Chapter Five.Ermine’s Inspiration.When his daughters were leaving the room that evening after dinner, Colonel St Quentin detained Madelene by an almost imperceptible gesture. On her side Madelene glanced at Ermine, and by the slightest possible turn of her eyelids recommended Ella to her care. None of this was lost upon the young lady.“Going to talk me over again,” she said to herself as she followed Ermine, “well, they’ll have plenty of opportunities of doing so before they’ve done with me, I’m afraid.”“Sit down for a minute or two, can’t you, my dear?” said her father, as Madelene stood beside him; “it fidgets me to see you standing. Surely Ermine can look after that child for a few minutes.”“Oh, yes,” Miss St Quentin replied, drawing a chair close to her father’s as she spoke.“It’s about her I want to speak of course,” Colonel St Quentin went on. “I have been thinking a great deal about her even in the hour or two since she came. What are we to do with her, Madelene?” Madelene could not help smiling a little at her father’s overwhelmed tone. He who had faced unmoved all the dangers and vicissitudes of a soldier’s life, who had not so many years ago borne with comparative equanimity the complete loss of all the fortune he could really call hisown, now seemed quite unnerved by what was surely but a most natural, not to say agreeable event, the return of his youngest child to her home.“Oh, papa, don’t worry about her,” she said. “Things will settle themselves, you’ll see. It is only the awkwardness of her sudden arrival that makes you feel uneasy about her. Shemustbe a nice child—she couldn’t be your daughter and poor Ellen’s—” since the death of her young stepmother, Miss St Quentin had half-unconsciously adopted the habit of speaking of her by her Christian name—“without having a true and good natureau fond.”“If she only were a child,” said her father, “but it strikes me pretty forcibly,” he went on, smiling a little, though rather grimly, in spite of himself, “that she is, and considers herself very decidedly a young woman. She’s very pretty too, and knows how to set herself off, that little black frock with those fal-de-rals, rosettes—what do you call ’em?”“Bows,” corrected Madelene.“Bows then—was very coquettishly managed.”“It was too old for her,” said Miss St Quentin decidedly. “And—not altogether good style for so young a girl as she really is. I fancy Mrs Robertson has left her a good deal to herself, of late especially. I think it was time she came to us, papa,” she added. “Indeed I only wish—” but she stopped.“That she had never left us—but don’t say it, Madelene. It’s no use, and—I don’t know that she would have been alive but for Phillis’s care.”“Perhaps not,” said Madelene. “Still, she is not like her mother—she has not that transparent look.” She did not say more, reserving to herself her private opinion that Ella was and always had been, her slight make notwithstanding, a most sturdy little person, for which indeed there was every precedent, as young Mrs St Quentin had been the only delicate member of her own family. “It may perhaps soften papa to think her not strong,” she said to herself.“Like her mother,” repeated Colonel St Quentin, “no, indeed. Ellen was the simplest, most gentle creature. I don’t suppose she ever gave two thoughts to herself in any way—appearance or anything else. Yet—oh Madelene, I do wish I had not married again!” he burst out with a sigh.“Papa?” said Madelene, and her tone sounded almost as if she were a little shocked. “I can’t quite understand how you can say so, or feel so, dear papa,” she went on, more softly. “When you say yourself, how perfectly sweet and gentle Ellen was—and not only sweet, sturdily true, and high-principled, even for our sakes, Ermie’s and mine, you should be glad we had such an influence as hers for the six or seven years she lived. I often think we don’t know how much we owe her.”“Yes,” said her father, “that is true, and I thank you for reminding me of it. If her own child had had the same advantage all might have been well. It has all gone wrong; the having to part with her for so long—and then my losses. Of course but for that I would probably have had her home sooner, but I could not bear you girls to have all the expenses of her education, and the running about with her to mild climates if the winter happened to be severe, as well as your poor old father on your hands!”“Papa—I did not know you had thought of it that way,” said Madelene, rather sadly. “It makes me feel as if we really have something to make up for to poor little Ella.”“No—don’t begin fancying that,” he said quietly. “There were other reasons, too—my health for a time; and then Phillis was able and willing. I wish I hadn’t said it. For of all things I dread your spoiling Ella. And don’t sacrifice yourselves to her for my sake in any way, I entreat you, my dear child.”He looked up anxiously.Madelene smiled as she replied, though in her heart she sighed. Colonel St Quentin was not a selfish man, in intention even less so than in deed. Andthesacrifice, a sacrifice of some years’ duration already, which his eldest daughter had made to him, he suspected as little as she desired that he should.“You needn’t be afraid, papa,” she said. “For her own sake it would bewrongto spoil her.”“But there’s spoiling and spoiling,” he went on. “In her place now, she should go on studying for some time. You know, Madelene, sheshouldbe prepared for contingencies. She may have to work for her living; there is no saying.”“Only in case of both Ermine and me dying,” said Madelene calmly. “And that, to say the least, is notprobable. Besides—we might easily increase our life insurance, papa?”“No, no, nothing of the kind,” said Colonel St Quentin excitedly. “I won’t have you crippling your income any more—do you hear, Madelene? If such an awful catastrophe happened as your both dying before me—well,surelyit would kill me?” he said. “Though such things don’t kill! But there would be enough for me, as much as I have deserved, after mismanaging my own money.”“It wasn’t your fault, papa.Everybodysays so,” his daughter replied. “I do wish you wouldn’t speak of it that way.”“But besides that,” Colonel St Quentin went on, “there are other and less terrible possibilities. If you married, Madelene, you and Ermine, and of course that may happen any day, though I know you are both of you rather, what the French calldifficile—your husbands might not, naturally enough—care about being saddled with a little half-sister-in-law, even if he consented to the pensioning off of the old man himself.”“Papa,” said Madelene again, but this time her tone was really stern, “you pain me indescribably, really indescribably, by speaking so. Anything reasonable—anything, really for Ella’s good, you may depend on our carrying out. But you cannot expect us to sympathise with you when you become, I must say, really morbid on this subject.”Colonel St Quentin was silent for a moment or two. He sat, shading his face with his hand, so that Madelene could not judge as to his expression.“There is another view of the case, too,” said Madelene. “Ella is very attractive. Why shouldshenot marry? Surely there are some few men in the world who don’t look out for heiresses.”“Perhaps,” said her father. “Well yes, I suppose we may allow that is a possibility. Still—that brings in complications too—there must be no sailing under false colours, and it would be so natural for her to be credited with her share of your fortunes by strangers. No, Madelene, till she is old enough to understand the whole—and I agree with you that till she has come really toknowyou and Ermine, it may be best to avoid explanations—I think the less society she sees the better. And one outlay I will not object to for her—let her have a few thoroughly good lessons, the best you can get; it will give her occupation, and at the same time fit her to be independent—should the worst come to the worst so to speak?”“Very well,” said Madelene. “I agree with you, that it will be good for her to have occupation—”“And make her useful—practically useful, so far as you possibly can,” interrupted her father again.“Very well,” she said again. “But, papa dear, as far as ‘the worst’s coming’ in any sense except that Ermie and I might die—is to be taken into account, do dismiss it for ever. Wecouldn’tmarry men who would look at things in the way you put it. You wouldn’t wish us to marry selfish brutes, papa?”And Colonel St Quentin was forced to smile.Then Madelene and he joined the two others in the drawing-room.“Can we not have a little music?” said Colonel St Quentin, a minute or two latter. “Ella, my dear, you play I suppose—or do you sing?”His tone was kindlier again. Madelene’s spirits rose. She thought her talk with her father had done good. She went towards the piano and opened it, glancing smilingly at her young sister.Ella was seated on a low chair in a corner of the room—the light of a lamp fell on her face and bright hair. It struck Madelene that she looked paler than on her first arrival.“Will you play something, Ella?” she said, “or are you perhaps too tired?”“I am not the least tired, thank you,” the girl replied, “but I hate playing. I never practise, on that account.”“Upon my word,” muttered Colonel St Quentin.“Do you sing then?” Ermine interposed, quickly. Ella hesitated.“Your mother—mamma,” said Madelene, using purposely the old name for her stepmother, “mamma sang beautifully.”Ella turned towards her.“Do you meanmyown mother?” she asked coldly.“Of course,” Madelene replied. “I said so.” Colonel St Quentin moved impatiently.“Why can you not answer Ermine’s question simply, Ella?” he said. “And why do you speak to Madelene in that tone? It is, to say the least, very questionable taste to accentuate in that way the fact that you and your sisters had not the same mother. And—if no one has told you so before,Itell you now that your mother, my second wife, loved my two elder daughters as if they had been her own, and her best wish for you was that you might resemble them. Where you have got these vulgar notions about half-sisters and so on—I see you are full of them—I can’t conceive. Is it from your Aunt Phillis?”“No-o,” Ella replied, a little startled apparently by her father’s vehemence. “I did not intend to say anything to annoy you,” she added.“But about the singing?” Ermine said again.“Yes,” said Ella, “I do sing a little. I like it better than playing. I will try to sing if you—if papa wishes it.”Her tone was humble—almost too much so. There was a kind of obtrusive dutifulness about it that was rather irritating. Still Madelene gave her credit for having put some force on herself to keep down her temper.“Shall I play a little in the first place?” Miss St Quentin said, seating herself at the piano as she spoke.Madelene played beautifully, though her style was very quiet. Ella rose gently from her seat and came nearer her; she stood silent and motionless till the last soft notes had died away.“That is lovely, most lovely,” she said, her whole face and manner changing. “I should love the piano if I could play like that.”“You must love music, I suspect,” Madelene replied. “Perhaps it is the actual mechanical part of playing that has discouraged you.”“I have bad hands for it,” said Ella, looking at her very little fingers, as she spoke.“You have peculiarly small ones,” said her sister; “that is like mamma. Still she managed to play very charmingly. Now what will you sing? I dare say we have some of your songs.”Ella opened a book of songs and ran through its contents.“Yes,” she said, “there are one or two of mine here. Perhaps,” she added more timidly, “they are some that mamma sang, as Aunt Phillis chose them. I will try this if you like,” and she pointed to what had been in fact one of Mrs St Quentin’s special favourites.It was a simple enough song, calling for no great execution, still, though the observation may sound absurd, it was a song depending for its beauty on the voice of the singer. And Ella’s young voice suited it perfectly. There was complete silence till she ended. Then a slight sigh from her father made her glance at him.“I remember that well,” he said. “It is very sweet, very sweet. Thank you, my dear.”“You have been very well taught it seems to me, Ella,” said Madelene, “and you have a charming voice. It is a pleasure to accompany you. Still it would be well for you to accompany yourself sometimes—you must keep up your playing too.”“She must have lessons in both,” said Colonel St Quentin decidedly.Ella pouted.“I hate playing,” she repeated.“Don’t be childish,” said her father sharply. “The question is not of your likes or dislikes. It is of what your capacities are. It seems to me you have taste for music and it is only common-sense in your — for everybody to cultivate their best powers.”“I like singing,” Ella said. “But I don’t see that I need beforcedto play if I don’t want to go on with it. It isn’t as if I were going to be a governess.”“You would probably get to like it better after a while,” said Ermine. “No one could have had more difficulty with the mechanical part of it than I, for though my hands are not small, my fingers are what is called ‘tight.’ But I am so glad now that I didn’t give it up, for though I can’t play like Maddie, I can join her in duets.”“Much more than that,” said Madelene. “But, Ella, I am sure you are tired. Don’t you think you had better go to bed? It is nearly ten. I feel rather tired myself, somehow.”Ella rose, with again her air of obtrusive submissiveness. The truth was she was desperately tired—and longing to go to bed, but she would have thought it beneath her dignity to allow it.“I am not at all sleepy, thank you,” she said, “but of course I am quite ready to go.”And she turned to bid her father good-night, with a little formal manner that would have been amusing had it not, under the circumstances, been very irritating.“Good-night, papa. Come, Ermine, you are not to sit up any longer either. We are all rather tired,” said Madelene with a little intentional peremptoriness which Ermine understood, though Ella glanced at her with surprise.“Iwouldn’t be ordered about like that, atherage,” thought the youngest sister.Colonel St Quentin kissed his elder daughters in silence, but just as Madelene, who was the last to leave the room, got to the door, she heard him sigh, and despite her resolution of not talking things over any more that night, she could not resist turning back for a moment.“What is it, papa?” she said gently.“Oh, nothing much, my dear,” he replied. “I am only afraid we are going to have trouble with that child. I don’t understand her. You and Ermine never were like that—yet she is lovable too if she would allow herself to be so.”“Yes—I think so too, but, papa, don’t think so much about her. She will fall into her place.”“She should never have been out of it. It is that I am blaming myself for,” he replied.Madelene hurried up stairs after her sisters. They were just at the door of Ella’s room—“the nursery”—when she overtook them. Ermine opened it—the candles were already lighted and Stevens was arranging some of Ella’s belongings. It looked a pleasant and cosy room now, even the slightly faded air of the furniture rather added to its comfort. No one, save a most perversely prejudiced person could have found any reason to complain of such quarters. But a very perversely prejudiced person Ella was, it is to be feared, fast becoming.She sat down in the capacious, old-fashioned armchair, covered with the same faded chintz as that of the window-curtains, and looked about her.“Well,” she ejaculated, “I wonder what Aunt Phillis would say, if she saw me here. Here in the oldnursery! After eleven years’ exile from my rightful home, this is the best they can give me.”Her glance fell on the toilet-glass—it was a large, handsome one, which Madelene had directed the housemaids to put in place of the smaller one really belonging to the room. The candles were lighted, two on the mantelpiece not far from where Ella was sitting, and two on the dressing-table, and the girl’s face and surroundings were clearly reflected. She had loosened her hair and put on a little white jacket—and as she caught sight of herself, her face in the glass, looking even paler than in reality, her eyes sad and wistful, she wondered what her own reflection reminded her of. Suddenly she started—“I know,” she thought, “I know what it is. I look exactly like that picture of Cinderella in themuséeat Nantes that aunt and I went to see last year. I didn’t think I could ever look so pretty,” and she smiled with a little inward satisfaction. But the smile faded, and a look of perplexity replaced it. The sight of the old room, once so familiar, though since so entirely forgotten, was beginning to vaguely awaken memories of her past childhood. And the association of the pretty French picture helped to bring one special scene to her recollection.“Yes,” she said to herself, “I do remember—Harvey was sitting on this very chair, I do believe, with me on her knee, and there were picture books strewed about. And she told me the story of Cinderella, that was it, and there is a confused remembrance in my mind of thinking I was like her, the third sister, though at that time, of course, I knew nothing of half-sisters or stepmothers. Still, after all, I haven’t a stepmother—Madelene and Ermine had that, but they don’t seem to have suffered from it. I suppose my mother was a gentle, angelic sort of—goose—” Here Ella, to do her justice, felt a little shocked at herself. “I shouldn’t say that exactly. But she must have given in to them in everything—about sending me away after her death no doubt, for she couldn’t havewishedme to be expatriated Poor mamma. It would have been better for me, no doubt, if I had had more of her nature, but as I haven’t—”Then she sighed and glanced round the room again, while her mind reverted to her sisters’ spacious quarters.“It is very queer,” she thought, “that I should have remembered about Harvey and the picture to-night. It was like a sort of vision of my life and position—only—I fear there is no chance of the prince ever finding his way to me. Madelene and Ermine wouldn’t let him! I wonder why they are not married themselves, for they are very good-looking. But Madelene’s manner is so forbidding, and most likely she wouldn’t allow Ermine to marry before her. Ermine is quite under her thumb. Ah, well—it is rather melancholy to feel so lonely in my own home. I wish I could have found poor old Harvey here again.”For Ella cherished roseate remembrances of her former nurse, whom, in point of fact, she could only recollect as a name. Harvey had left Mrs Robertson’s service, happily for the child she had the care of, very few months after Ella went to live with her aunt.Miss St Quentin and Ermine, the former’s protestations of fatigue notwithstanding, had not been able to resist a few minutes’ confidential talk.“You are not to stay, Ermie, you really mustn’t,” said Madelene. “I am tired—it is not nonsense, and I want to be as bright and fresh as possible to-morrow morning, for I foresee papa is going to be rather—worried—about Ella. And it is so bad for him.”“It will be very stupid of him if he really takes it that way,” said Ermine. “He will say, of course, that it is foroursakes, whereas the only part of it we really—or, at least, principally—mind ishisfeeling it painfully. And after all, it’swrong, really wrong to make a trouble out of it—of having our own sister to live with us, where she should always have been.”“That’s the whole trouble in the matter,” said Madelene. “If she had always been here it would have been all right and natural.”“She’s very pretty,” said Ermine, after a moment or two’s silence, “and she has evidently a good deal of character.”“Witness her running away from her aunt’s,” interrupted Madelene.“Well, after all, I confess to some sympathy with her there,” Ermine went on. “But I am afraid she has a very fiery temper, Maddie.”“Fiery, perhaps, but I hope not sulky or ungenerous,” said Madelene. “The difficulty will be to carry out papa’s wishes without rousing her ill-will. He is so determined that we are not to spoil her, and, in some ways, no doubt, sheisspoilt already, and it will make it much more difficult to—at all put her back, as it were. I quite agree with papa about giving her plenty of occupation; she has lots of energy and I fancy she is clever.”“She sings so sweetly,” said Ermine musingly; “indeed, she is charming in many ways, or might be, if she would. I could love her very much if she would be nice and sensible. But there is truth in papa’s view of it—it is an awkward position. Madelene,” she exclaimed suddenly, “an idea has just struck me. Why shouldn’t Ella marry Philip?”“That child!” Madelene replied. “My dear Ermie—”“She won’t always be a child—indeed, she is not one now. Lots of girls marry at eighteen—we ourselves haven’t married young, but that is no rule for Ella.”“No—I didn’t mean that,” said Madelene. “I don’t quite know what I meant. The person that Philip should marry has always seemed a sort of myth, and to turn her into little Ella, somehow—”“Struck you all of a heap,” said Ermine laughing. “You are not given to inspirations like me, Maddie. I have great faith in my inspirations. Think this one over, now. Why shouldn’t it do? It would perfectly delight papa, it would put her in a position such as neither you nor I expect for ourselves—and we would not be jealous, would we? I should love to think mamma’s child was safe and happy—and—”“But the wealth and the position would not make her either safe or happy,” began Madelene—“Of course not,” Ermine interrupted with some impatience. “It is Philip himself I am thinking the most of, you might know. Where could she have a better husband?”“Yes,” said Madelene, though doubtfully still, “I know Philip is as good and reliable as he can be. But—he is lazy, Ermie, andlaissez allerin some ways. I have always hoped he would marry some one who would have great influence on him and bring out the best of him—some woman of real character and energy.”“Philip wouldn’t marry that kind of person,” said Ermine, smiling. “I can see her in my mind’s eye—a sort of Gertrude Winchester, only better-looking, I hope.”“I was thinking of no one in particular,” said Madelene in a slightly aggrieved tone.“Or if he did,” Ermine went on, “it would be the worst possible thing for him. He would leave everything to her and let her manage his affairs, and he would grow lazier than ever.”“Aunt Anna manages his affairs as it is,” said Madelene.“But in quite a different way. She keeps him as well as them up to the mark, and she is always anxious to put more and more into his hands. And I think a young wife would rouse him and make him feel his responsibilities better than anything. And I am sure Ella is clever, and energetic—her energy we have already seen some proof of. Oh, I do wish they would fall in love with each other!”“Yes,” said Madelene, “it’s just as well you have remembered to put that unimportant detail in at the end. I thought you were leavingitout altogether.”“Maddie, you’re rather cross, and you’re not fair on me. You know I am only too romantic in my ideas I think it is frightful for people to marry if they don’t care for each other. And Philip I am sure would not do such a thing, and I don’t think little Ella would.”Madelene sat thinking.“It might be very nice,” she said at last. “I think perhaps you’re right about Philip’s character—only—Ermie, I’m afraid Ella has really a bad temper,” and she looked up anxiously.“Notbad, quick and hot perhaps, but that’s different, and she is in many ways very young still.”“Well—” said Madelene, getting up as she spoke “we must go to bed, Ermie. And—I certainly don’t want anything of the kind just yet; papa would be horrified. We must do as he wishes, and try to make Ella please him. I shall have to see about masters for her. I wonder if Viénot still comes over to Weevilscoombe?—Philip certainly can scarcely helpadmiringElla.”
When his daughters were leaving the room that evening after dinner, Colonel St Quentin detained Madelene by an almost imperceptible gesture. On her side Madelene glanced at Ermine, and by the slightest possible turn of her eyelids recommended Ella to her care. None of this was lost upon the young lady.
“Going to talk me over again,” she said to herself as she followed Ermine, “well, they’ll have plenty of opportunities of doing so before they’ve done with me, I’m afraid.”
“Sit down for a minute or two, can’t you, my dear?” said her father, as Madelene stood beside him; “it fidgets me to see you standing. Surely Ermine can look after that child for a few minutes.”
“Oh, yes,” Miss St Quentin replied, drawing a chair close to her father’s as she spoke.
“It’s about her I want to speak of course,” Colonel St Quentin went on. “I have been thinking a great deal about her even in the hour or two since she came. What are we to do with her, Madelene?” Madelene could not help smiling a little at her father’s overwhelmed tone. He who had faced unmoved all the dangers and vicissitudes of a soldier’s life, who had not so many years ago borne with comparative equanimity the complete loss of all the fortune he could really call hisown, now seemed quite unnerved by what was surely but a most natural, not to say agreeable event, the return of his youngest child to her home.
“Oh, papa, don’t worry about her,” she said. “Things will settle themselves, you’ll see. It is only the awkwardness of her sudden arrival that makes you feel uneasy about her. Shemustbe a nice child—she couldn’t be your daughter and poor Ellen’s—” since the death of her young stepmother, Miss St Quentin had half-unconsciously adopted the habit of speaking of her by her Christian name—“without having a true and good natureau fond.”
“If she only were a child,” said her father, “but it strikes me pretty forcibly,” he went on, smiling a little, though rather grimly, in spite of himself, “that she is, and considers herself very decidedly a young woman. She’s very pretty too, and knows how to set herself off, that little black frock with those fal-de-rals, rosettes—what do you call ’em?”
“Bows,” corrected Madelene.
“Bows then—was very coquettishly managed.”
“It was too old for her,” said Miss St Quentin decidedly. “And—not altogether good style for so young a girl as she really is. I fancy Mrs Robertson has left her a good deal to herself, of late especially. I think it was time she came to us, papa,” she added. “Indeed I only wish—” but she stopped.
“That she had never left us—but don’t say it, Madelene. It’s no use, and—I don’t know that she would have been alive but for Phillis’s care.”
“Perhaps not,” said Madelene. “Still, she is not like her mother—she has not that transparent look.” She did not say more, reserving to herself her private opinion that Ella was and always had been, her slight make notwithstanding, a most sturdy little person, for which indeed there was every precedent, as young Mrs St Quentin had been the only delicate member of her own family. “It may perhaps soften papa to think her not strong,” she said to herself.
“Like her mother,” repeated Colonel St Quentin, “no, indeed. Ellen was the simplest, most gentle creature. I don’t suppose she ever gave two thoughts to herself in any way—appearance or anything else. Yet—oh Madelene, I do wish I had not married again!” he burst out with a sigh.
“Papa?” said Madelene, and her tone sounded almost as if she were a little shocked. “I can’t quite understand how you can say so, or feel so, dear papa,” she went on, more softly. “When you say yourself, how perfectly sweet and gentle Ellen was—and not only sweet, sturdily true, and high-principled, even for our sakes, Ermie’s and mine, you should be glad we had such an influence as hers for the six or seven years she lived. I often think we don’t know how much we owe her.”
“Yes,” said her father, “that is true, and I thank you for reminding me of it. If her own child had had the same advantage all might have been well. It has all gone wrong; the having to part with her for so long—and then my losses. Of course but for that I would probably have had her home sooner, but I could not bear you girls to have all the expenses of her education, and the running about with her to mild climates if the winter happened to be severe, as well as your poor old father on your hands!”
“Papa—I did not know you had thought of it that way,” said Madelene, rather sadly. “It makes me feel as if we really have something to make up for to poor little Ella.”
“No—don’t begin fancying that,” he said quietly. “There were other reasons, too—my health for a time; and then Phillis was able and willing. I wish I hadn’t said it. For of all things I dread your spoiling Ella. And don’t sacrifice yourselves to her for my sake in any way, I entreat you, my dear child.”
He looked up anxiously.
Madelene smiled as she replied, though in her heart she sighed. Colonel St Quentin was not a selfish man, in intention even less so than in deed. Andthesacrifice, a sacrifice of some years’ duration already, which his eldest daughter had made to him, he suspected as little as she desired that he should.
“You needn’t be afraid, papa,” she said. “For her own sake it would bewrongto spoil her.”
“But there’s spoiling and spoiling,” he went on. “In her place now, she should go on studying for some time. You know, Madelene, sheshouldbe prepared for contingencies. She may have to work for her living; there is no saying.”
“Only in case of both Ermine and me dying,” said Madelene calmly. “And that, to say the least, is notprobable. Besides—we might easily increase our life insurance, papa?”
“No, no, nothing of the kind,” said Colonel St Quentin excitedly. “I won’t have you crippling your income any more—do you hear, Madelene? If such an awful catastrophe happened as your both dying before me—well,surelyit would kill me?” he said. “Though such things don’t kill! But there would be enough for me, as much as I have deserved, after mismanaging my own money.”
“It wasn’t your fault, papa.Everybodysays so,” his daughter replied. “I do wish you wouldn’t speak of it that way.”
“But besides that,” Colonel St Quentin went on, “there are other and less terrible possibilities. If you married, Madelene, you and Ermine, and of course that may happen any day, though I know you are both of you rather, what the French calldifficile—your husbands might not, naturally enough—care about being saddled with a little half-sister-in-law, even if he consented to the pensioning off of the old man himself.”
“Papa,” said Madelene again, but this time her tone was really stern, “you pain me indescribably, really indescribably, by speaking so. Anything reasonable—anything, really for Ella’s good, you may depend on our carrying out. But you cannot expect us to sympathise with you when you become, I must say, really morbid on this subject.”
Colonel St Quentin was silent for a moment or two. He sat, shading his face with his hand, so that Madelene could not judge as to his expression.
“There is another view of the case, too,” said Madelene. “Ella is very attractive. Why shouldshenot marry? Surely there are some few men in the world who don’t look out for heiresses.”
“Perhaps,” said her father. “Well yes, I suppose we may allow that is a possibility. Still—that brings in complications too—there must be no sailing under false colours, and it would be so natural for her to be credited with her share of your fortunes by strangers. No, Madelene, till she is old enough to understand the whole—and I agree with you that till she has come really toknowyou and Ermine, it may be best to avoid explanations—I think the less society she sees the better. And one outlay I will not object to for her—let her have a few thoroughly good lessons, the best you can get; it will give her occupation, and at the same time fit her to be independent—should the worst come to the worst so to speak?”
“Very well,” said Madelene. “I agree with you, that it will be good for her to have occupation—”
“And make her useful—practically useful, so far as you possibly can,” interrupted her father again.
“Very well,” she said again. “But, papa dear, as far as ‘the worst’s coming’ in any sense except that Ermie and I might die—is to be taken into account, do dismiss it for ever. Wecouldn’tmarry men who would look at things in the way you put it. You wouldn’t wish us to marry selfish brutes, papa?”
And Colonel St Quentin was forced to smile.
Then Madelene and he joined the two others in the drawing-room.
“Can we not have a little music?” said Colonel St Quentin, a minute or two latter. “Ella, my dear, you play I suppose—or do you sing?”
His tone was kindlier again. Madelene’s spirits rose. She thought her talk with her father had done good. She went towards the piano and opened it, glancing smilingly at her young sister.
Ella was seated on a low chair in a corner of the room—the light of a lamp fell on her face and bright hair. It struck Madelene that she looked paler than on her first arrival.
“Will you play something, Ella?” she said, “or are you perhaps too tired?”
“I am not the least tired, thank you,” the girl replied, “but I hate playing. I never practise, on that account.”
“Upon my word,” muttered Colonel St Quentin.
“Do you sing then?” Ermine interposed, quickly. Ella hesitated.
“Your mother—mamma,” said Madelene, using purposely the old name for her stepmother, “mamma sang beautifully.”
Ella turned towards her.
“Do you meanmyown mother?” she asked coldly.
“Of course,” Madelene replied. “I said so.” Colonel St Quentin moved impatiently.
“Why can you not answer Ermine’s question simply, Ella?” he said. “And why do you speak to Madelene in that tone? It is, to say the least, very questionable taste to accentuate in that way the fact that you and your sisters had not the same mother. And—if no one has told you so before,Itell you now that your mother, my second wife, loved my two elder daughters as if they had been her own, and her best wish for you was that you might resemble them. Where you have got these vulgar notions about half-sisters and so on—I see you are full of them—I can’t conceive. Is it from your Aunt Phillis?”
“No-o,” Ella replied, a little startled apparently by her father’s vehemence. “I did not intend to say anything to annoy you,” she added.
“But about the singing?” Ermine said again.
“Yes,” said Ella, “I do sing a little. I like it better than playing. I will try to sing if you—if papa wishes it.”
Her tone was humble—almost too much so. There was a kind of obtrusive dutifulness about it that was rather irritating. Still Madelene gave her credit for having put some force on herself to keep down her temper.
“Shall I play a little in the first place?” Miss St Quentin said, seating herself at the piano as she spoke.
Madelene played beautifully, though her style was very quiet. Ella rose gently from her seat and came nearer her; she stood silent and motionless till the last soft notes had died away.
“That is lovely, most lovely,” she said, her whole face and manner changing. “I should love the piano if I could play like that.”
“You must love music, I suspect,” Madelene replied. “Perhaps it is the actual mechanical part of playing that has discouraged you.”
“I have bad hands for it,” said Ella, looking at her very little fingers, as she spoke.
“You have peculiarly small ones,” said her sister; “that is like mamma. Still she managed to play very charmingly. Now what will you sing? I dare say we have some of your songs.”
Ella opened a book of songs and ran through its contents.
“Yes,” she said, “there are one or two of mine here. Perhaps,” she added more timidly, “they are some that mamma sang, as Aunt Phillis chose them. I will try this if you like,” and she pointed to what had been in fact one of Mrs St Quentin’s special favourites.
It was a simple enough song, calling for no great execution, still, though the observation may sound absurd, it was a song depending for its beauty on the voice of the singer. And Ella’s young voice suited it perfectly. There was complete silence till she ended. Then a slight sigh from her father made her glance at him.
“I remember that well,” he said. “It is very sweet, very sweet. Thank you, my dear.”
“You have been very well taught it seems to me, Ella,” said Madelene, “and you have a charming voice. It is a pleasure to accompany you. Still it would be well for you to accompany yourself sometimes—you must keep up your playing too.”
“She must have lessons in both,” said Colonel St Quentin decidedly.
Ella pouted.
“I hate playing,” she repeated.
“Don’t be childish,” said her father sharply. “The question is not of your likes or dislikes. It is of what your capacities are. It seems to me you have taste for music and it is only common-sense in your — for everybody to cultivate their best powers.”
“I like singing,” Ella said. “But I don’t see that I need beforcedto play if I don’t want to go on with it. It isn’t as if I were going to be a governess.”
“You would probably get to like it better after a while,” said Ermine. “No one could have had more difficulty with the mechanical part of it than I, for though my hands are not small, my fingers are what is called ‘tight.’ But I am so glad now that I didn’t give it up, for though I can’t play like Maddie, I can join her in duets.”
“Much more than that,” said Madelene. “But, Ella, I am sure you are tired. Don’t you think you had better go to bed? It is nearly ten. I feel rather tired myself, somehow.”
Ella rose, with again her air of obtrusive submissiveness. The truth was she was desperately tired—and longing to go to bed, but she would have thought it beneath her dignity to allow it.
“I am not at all sleepy, thank you,” she said, “but of course I am quite ready to go.”
And she turned to bid her father good-night, with a little formal manner that would have been amusing had it not, under the circumstances, been very irritating.
“Good-night, papa. Come, Ermine, you are not to sit up any longer either. We are all rather tired,” said Madelene with a little intentional peremptoriness which Ermine understood, though Ella glanced at her with surprise.
“Iwouldn’t be ordered about like that, atherage,” thought the youngest sister.
Colonel St Quentin kissed his elder daughters in silence, but just as Madelene, who was the last to leave the room, got to the door, she heard him sigh, and despite her resolution of not talking things over any more that night, she could not resist turning back for a moment.
“What is it, papa?” she said gently.
“Oh, nothing much, my dear,” he replied. “I am only afraid we are going to have trouble with that child. I don’t understand her. You and Ermine never were like that—yet she is lovable too if she would allow herself to be so.”
“Yes—I think so too, but, papa, don’t think so much about her. She will fall into her place.”
“She should never have been out of it. It is that I am blaming myself for,” he replied.
Madelene hurried up stairs after her sisters. They were just at the door of Ella’s room—“the nursery”—when she overtook them. Ermine opened it—the candles were already lighted and Stevens was arranging some of Ella’s belongings. It looked a pleasant and cosy room now, even the slightly faded air of the furniture rather added to its comfort. No one, save a most perversely prejudiced person could have found any reason to complain of such quarters. But a very perversely prejudiced person Ella was, it is to be feared, fast becoming.
She sat down in the capacious, old-fashioned armchair, covered with the same faded chintz as that of the window-curtains, and looked about her.
“Well,” she ejaculated, “I wonder what Aunt Phillis would say, if she saw me here. Here in the oldnursery! After eleven years’ exile from my rightful home, this is the best they can give me.”
Her glance fell on the toilet-glass—it was a large, handsome one, which Madelene had directed the housemaids to put in place of the smaller one really belonging to the room. The candles were lighted, two on the mantelpiece not far from where Ella was sitting, and two on the dressing-table, and the girl’s face and surroundings were clearly reflected. She had loosened her hair and put on a little white jacket—and as she caught sight of herself, her face in the glass, looking even paler than in reality, her eyes sad and wistful, she wondered what her own reflection reminded her of. Suddenly she started—
“I know,” she thought, “I know what it is. I look exactly like that picture of Cinderella in themuséeat Nantes that aunt and I went to see last year. I didn’t think I could ever look so pretty,” and she smiled with a little inward satisfaction. But the smile faded, and a look of perplexity replaced it. The sight of the old room, once so familiar, though since so entirely forgotten, was beginning to vaguely awaken memories of her past childhood. And the association of the pretty French picture helped to bring one special scene to her recollection.
“Yes,” she said to herself, “I do remember—Harvey was sitting on this very chair, I do believe, with me on her knee, and there were picture books strewed about. And she told me the story of Cinderella, that was it, and there is a confused remembrance in my mind of thinking I was like her, the third sister, though at that time, of course, I knew nothing of half-sisters or stepmothers. Still, after all, I haven’t a stepmother—Madelene and Ermine had that, but they don’t seem to have suffered from it. I suppose my mother was a gentle, angelic sort of—goose—” Here Ella, to do her justice, felt a little shocked at herself. “I shouldn’t say that exactly. But she must have given in to them in everything—about sending me away after her death no doubt, for she couldn’t havewishedme to be expatriated Poor mamma. It would have been better for me, no doubt, if I had had more of her nature, but as I haven’t—”
Then she sighed and glanced round the room again, while her mind reverted to her sisters’ spacious quarters.
“It is very queer,” she thought, “that I should have remembered about Harvey and the picture to-night. It was like a sort of vision of my life and position—only—I fear there is no chance of the prince ever finding his way to me. Madelene and Ermine wouldn’t let him! I wonder why they are not married themselves, for they are very good-looking. But Madelene’s manner is so forbidding, and most likely she wouldn’t allow Ermine to marry before her. Ermine is quite under her thumb. Ah, well—it is rather melancholy to feel so lonely in my own home. I wish I could have found poor old Harvey here again.”
For Ella cherished roseate remembrances of her former nurse, whom, in point of fact, she could only recollect as a name. Harvey had left Mrs Robertson’s service, happily for the child she had the care of, very few months after Ella went to live with her aunt.
Miss St Quentin and Ermine, the former’s protestations of fatigue notwithstanding, had not been able to resist a few minutes’ confidential talk.
“You are not to stay, Ermie, you really mustn’t,” said Madelene. “I am tired—it is not nonsense, and I want to be as bright and fresh as possible to-morrow morning, for I foresee papa is going to be rather—worried—about Ella. And it is so bad for him.”
“It will be very stupid of him if he really takes it that way,” said Ermine. “He will say, of course, that it is foroursakes, whereas the only part of it we really—or, at least, principally—mind ishisfeeling it painfully. And after all, it’swrong, really wrong to make a trouble out of it—of having our own sister to live with us, where she should always have been.”
“That’s the whole trouble in the matter,” said Madelene. “If she had always been here it would have been all right and natural.”
“She’s very pretty,” said Ermine, after a moment or two’s silence, “and she has evidently a good deal of character.”
“Witness her running away from her aunt’s,” interrupted Madelene.
“Well, after all, I confess to some sympathy with her there,” Ermine went on. “But I am afraid she has a very fiery temper, Maddie.”
“Fiery, perhaps, but I hope not sulky or ungenerous,” said Madelene. “The difficulty will be to carry out papa’s wishes without rousing her ill-will. He is so determined that we are not to spoil her, and, in some ways, no doubt, sheisspoilt already, and it will make it much more difficult to—at all put her back, as it were. I quite agree with papa about giving her plenty of occupation; she has lots of energy and I fancy she is clever.”
“She sings so sweetly,” said Ermine musingly; “indeed, she is charming in many ways, or might be, if she would. I could love her very much if she would be nice and sensible. But there is truth in papa’s view of it—it is an awkward position. Madelene,” she exclaimed suddenly, “an idea has just struck me. Why shouldn’t Ella marry Philip?”
“That child!” Madelene replied. “My dear Ermie—”
“She won’t always be a child—indeed, she is not one now. Lots of girls marry at eighteen—we ourselves haven’t married young, but that is no rule for Ella.”
“No—I didn’t mean that,” said Madelene. “I don’t quite know what I meant. The person that Philip should marry has always seemed a sort of myth, and to turn her into little Ella, somehow—”
“Struck you all of a heap,” said Ermine laughing. “You are not given to inspirations like me, Maddie. I have great faith in my inspirations. Think this one over, now. Why shouldn’t it do? It would perfectly delight papa, it would put her in a position such as neither you nor I expect for ourselves—and we would not be jealous, would we? I should love to think mamma’s child was safe and happy—and—”
“But the wealth and the position would not make her either safe or happy,” began Madelene—
“Of course not,” Ermine interrupted with some impatience. “It is Philip himself I am thinking the most of, you might know. Where could she have a better husband?”
“Yes,” said Madelene, though doubtfully still, “I know Philip is as good and reliable as he can be. But—he is lazy, Ermie, andlaissez allerin some ways. I have always hoped he would marry some one who would have great influence on him and bring out the best of him—some woman of real character and energy.”
“Philip wouldn’t marry that kind of person,” said Ermine, smiling. “I can see her in my mind’s eye—a sort of Gertrude Winchester, only better-looking, I hope.”
“I was thinking of no one in particular,” said Madelene in a slightly aggrieved tone.
“Or if he did,” Ermine went on, “it would be the worst possible thing for him. He would leave everything to her and let her manage his affairs, and he would grow lazier than ever.”
“Aunt Anna manages his affairs as it is,” said Madelene.
“But in quite a different way. She keeps him as well as them up to the mark, and she is always anxious to put more and more into his hands. And I think a young wife would rouse him and make him feel his responsibilities better than anything. And I am sure Ella is clever, and energetic—her energy we have already seen some proof of. Oh, I do wish they would fall in love with each other!”
“Yes,” said Madelene, “it’s just as well you have remembered to put that unimportant detail in at the end. I thought you were leavingitout altogether.”
“Maddie, you’re rather cross, and you’re not fair on me. You know I am only too romantic in my ideas I think it is frightful for people to marry if they don’t care for each other. And Philip I am sure would not do such a thing, and I don’t think little Ella would.”
Madelene sat thinking.
“It might be very nice,” she said at last. “I think perhaps you’re right about Philip’s character—only—Ermie, I’m afraid Ella has really a bad temper,” and she looked up anxiously.
“Notbad, quick and hot perhaps, but that’s different, and she is in many ways very young still.”
“Well—” said Madelene, getting up as she spoke “we must go to bed, Ermie. And—I certainly don’t want anything of the kind just yet; papa would be horrified. We must do as he wishes, and try to make Ella please him. I shall have to see about masters for her. I wonder if Viénot still comes over to Weevilscoombe?—Philip certainly can scarcely helpadmiringElla.”
Chapter Six.Lady Cheynes at Luncheon.“I don’t mind having some singing lessons,” said Ella, twisting round on the piano stool, where she had established herself for the sake of conveniently examining her sisters’ music, “but as for playing—it would be money thrown away, and however rich we are I don’t see any sense in that. I wouldn’t practise, for that would be waste of time too.”“But if papa wishes it—makes a point of it, in fact,” said Madelene.Ella was silent.“If it’s a duty—as obedience to papa—well, in that case I suppose I must give in,” she answered. “But I think it’s rather hard lines—at my age. Wereyouforced to go on with lessons when you thought you had done with them—you and Ermine?” she asked abruptly.“There would have been no ‘forcing’ required if we had known it was papa’s wish, even if we had disliked it,” said Miss St Quentin. “But the circumstances were quite different—”“I don’t see it,” muttered Ella.“And the present question is the thing to consider,” Madelene went on, taking no notice of Ella’s interruption. “All the same, I may tell you that at your age Ermine did not consider herself by any means grown-up or ‘out.’”Ella pricked up her ears.“But you do count me ‘out,’” she said eagerly. “I should by rights have been presented this year. Aunt Phillis said so, it was one of the things she regretted—this stupid marriage of hers coming in the way, I mean—for she could not bear the idea of my leaving her till—till I had to.”“You would not have been presented this year in any case,” said Miss St Quentin. “Seventeen is, with very rare exceptions, too young to come out.”“That means,” said Ella, “that I am still to be considered in the schoolroom, no, in the nursery, figuratively and literally.”“You will be with us at home—we are not thinking of getting a governess for you,” Madelene answered, smiling a little—she was full of determination not to let herself be put out by Ella—“but as for going out—to parties I mean—I don’t think papa will wish that for you at present. He is very anxious for you to have these lessons—French and German as well as music. And I think it would be a good thing for you to take some little charge in the house.”“I should like to take my share with you and Ermine now that I am here altogether,” said Ella, with dignity. “Do you mean taking week about of the housekeeping? Some sisters do that, I know.”Miss St Quentin had some difficulty in keeping her gravity.“No,” she said quietly. “I do not mean charge of that kind. You forget that to look after a large house like this, even with very good servants, takes a great deal of experience. I have had it to do more or less ever since I was younger than you, but it was not easy, I can assure you.”“Then why shouldn’t I begin now? If you and Ermine were married I might have to keep house for papa here. Why shouldn’t I begin to learn?” asked Ella.“It isn’t likely you would ever have to do that,” began Madelene. Then she hesitated. “I shall be glad to teach you what I can—but I think you should have some definite work in the house too. I was thinking you might take charge of the books in the library, dusting them and seeing that they are kept in order, for papa doesn’t like the servants to touch them. And I think he wants an addition to the catalogue made. And then, it would be a great help to Ermine if you looked after the flowers in the drawing-room every morning.”“Can’t the gardeners do that?” said Ella.“We have always superintended it ourselves,” said Madelene simply.Her reply rather disconcerted Ella. She wanted to be able to say to herself that the disagreeable work was to be put upon her; the things her sisters did not like doing themselves—but in the face of Madelene’s remark she could scarcely hint at anything of this kind. So, she said nothing, but sat vaguely turning over the leaves of the music-book before her. Suddenly the door opened—“Lady Cheynes,” said the servant.Madelene hastened to meet the new-comer, her face lighting up with pleasure.“Oh, Aunt Anna,” she exclaimed, “how nice of you! You have come to stay all day, I hope, at least to luncheon?”“To luncheon, well perhaps, but I must leave immediately after,” said the old lady, kissing her niece as she spoke. “And now—where is the child?” and she glanced round.“Ella,” said Madelene, “she was here an instant ago—can she have run off?”“Shy?” asked Lady Cheynes. Madelene smiled.“I don’t think so,” she said. “Ah, there you are,” she went on, as Ella appeared from the other side of a screen, where she had momentarily hidden herself. “Ella, Lady Cheynes remembers you, though I don’t think you remember her.”Ella raised her lovely eyes to the old lady’s face with a softer expression than Madelene had yet seen in them.“I am not quite sure of that,” she said very gently, “things are beginning to come back to me a little. I almost think Idoremember my—Lady Cheynes a very little.”The old lady laid her two hands on Ella’s shoulders and drew her forward a little.“Is she like her dear mother at all?” speaking half to herself and half to her niece.“I scarcely think so,” said Miss St Quentin softly.“Her voice is like Ellen’s,” Lady Cheynes went on, “and—yes, her eyes are like hers too. You must see it,” she added to Madelene.“I do,” Madelene replied, honestly, though truth to tell she had not before perceived it; “I quite see it now,” for the gentleness was still in Ella’s eyes.“God bless you, my child,” Lady Cheynes murmured, and she kissed Ella on the forehead; “I could not wish anything better for you than that you should be like your mother in every way, except that I hope you are stronger. And she looks so, does she not, Maddie?”“I don’t think she could possibly look better,” said Madelene. Ella glanced at her with a less amiable expression than that with which she had been favouring Lady Cheynes, but the visitor was loosening her mantle at that moment, and did not see it.“Of course they will make out that I am as strong as a horse,” the girl was saying to herself.“Where have you located her?” the old lady went on to ask. “The rooms you were intending for her can’t be ready.”“No,” said Madelene, “that is the worst of Ella’s unexpected arrival, and we couldn’t—papa did not wish her to be in the north side—so—”“I am in the nursery,” said Ella, meekly. “I am quite comfortable there.”“In the nursery,” repeated Lady Cheynes with a comical expression, “but I don’t expect you will stay there long, do you?”Ella looked down.“I don’t know,” she said. “It is quite a nice little room. Would Lady Cheynes like to see it, perhaps?” she asked demurely.Miss St Quentin felt at that moment more inclined to shake Ella than at any time since her arrival.“Why should my aunt wish to see it?” she said sharply. “You forget Ella, that she knew this house long before any of us were heard of. It was her own old home.”Ella’s eyes opened in genuine astonishment.“I didn’t know—I can’t understand,” she said. “Was your unmarried name St Quentin, then, god—Lady Cheynes I mean?”“No, for in that case I should beyouraunt, my dear, which I am not. All the same this was my home, for Coombesthorpe at that time belonged to my father. But why do you call me Lady Cheynes? Why not godmother, as in your letters?”Ella’s eyes sparkled. “That’s one for Madelene,” she would have said had she been acquainted with schoolboy language. “I wasn’t sure,” she began.“Don’t be afraid of putting the blame on me,” interrupted Madelene. “It was I, Aunt Anna, that told Ella it was better to call you by your name unless you wished her to do otherwise.”Lady Cheynes smiled.“Call me godmother then,” she said, “though I warn you, Ella, I mean to take all a godmother’s privileges. I shall—well—pet you if you are a good girl, but—I can scold too,” and she knitted her brows, without much effect however, as her bright eyes had plenty of fun in them.“I’m not afraid, godmother—not a bit,” said Ella laughing.“Why can she not be like that tous?” thought Madelene regretfully.“How did you know of Ella’s arrival?” she asked her aunt suddenly.“Through Philip, of course. And oh, by the by, I was to ask you if you will be at home this afternoon, if so, he will come over, but he is rather busy, and prefers not to chance it.”“I don’t think we can possibly be at home,” said Madelene. “I have to go to Weevilscoombe, and Ermine is going to drive over to Waire, to get the addresses of some masters for Ella. Papa is anxious that she should begin some regular occupation at once. But I do want to see Philip. May I drive back with you, Aunt Anna? and then I could easily walk to Weevilscoombe, and papa can meet me there—he has to go there too.”“By all means,” Lady Cheynes replied.Then there fell a little silence, which was broken by Madelene.“Ella,” she said, “I think you should not put off writing to your aunt, as papa said. You will be out all the afternoon.”Ella rose at once.“Shall I—may I write in the library?” she said meekly.“Of course,” Miss St Quentin replied.Lady Cheynes kept silence till Ella had closed the door behind her—then she turned quickly to her niece.“Now tell me all about it, Maddie,” she said. “Of course Philip didn’t know more than the mere fact. But I can see you are put out—I was anxious to hear all; that was why I hurried over. There can’t be much amiss however—the sight of the child has reassured me. She has quite won my heart already, and she seems most anxious to please you—ready to take your least hint.”Madelene hesitated before replying. She was unselfishly anxious for Ella to propitiate her godmother and really glad that the first impression had been so favourable. Yet—all things considered—it was a little hard upon her! It took some self-control to listen to Ella’s praises with perfect good temper.“I am sorry if I have seemed ‘put out,’ Aunt Anna,” she replied at last. “I am very glad indeed you are pleased with Ella, and I hope you will make papa a little happier about her. He isratherhard upon her perhaps—about her coming off as she did,” and Miss St Quentin went on to tell the story of Ella’s taking the law into her own hands, as she had done.Lady Cheynes listened attentively, smiling a little now and then.“Ah,” she said, “I understand. Yes, just the sort of thing to annoy Marcus. For my part, I don’t like the child the less for it. And she knows nothing of the real position of things. Philip and I were talking it all over last night, and he told me what he had said to you, and I agreed with it. Yes—the first thing to do is thoroughly to gain her confidence and affection—but that surely will not be difficult.”“It seems as if it should not be so, certainly,” said Madelene. “But you see, aunt, papa has taken up some ideas about Ella, very strongly. And we cannot oppose him, and yet I am so afraid of her thinking that it is we, not papa. Just as you came in I was trying to get her to agree to, or rather to like the idea of, these lessons. She has got some absurd notion in her head that Ermie and I are wanting to keep her down.”“She has been spoilt,” said the old lady decidedly. “But I am sure she has a good heart. It is to be hoped,” she added, “that Philip and she won’t see much of each other while she has these ideas about you and Ermine. He would be so angry that he would take a prejudice to her, and I should regret that.”“So should I,” said Madelene. “Perhaps,” she went on, after a little pause, “it will be as well if we just go on quietly by ourselves for a little. There are no gaieties in prospect at present, so the question of Ella’s ‘grown-up-ness’ need not be discussed, and if she is sensible and pleases papa about these lessons, he may perhaps relax a little after a while. I am not even altogether sorry,” she added, “much as we shall miss him, that Philip is to be away. In Ella’s present mood it would have been—a little difficult.”“He will be leaving very soon,” said Lady Cheynes, “but I must have him home by Christmas. You will let the child come over to me now and then, won’t you? I will undertake to do no harm, and I may be able to help you.”“Of course,” said Madelene heartily, “and if she shows her best side to you as I think she will, you will find her very charming. I think—I fancy she has a much more cordial feeling to you, aunt, than to us,” and Miss St Quentin could not help sighing a little.“All the better—in one sense, that is to say,” replied the old lady briskly. “If she were prejudiced against me too, it would be a bad look-out I can influence her far more if she fancies me impartial.”“Or partial—to her,” suggested Madelene smiling.“What does Mrs Robertson say to this escapade of Ella’s? You have heard from her?” asked Lady Cheynes.“Yes, there is a letter to papa this morning. She is very distressed about it of course, but her principal anxiety seems to be to exonerate Ella. She is dreadfully afraid, evidently, of its vexing papa with her, just at the first.”“Just what it has done,” said Lady Cheynes; and then they went on to talk of other matters.At luncheon Ella maintained the same quiet demure tone which amused even while it irritated Madelene. And though Lady Cheynes appeared to take it quite naturally, and even now and then rather acted the part of drawing out the timid little stranger, the twinkle in her bright old eyes from time to time convinced Miss St Quentin that Ella’s godmother knew what she was about.“And perhaps of us all,” thought Madelene, “she gauges Ella’s character the most correctly.”The thought in itself was a relief. Madelene no longer felt so perplexed and dispirited. She even could afford to smile, inwardly, at the sight of Ella’s preternaturally resigned expression and meek tone of voice when Ermine told her, rather sharply perhaps, to get ready for their drive, the pony-carriage being already at the door.“I beg your pardon,” Ella replied. “I did not know, at least not clearly, that you were going to be so kind as to take me a drive.”“I shall shake her well before long,” said Ermine, as she stood in the hall with her aunt and sister, waiting for the little delinquent. “I can stand her temper and impertinence,” laughing as she used the word. “It’s so absurd and comical. But I can’t stand her suffering-saint-ism. I really can’t.”“For my part I should think it’s the more amusing of the two,” said Lady Cheynes, “but then to be sure I have not yet been favoured with a sight of the little volcano’s explosions. When I have done so I’ll give you my opinion.”At that moment Ella made her appearance. She was dressed as on her arrival the day before, and as she bade the girl good-bye, kissing her as she did so, her godmother “took her in” from head to foot.“I think I have scarcely perhaps estimated the difficulties seriously enough,” said Lady Cheynes, when she and Madelene were installed in her carriage. “There is any amount of determination, not to say obstinacy, about that small personage. And she has certainly been spoilt. I see it more clearly. The style of her dress is far too old, even though one cannot call it showy, but it is a degree toosoigné, I hardly know how to express it, for a girl of seventeen. I like neatness of course, but that is quite a different thing.”“I fancy Ella has been allowed to give a great deal of time and thought to her appearance,” said Madelene. “But after all, there must come a stage of that kind, I suppose, in every girl’s life.”“Perhaps,” said her aunt. “But for my part I prefer it later. I do love a good honest tom-boy girl of fifteen or so.”“But Ella is seventeen past,” said Madelene; “that makes all the difference.”“Umph,” grunted the old lady. “I am quite sure she never was a tom-boy. Just think of Ermine at seventeen.”And Madelene could not help smiling.“Yes,” she agreed. “Ermine was very different, certainly. I remember how she cried at having her skirts lengthened, and tried privately to shorten them again. Still we must remember that Ella’s life has been quite different.”“You must make her dress more simply,” said Lady Cheynes. “Those tight-fitting garments without a crease or wrinkle, and perfect gloves, and pointed boots may be all very well in town, though for my part I don’t likethatsort of particularity carried too far; it takes off the thoroughbred look. But in the country it is absurd. Get her a brown holland frock or two, or a homespun with a nice little Norfolk jacket and a belt, and see that the skirts are shorter and that she has sensible boots.” Then an amused look stole over the old lady’s face.“What is it, Aunt Anna?” asked Madelene, without, it must be confessed, much amusement in her tone. Indeed she was looking and feeling decidedly lugubrious, the prospect of such a transformation of Ella’s wardrobe was appalling!“I was only thinking what fun Philip would make of her if he saw her setting off for a country ramble like a little figure out of theRevue de la Mode. That hat of hers, and the little veil, fastened just at the proper height, or depth, and the parasol, held so daintily, and—”“Oh, please stop, aunt,” said Madelene. “I don’t want Philip to make fun of her, I’m sure, but how to transform her, as you calmly propose,Idon’t see.” And poor Miss St Quentin really looked as if she were ready to cry.Lady Cheynes began to laugh, and her laugh gathered strength and soon became a hearty one.“My dear Maddie,” she said, “you have met your match. You, who are never put out or disturbed in your regal calm by anything or anybody! It is very wicked of me, but I can’t help laughing.”Madelene herself by this time could not help joining in it. They were both still somewhat hilarious therefore when, at the lodge gates of Cheynesacre they came upon Sir Philip. He threw away his cigar and got into the carriage beside them.“My dear friends,” he began. “My very much respected grandmamma, my admired cousin—I am enchanted, but at the same time, slightly, very slightly, surprised to see you indulging in such mirth. May I—dare I venture to inquire its cause?”Madelene only laughed the more, especially when Lady Cheynes turned upon Philip. “Don’t be so silly, Philip,” she said sharply; “why can’t you say plainly, ‘what are you laughing at’? Not that I am going to tell you, for I am not.”Philip turned his eyes plaintively on his cousin.“Nor you? Is it useless to appeal to you?”“Quite,” Madelene replied. “It is a private joke of auntie’s and mine. I have come round this way on purpose to see you, Philip, as you would not have found any of us at home to-day. I suppose it will be to say good-bye, as you are leaving so soon, I hear.”“I am leaving very soon, certainly,” he replied. “The day after to-morrow, probably. But I quite intend to come over to Coombesthorpe first. I want to say good-bye to Uncle Marcus and Ermine too.”“They are coming here to luncheon to-morrow,” said his grandmother promptly.“Oh, indeed,” said Sir Philip. “Well then if Maddie will invite me I will drive back with them to afternoon tea.”“I shall not be at home,” said Madelene.“Maddie,” said Philip reproachfully, “it is mean, it is unkind of you to force me to avow my real motive. The fact is—I am dying to see the third Miss St Quentin. Why is she not with you to-day? You might have some regard for my feelings.”“She has gone to Waire with Ermine,” said Lady Cheynes. “Madelene is arranging about her having lessons from the same masters as the little Hewitts at the rectory. And,” she went on, “they are nicely brought-up girls—they will be pleasant companions for Ella.”“Those gawky Hewitt children!” said Philip, with a complete change of tone. “Why I thought Ella was seventeen and quite a grown-up sort of person!”“She is seventeen,” said Lady Cheynes, calmly, “but some girls are grown-up at seventeen and others are children.”“Oh,” said Philip. “Well for my part, I don’t care about girls of the Hewitt type. I suppose then, that Mrs Robertson has kept her back—that she is what you call ‘quite in the schoolroom’ still.”“If you had heard what she said to me, you would suppose her still in thenursery, even,” replied his grandmother.“Then,” Philip remarked, “I think I will defer for the present my introduction to your sister, Madelene.”“Just as you please,” Miss St Quentin replied indifferently.But as they got out of the carriage, “I did not know,” she whispered, “that you could be so naughty, Aunt Anna.”
“I don’t mind having some singing lessons,” said Ella, twisting round on the piano stool, where she had established herself for the sake of conveniently examining her sisters’ music, “but as for playing—it would be money thrown away, and however rich we are I don’t see any sense in that. I wouldn’t practise, for that would be waste of time too.”
“But if papa wishes it—makes a point of it, in fact,” said Madelene.
Ella was silent.
“If it’s a duty—as obedience to papa—well, in that case I suppose I must give in,” she answered. “But I think it’s rather hard lines—at my age. Wereyouforced to go on with lessons when you thought you had done with them—you and Ermine?” she asked abruptly.
“There would have been no ‘forcing’ required if we had known it was papa’s wish, even if we had disliked it,” said Miss St Quentin. “But the circumstances were quite different—”
“I don’t see it,” muttered Ella.
“And the present question is the thing to consider,” Madelene went on, taking no notice of Ella’s interruption. “All the same, I may tell you that at your age Ermine did not consider herself by any means grown-up or ‘out.’”
Ella pricked up her ears.
“But you do count me ‘out,’” she said eagerly. “I should by rights have been presented this year. Aunt Phillis said so, it was one of the things she regretted—this stupid marriage of hers coming in the way, I mean—for she could not bear the idea of my leaving her till—till I had to.”
“You would not have been presented this year in any case,” said Miss St Quentin. “Seventeen is, with very rare exceptions, too young to come out.”
“That means,” said Ella, “that I am still to be considered in the schoolroom, no, in the nursery, figuratively and literally.”
“You will be with us at home—we are not thinking of getting a governess for you,” Madelene answered, smiling a little—she was full of determination not to let herself be put out by Ella—“but as for going out—to parties I mean—I don’t think papa will wish that for you at present. He is very anxious for you to have these lessons—French and German as well as music. And I think it would be a good thing for you to take some little charge in the house.”
“I should like to take my share with you and Ermine now that I am here altogether,” said Ella, with dignity. “Do you mean taking week about of the housekeeping? Some sisters do that, I know.”
Miss St Quentin had some difficulty in keeping her gravity.
“No,” she said quietly. “I do not mean charge of that kind. You forget that to look after a large house like this, even with very good servants, takes a great deal of experience. I have had it to do more or less ever since I was younger than you, but it was not easy, I can assure you.”
“Then why shouldn’t I begin now? If you and Ermine were married I might have to keep house for papa here. Why shouldn’t I begin to learn?” asked Ella.
“It isn’t likely you would ever have to do that,” began Madelene. Then she hesitated. “I shall be glad to teach you what I can—but I think you should have some definite work in the house too. I was thinking you might take charge of the books in the library, dusting them and seeing that they are kept in order, for papa doesn’t like the servants to touch them. And I think he wants an addition to the catalogue made. And then, it would be a great help to Ermine if you looked after the flowers in the drawing-room every morning.”
“Can’t the gardeners do that?” said Ella.
“We have always superintended it ourselves,” said Madelene simply.
Her reply rather disconcerted Ella. She wanted to be able to say to herself that the disagreeable work was to be put upon her; the things her sisters did not like doing themselves—but in the face of Madelene’s remark she could scarcely hint at anything of this kind. So, she said nothing, but sat vaguely turning over the leaves of the music-book before her. Suddenly the door opened—
“Lady Cheynes,” said the servant.
Madelene hastened to meet the new-comer, her face lighting up with pleasure.
“Oh, Aunt Anna,” she exclaimed, “how nice of you! You have come to stay all day, I hope, at least to luncheon?”
“To luncheon, well perhaps, but I must leave immediately after,” said the old lady, kissing her niece as she spoke. “And now—where is the child?” and she glanced round.
“Ella,” said Madelene, “she was here an instant ago—can she have run off?”
“Shy?” asked Lady Cheynes. Madelene smiled.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Ah, there you are,” she went on, as Ella appeared from the other side of a screen, where she had momentarily hidden herself. “Ella, Lady Cheynes remembers you, though I don’t think you remember her.”
Ella raised her lovely eyes to the old lady’s face with a softer expression than Madelene had yet seen in them.
“I am not quite sure of that,” she said very gently, “things are beginning to come back to me a little. I almost think Idoremember my—Lady Cheynes a very little.”
The old lady laid her two hands on Ella’s shoulders and drew her forward a little.
“Is she like her dear mother at all?” speaking half to herself and half to her niece.
“I scarcely think so,” said Miss St Quentin softly.
“Her voice is like Ellen’s,” Lady Cheynes went on, “and—yes, her eyes are like hers too. You must see it,” she added to Madelene.
“I do,” Madelene replied, honestly, though truth to tell she had not before perceived it; “I quite see it now,” for the gentleness was still in Ella’s eyes.
“God bless you, my child,” Lady Cheynes murmured, and she kissed Ella on the forehead; “I could not wish anything better for you than that you should be like your mother in every way, except that I hope you are stronger. And she looks so, does she not, Maddie?”
“I don’t think she could possibly look better,” said Madelene. Ella glanced at her with a less amiable expression than that with which she had been favouring Lady Cheynes, but the visitor was loosening her mantle at that moment, and did not see it.
“Of course they will make out that I am as strong as a horse,” the girl was saying to herself.
“Where have you located her?” the old lady went on to ask. “The rooms you were intending for her can’t be ready.”
“No,” said Madelene, “that is the worst of Ella’s unexpected arrival, and we couldn’t—papa did not wish her to be in the north side—so—”
“I am in the nursery,” said Ella, meekly. “I am quite comfortable there.”
“In the nursery,” repeated Lady Cheynes with a comical expression, “but I don’t expect you will stay there long, do you?”
Ella looked down.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It is quite a nice little room. Would Lady Cheynes like to see it, perhaps?” she asked demurely.
Miss St Quentin felt at that moment more inclined to shake Ella than at any time since her arrival.
“Why should my aunt wish to see it?” she said sharply. “You forget Ella, that she knew this house long before any of us were heard of. It was her own old home.”
Ella’s eyes opened in genuine astonishment.
“I didn’t know—I can’t understand,” she said. “Was your unmarried name St Quentin, then, god—Lady Cheynes I mean?”
“No, for in that case I should beyouraunt, my dear, which I am not. All the same this was my home, for Coombesthorpe at that time belonged to my father. But why do you call me Lady Cheynes? Why not godmother, as in your letters?”
Ella’s eyes sparkled. “That’s one for Madelene,” she would have said had she been acquainted with schoolboy language. “I wasn’t sure,” she began.
“Don’t be afraid of putting the blame on me,” interrupted Madelene. “It was I, Aunt Anna, that told Ella it was better to call you by your name unless you wished her to do otherwise.”
Lady Cheynes smiled.
“Call me godmother then,” she said, “though I warn you, Ella, I mean to take all a godmother’s privileges. I shall—well—pet you if you are a good girl, but—I can scold too,” and she knitted her brows, without much effect however, as her bright eyes had plenty of fun in them.
“I’m not afraid, godmother—not a bit,” said Ella laughing.
“Why can she not be like that tous?” thought Madelene regretfully.
“How did you know of Ella’s arrival?” she asked her aunt suddenly.
“Through Philip, of course. And oh, by the by, I was to ask you if you will be at home this afternoon, if so, he will come over, but he is rather busy, and prefers not to chance it.”
“I don’t think we can possibly be at home,” said Madelene. “I have to go to Weevilscoombe, and Ermine is going to drive over to Waire, to get the addresses of some masters for Ella. Papa is anxious that she should begin some regular occupation at once. But I do want to see Philip. May I drive back with you, Aunt Anna? and then I could easily walk to Weevilscoombe, and papa can meet me there—he has to go there too.”
“By all means,” Lady Cheynes replied.
Then there fell a little silence, which was broken by Madelene.
“Ella,” she said, “I think you should not put off writing to your aunt, as papa said. You will be out all the afternoon.”
Ella rose at once.
“Shall I—may I write in the library?” she said meekly.
“Of course,” Miss St Quentin replied.
Lady Cheynes kept silence till Ella had closed the door behind her—then she turned quickly to her niece.
“Now tell me all about it, Maddie,” she said. “Of course Philip didn’t know more than the mere fact. But I can see you are put out—I was anxious to hear all; that was why I hurried over. There can’t be much amiss however—the sight of the child has reassured me. She has quite won my heart already, and she seems most anxious to please you—ready to take your least hint.”
Madelene hesitated before replying. She was unselfishly anxious for Ella to propitiate her godmother and really glad that the first impression had been so favourable. Yet—all things considered—it was a little hard upon her! It took some self-control to listen to Ella’s praises with perfect good temper.
“I am sorry if I have seemed ‘put out,’ Aunt Anna,” she replied at last. “I am very glad indeed you are pleased with Ella, and I hope you will make papa a little happier about her. He isratherhard upon her perhaps—about her coming off as she did,” and Miss St Quentin went on to tell the story of Ella’s taking the law into her own hands, as she had done.
Lady Cheynes listened attentively, smiling a little now and then.
“Ah,” she said, “I understand. Yes, just the sort of thing to annoy Marcus. For my part, I don’t like the child the less for it. And she knows nothing of the real position of things. Philip and I were talking it all over last night, and he told me what he had said to you, and I agreed with it. Yes—the first thing to do is thoroughly to gain her confidence and affection—but that surely will not be difficult.”
“It seems as if it should not be so, certainly,” said Madelene. “But you see, aunt, papa has taken up some ideas about Ella, very strongly. And we cannot oppose him, and yet I am so afraid of her thinking that it is we, not papa. Just as you came in I was trying to get her to agree to, or rather to like the idea of, these lessons. She has got some absurd notion in her head that Ermie and I are wanting to keep her down.”
“She has been spoilt,” said the old lady decidedly. “But I am sure she has a good heart. It is to be hoped,” she added, “that Philip and she won’t see much of each other while she has these ideas about you and Ermine. He would be so angry that he would take a prejudice to her, and I should regret that.”
“So should I,” said Madelene. “Perhaps,” she went on, after a little pause, “it will be as well if we just go on quietly by ourselves for a little. There are no gaieties in prospect at present, so the question of Ella’s ‘grown-up-ness’ need not be discussed, and if she is sensible and pleases papa about these lessons, he may perhaps relax a little after a while. I am not even altogether sorry,” she added, “much as we shall miss him, that Philip is to be away. In Ella’s present mood it would have been—a little difficult.”
“He will be leaving very soon,” said Lady Cheynes, “but I must have him home by Christmas. You will let the child come over to me now and then, won’t you? I will undertake to do no harm, and I may be able to help you.”
“Of course,” said Madelene heartily, “and if she shows her best side to you as I think she will, you will find her very charming. I think—I fancy she has a much more cordial feeling to you, aunt, than to us,” and Miss St Quentin could not help sighing a little.
“All the better—in one sense, that is to say,” replied the old lady briskly. “If she were prejudiced against me too, it would be a bad look-out I can influence her far more if she fancies me impartial.”
“Or partial—to her,” suggested Madelene smiling.
“What does Mrs Robertson say to this escapade of Ella’s? You have heard from her?” asked Lady Cheynes.
“Yes, there is a letter to papa this morning. She is very distressed about it of course, but her principal anxiety seems to be to exonerate Ella. She is dreadfully afraid, evidently, of its vexing papa with her, just at the first.”
“Just what it has done,” said Lady Cheynes; and then they went on to talk of other matters.
At luncheon Ella maintained the same quiet demure tone which amused even while it irritated Madelene. And though Lady Cheynes appeared to take it quite naturally, and even now and then rather acted the part of drawing out the timid little stranger, the twinkle in her bright old eyes from time to time convinced Miss St Quentin that Ella’s godmother knew what she was about.
“And perhaps of us all,” thought Madelene, “she gauges Ella’s character the most correctly.”
The thought in itself was a relief. Madelene no longer felt so perplexed and dispirited. She even could afford to smile, inwardly, at the sight of Ella’s preternaturally resigned expression and meek tone of voice when Ermine told her, rather sharply perhaps, to get ready for their drive, the pony-carriage being already at the door.
“I beg your pardon,” Ella replied. “I did not know, at least not clearly, that you were going to be so kind as to take me a drive.”
“I shall shake her well before long,” said Ermine, as she stood in the hall with her aunt and sister, waiting for the little delinquent. “I can stand her temper and impertinence,” laughing as she used the word. “It’s so absurd and comical. But I can’t stand her suffering-saint-ism. I really can’t.”
“For my part I should think it’s the more amusing of the two,” said Lady Cheynes, “but then to be sure I have not yet been favoured with a sight of the little volcano’s explosions. When I have done so I’ll give you my opinion.”
At that moment Ella made her appearance. She was dressed as on her arrival the day before, and as she bade the girl good-bye, kissing her as she did so, her godmother “took her in” from head to foot.
“I think I have scarcely perhaps estimated the difficulties seriously enough,” said Lady Cheynes, when she and Madelene were installed in her carriage. “There is any amount of determination, not to say obstinacy, about that small personage. And she has certainly been spoilt. I see it more clearly. The style of her dress is far too old, even though one cannot call it showy, but it is a degree toosoigné, I hardly know how to express it, for a girl of seventeen. I like neatness of course, but that is quite a different thing.”
“I fancy Ella has been allowed to give a great deal of time and thought to her appearance,” said Madelene. “But after all, there must come a stage of that kind, I suppose, in every girl’s life.”
“Perhaps,” said her aunt. “But for my part I prefer it later. I do love a good honest tom-boy girl of fifteen or so.”
“But Ella is seventeen past,” said Madelene; “that makes all the difference.”
“Umph,” grunted the old lady. “I am quite sure she never was a tom-boy. Just think of Ermine at seventeen.”
And Madelene could not help smiling.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Ermine was very different, certainly. I remember how she cried at having her skirts lengthened, and tried privately to shorten them again. Still we must remember that Ella’s life has been quite different.”
“You must make her dress more simply,” said Lady Cheynes. “Those tight-fitting garments without a crease or wrinkle, and perfect gloves, and pointed boots may be all very well in town, though for my part I don’t likethatsort of particularity carried too far; it takes off the thoroughbred look. But in the country it is absurd. Get her a brown holland frock or two, or a homespun with a nice little Norfolk jacket and a belt, and see that the skirts are shorter and that she has sensible boots.” Then an amused look stole over the old lady’s face.
“What is it, Aunt Anna?” asked Madelene, without, it must be confessed, much amusement in her tone. Indeed she was looking and feeling decidedly lugubrious, the prospect of such a transformation of Ella’s wardrobe was appalling!
“I was only thinking what fun Philip would make of her if he saw her setting off for a country ramble like a little figure out of theRevue de la Mode. That hat of hers, and the little veil, fastened just at the proper height, or depth, and the parasol, held so daintily, and—”
“Oh, please stop, aunt,” said Madelene. “I don’t want Philip to make fun of her, I’m sure, but how to transform her, as you calmly propose,Idon’t see.” And poor Miss St Quentin really looked as if she were ready to cry.
Lady Cheynes began to laugh, and her laugh gathered strength and soon became a hearty one.
“My dear Maddie,” she said, “you have met your match. You, who are never put out or disturbed in your regal calm by anything or anybody! It is very wicked of me, but I can’t help laughing.”
Madelene herself by this time could not help joining in it. They were both still somewhat hilarious therefore when, at the lodge gates of Cheynesacre they came upon Sir Philip. He threw away his cigar and got into the carriage beside them.
“My dear friends,” he began. “My very much respected grandmamma, my admired cousin—I am enchanted, but at the same time, slightly, very slightly, surprised to see you indulging in such mirth. May I—dare I venture to inquire its cause?”
Madelene only laughed the more, especially when Lady Cheynes turned upon Philip. “Don’t be so silly, Philip,” she said sharply; “why can’t you say plainly, ‘what are you laughing at’? Not that I am going to tell you, for I am not.”
Philip turned his eyes plaintively on his cousin.
“Nor you? Is it useless to appeal to you?”
“Quite,” Madelene replied. “It is a private joke of auntie’s and mine. I have come round this way on purpose to see you, Philip, as you would not have found any of us at home to-day. I suppose it will be to say good-bye, as you are leaving so soon, I hear.”
“I am leaving very soon, certainly,” he replied. “The day after to-morrow, probably. But I quite intend to come over to Coombesthorpe first. I want to say good-bye to Uncle Marcus and Ermine too.”
“They are coming here to luncheon to-morrow,” said his grandmother promptly.
“Oh, indeed,” said Sir Philip. “Well then if Maddie will invite me I will drive back with them to afternoon tea.”
“I shall not be at home,” said Madelene.
“Maddie,” said Philip reproachfully, “it is mean, it is unkind of you to force me to avow my real motive. The fact is—I am dying to see the third Miss St Quentin. Why is she not with you to-day? You might have some regard for my feelings.”
“She has gone to Waire with Ermine,” said Lady Cheynes. “Madelene is arranging about her having lessons from the same masters as the little Hewitts at the rectory. And,” she went on, “they are nicely brought-up girls—they will be pleasant companions for Ella.”
“Those gawky Hewitt children!” said Philip, with a complete change of tone. “Why I thought Ella was seventeen and quite a grown-up sort of person!”
“She is seventeen,” said Lady Cheynes, calmly, “but some girls are grown-up at seventeen and others are children.”
“Oh,” said Philip. “Well for my part, I don’t care about girls of the Hewitt type. I suppose then, that Mrs Robertson has kept her back—that she is what you call ‘quite in the schoolroom’ still.”
“If you had heard what she said to me, you would suppose her still in thenursery, even,” replied his grandmother.
“Then,” Philip remarked, “I think I will defer for the present my introduction to your sister, Madelene.”
“Just as you please,” Miss St Quentin replied indifferently.
But as they got out of the carriage, “I did not know,” she whispered, “that you could be so naughty, Aunt Anna.”