quietly to prayers."

"Run into the house this moment, Lucy," said Mr. Wilton, in a tone which all the children immediately obeyed. "You stay, Maggie."

Lucy trotted off.

"Was I right in hearing you say, Maggie, that Miss Nelson was ill?"

"Not exactly ill, father, but she's fretting."

"Fretting? What about?"

Marjorie edged up to her father in the confidential way which made people take to her at once.

"It's her little sister's picture," she said. "A miniature, and it's – it's lost. It – it can't be found."

"I never knew Miss Nelson had a sister."

"Oh, yes; only she's dead – a dear little girl – she died a long time ago, and Miss Nelson is very fond of her miniature, and it's – it's lost!"

Just at this moment the groom appeared, leading Mr. Wilton's spirited bay mare.

"What a tragic face, Maggie," said her father, chucking her under the chin. "We must only trust that the picture is mislaid, not lost. Now, good-by, my dear, I am off to Quarchester."

As Mr. Wilton rode down the avenue he thought in a slightly contemptuous way of Marjorie's information.

"I do trust Miss Nelson is not too sentimental," he murmured. "Poor Maggie looked absolutely tragic over her governess's loss. I really was prepared to hear of some recent bereavement; but the loss of a miniature, and of course it is only mislaid! I do trust Miss Nelson is the right person to bring up a tender-hearted little thing like Maggie. Now, Ermengarde – Hullo! there is Ermengarde!"

Yes, just ahead of him, and quite unconscious that she was observed, walked Ermengarde in close confabulation with Susan Collins.

Mr. Wilton's brow darkened as he saw the two together.

"This is absolute carelessness on Miss Nelson's part," he said to himself. "She knows my wishes, and it is her business to see that Ermengarde obeys. I must have a very serious talk with Miss Nelson when I return home this afternoon, but I have no time to attend to the matter now. If I don't hurry, I shall miss seeing Furniss."

Mr. Wilton galloped quickly away, found his friend at home, and in conversation with him forgot all home worries. He forgot them so absolutely that he accepted an invitation to spend the day and dine. In consequence it was near midnight when he returned to Wilton Chase, and the fact that to-morrow was his birthday again absolutely escaped his memory.

CHAPTER IX.

FIVE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING

"Maggie, Maggie, wake up, I say!"

"Yes, who's there. I'm so sleepy. Oh, it's you, Eric. What do you want?"

"It's father's birthday, and the clock has just struck four. You promised you'd get up at four."

"Yes; but, oh dear me, I am so sleepy."

Marjorie yawned, and twisted about on her pillow.

"Are you sure it wasn't three that struck, Eric?"

"No, four; I counted the strokes. I thought you liked getting up early."

"So I do, but don't talk so loud, or you'll wake Ermie."

"Catch me wanting her to get up, cross old thing!"

"Eric, you are unkind, and Basil wouldn't like it."

"Bother Basil! what do I care? I say, Mag, are you going to pop out of bed?"

"I suppose so. Go outside the door and wait for me, Eric, and do be quiet."

Eric departed, whistling under his breath, and kicking his heels so restlessly that only the soundest sleeper could still remain in the land of dreams.

Marjorie rubbed her eyes, stretched herself, yawned, and finally, stimulated by threatening knocks of Eric's on the other side of the door, managed to tear herself away from her warm snug bed. She saw the sunlight streaming in through the closed window-curtains, but August though it was, this early hour of the morning was chilly, and Marjorie shivered as she tumbled not too tidily into her clothes. Eric would not give her time to take her usual cold plunge-bath, and she was decidedly of opinion that plans which looked delightful the night before are less alluring when viewed by the candid light of morning.

Marjorie was a hearty child in every way, hearty at work and at play, hearty, too, at sleep, and it was hard to be debarred of quite a third of her usual allowance. She dipped her face and neck, however, in cold water, which effectually woke her up, and when she had brushed out her thick hair, and knelt for a moment or two at her little bed to say her usual morning prayers, she felt quite cheerful, and joined Eric with her usual sunny good humored face.

"That's right," said Eric, clasping her hand. "Isn't the morning scrumptious? Not a bit of a cloud anywhere. Now let's be off to wake father."

"To wake father! at four o'clock in the morning! What do you mean, Eric?"

"It's twelve minutes past four, if it comes to that," said Eric. "You were an awful time getting into your clothes, Mag. And why shouldn't we wake father? It's his birthday. He will like us to wake him!"

Marjorie, however, judging from her own too recent experience, thought differently.

"It really is too early," she said. "He wouldn't like it a bit, and why should we vex father because it's his birthday?"

"You forget that he never is vexed with anything we do on his birthday," said Eric. "It's our day, and we couldn't be scolded, whatever we did. Do come along, Maggie; I have it all planned so jolly. Father is to come with us, and unmoor the boat, and help us to gather the water-lilies. Do come on, and don't waste the precious time. I tell you, father will like it."

Marjorie was very unselfish, but she was also easily persuaded, particularly by her chosen and special chum, Eric. Accordingly, after a little further demur, she consented to go with her brother to their father's room.

It was very still in the house, for not a servant as yet had thought of stirring. Eric pushed back the oak doors, which so effectually divided the nursery people from the grown ups.

"There you stay, you nasty things!" he said, hooking them back with an air of great triumph. "This is our day, and you can't keep us prisoners. Come along, Mag, I've broken the prison-bars."

Marjorie's own spirits were rising fast. After all, it was delicious to be up in the early morning. She was glad she had taken the trouble to get out of bed now.

The children ran down the wide corridor into which the best bedrooms opened. They paused at length outside their father's door. Here Marjorie once again grew a little pale, but Eric, with a look of resolution, turned the handle of the door and went in.

Marjorie followed him on tiptoe. Father's room was very large, and to the culprits who stood just inside the door, looked solemn and awe-inspiring. Even Eric felt a little subdued; the chamber seemed so vast, and the great four-poster, away by itself in an alcove, had a remote and unapproachable aspect. It was one thing to have a rollicking, merry, good-humored father to romp about with all day, and another to approach the solemn personage who reposed in the center of that bed.

"Let's come away," whispered Marjorie.

"Fudge!" retorted Eric. "It's father's birthday! It's our day! Come along – he can't be angry with us even if he wished."

Thus exhorted, but with many misgivings at her heart, Marjorie followed her brother across the big room and up the two steps which led to the alcove.

A picture of the children's mother hung over the mantelpiece. It was a very girlish picture, and represented a slim figure in a white dress, with a blue sash round her waist. The face was a little like Ermengarde's, but the eyes which looked down now at the two children had Marjorie's expression in them. There were other portraits of Mrs. Wilton in the house, later and more matronly portraits; but Marjorie liked this the best – the girlish mother seemed in touch with her youthful self.

"Do come away, Eric," she said again, and tears almost sprang to her eyes. It seemed cruel to wake father just to add to their own pleasure.

Eric, however, was not a boy to be lightly turned from his purpose. He had very little sentiment about him, and had stern ideas as to what he termed his rights. Father's birthday was the children's lawful day: on that day they were one and all of them kings, and the "king could do no wrong."

Accordingly this little king, with a somewhat withering glance at his sister, stepped confidently up to the big bed, raised himself on tiptoe, so as to secure a better view, and looked down with his chubby expectant face on his slumbering father.

It is all very well for the little folk, who are in bed and asleep as a rule between eight and nine in the evening, to feel lively and larky, and quite up to any holiday pranks at four o'clock on a summer's morning; but the older and less wise people who sometimes do not close their eyes until the small hours, are often just enjoying their deepest and sweetest slumbers about the time the sun likes to get up.

This was the case with Mr. Wilton. He had not arrived home until midnight – he had found some letters before him which must be replied to – he had even dipped into a book in which he was specially interested. Then his favorite spaniel Gyp had begun to howl in his kennel, and Mr. Wilton had gone out to see what was the matter.

So, from one cause or another, he had not laid his tired head on his pillow until one and two o'clock in the morning.

Therefore Mr. Wilton was now very sound asleep indeed, and not Eric's buzzing whispers nor Marjorie's cautious repentant "Hush – hush, Eric!" disturbed him in the very least.