A very little girl was sitting on the rug in front of a brightly burning
fire. She was amusing herself with picture books, a number of which
were scattered about her, but her small face was flushed, her eyes were
heavy, and she seemed restless and dissatisfied. She was suffering from
a very bad cold.
"I can't read, and I can't see the picshures," she said complainingly,
"my eyes hurts, and my head too. You read to me, Harvey."
The nurse to whom she spoke was busied in putting away the breakfast
things.
"You must wait a bit, Miss Ella. I've got ever so many things to do
this morning."
Ella looked far from pleased.
"Things must wait, not me," she said imperiously. "Mamma always reads
to me this minute."
"Your mamma's ill, Miss Ella; and when there's illness in the house
there's plenty for everybody to do without wasting one's time over
nonsense."
Ella's face grew scarlet with anger.
"'Tisn't nonsense," she said; "I'm ill too. I've got a cold, and you
should amoose me."
But before Harvey had time to reply, except by a short laugh, the door
opened, and both the occupants of the nursery looked round to see who
was there. A young girl of thirteen or fourteen, but with something in
her air and manner which made her seem older, came in quickly. She was
tall and slight, and though very plainly dressed, one could not have
passed her by without noticing her.
"Harvey," she said, and her tone, though not ungentle, was cold and even
a very little haughty, "how is Miss Ella to-day? Mrs St Quentin is
very anxious about her."
Harvey glanced round with a sort of affectation of indifference that was
irritating.
"There's not the least need in the world to be anxious, miss," she said.
"The child's got a cold, like everybody else in this changeable
weather. There was no need for her mamma to hear nothing about it."
The girl looked at her still more severely.
"It is your fault that she has a cold, and you know it," she said. "She
was out far too late the day before yesterday. I certainly do not wish
Mrs St Quentin to be troubled, but if you are not more careful I shall
speak to my father; I warn you plainly." Ella had been listening
open-mouthed to this discussion, and in the interest of it had forgotten
her own tribulations. She got up from the floor, and moved by the
generous childish impulse of defending the oppressed, resenting too,
perhaps, that her sister had taken no direct notice of her since
entering the room, she ran to Harvey and caught hold of her hand.
"Naughty Maddie," she said, "you're not to scold poor Harvey; I don't
like you, Maddie. Go away; I'll tell mamma."
Madelene glanced at the little girl, opened her lips as if to speak, but
closed them again.
"If she is kind to Ella it is a good thing, I suppose, and perhaps I
should not have said anything before the child," was the reflection that
rapidly passed through her mind.
"You don't understand, Ella dear," she said quietly, and with unusual
self-control, though her fair face coloured a little. "I am very glad
that you don't like Harvey to be scolded."
And without saying more, she left the room.
"`Scolded' indeed, by a upsetting piece of goods like her. Very fine,
Miss Madelene, but you're not mistress yet, nor never shall be to _me_,
I can promise you," muttered Harvey.
But Ella was clinging to her.
"You must read to me now," the child urged. "I'm very good to you,
Harvey. I wouldn't let sister Maddie scold you, so you should be nice
to me."
A slight and not pleasant smile crossed the maid's face.
"Come along then, Miss Ella," she said. "If you'll be very good and not
worrit-worrit if I'm out of your sight for half a minute, I'll read to
you for a little. What is it you want?"
She seated herself comfortably in a rocking chair by the fire, and took
the child on her knee.
"Here now," she said, carelessly picking up the first picture book that
came to hand, "I'll read you some of these nursery rhymes--`Little Boy
Blue.'"
"No," said Ella crossly, "I don't like singy stories. Read me real
ones. `Laddin's' very nice." But Harvey's eyes had caught sight of
another of the bright-coloured books.
"Oh, no," she exclaimed, with a little malicious laugh, "we'll have
`Cinderella,' Miss Ella. `Cinderella, Miss Ella,' there's a rhyme for
you! It's like your name, and she's like you too. She had two big
sisters, and her mamma was--" Here she coughed and stopped short.
"Her mamma was dead. I know the story," put in Ella, "_my_ mamma isn't
dead, so it isn't like me. You're talking nonsense, Harvey," and she
pushed the book aside and began to wriggle about impatiently.
"I'm not talking nonsense," said Harvey sharply. "Just listen now, Miss
Ella. Cinderella had two big sisters, and they were very cross to her--
at least not always perhaps, but pretty often, and they'd come and scold
for nothing at all."
"Like Maddie this morning," said Ella; "but it wasn't me she scolded.
It was you. The story isn't like me; you're very silly, Harvey."
Harvey began to lose her temper; she was not going to be called "silly"
even by a baby.
"Just you take care what you say, Miss Ella," she said roughly, "you
don't know anything about it. The story doesn't say the big sisters
were bad to her when she was a little girl like you. But some day
you'll grow up and be a young lady, and then you'll see. How would you
like to have all the dirty work to do and old shabby clothes to wear,
while Miss Maddie and Miss Ermie went flaunting about in silks and
satins and feathers?"
And as she spoke she opened the book at one of the pictures, where the
sisters were arraying themselves for the ball, while sweet Cinderella
crouched forlorn in a corner.
Ella stared at the book with an attention she had never before bestowed
upon it, her face very solemn indeed. Suddenly her expression changed.
"No," she said, "it's not like me and Maddie and Ermie. _Her_ sisters
are very ugly, and they've horrid black curls. Maddie and Ermie aren't
ugly, and they haven't nasty cross faces. No; they'd never be so
naughty," and she looked up in triumph, though there was a little quaver
of anxiety in her voice still.
"Oh, very well," said Harvey, "if you're so fond of your sisters as all
that, however unkind they are to poor Harvey--"
"I didn't say _you_--I think Maddie was very naughty to scold you, dear
Harvey. I only said they wouldn't be so c'uel to me if I was big--not
like these _piggy_ sisters in the book," said Ella, using the strongest
language in her repertory.
"Oh, well, you're not big yet. Perhaps you'll wish for poor Harvey all
the same some day, though you don't care for her now. Of course poor
Harvey's only a servant, and Miss Maddie and Miss Ermie are grand, rich
young ladies."
"And I shall be a grand, rich young lady too," said Ella.
Harvey only laughed.
Ella grew very excited.
"Harvey, say I shall be. You _must_ say it," she repeated, shaking the
maid's arm.
"Miss Ella, for shame. What a little fury you are. How can I say what
you'll be? You should be a grand, rich young lady if _I_ was your
sister, but I can't speak for others."
"What do you mean?" cried Ella. "_Mamma_ will let me be a grand young
lady. Maddie and Ermie aren't over mamma. Harvey, do you hear?"
"Hush," said the nurse, suddenly changing her tone, "your mamma's very
ill, Miss Ella, and if you make such a noise they'll all think you very
naughty. I was only joking--of course you'll be a beautiful young lady
too, some day."
But Ella was not to be so easily smoothed down.
"You weren't joking," she said resentfully. "I'll ask Maddie if it's
true," and she began to scramble down. "I'll take the book and tell her
you said it was like me and them."
Harvey caught hold of her.
"If you do, Miss Ella," she said, "you'll get such a scolding as you've
never had in your life. And I'll be sent away--you'll see--and it'll be
all your fault." Ella stopped short.
"Then why did you say it to me?" she asked, for she was a clever and
quick-witted child.
"Oh, well--I shouldn't have said it. When you're older you'll
understand better, darling. You see Harvey loves you so--she'd like you
to be the eldest and have everything like a little princess. The
_third's_ never the same--and Harvey doesn't like to think of her Miss
Ella coming in for the old clothes and the leavings, and the worst of it
all, so to say."
Ella had calmed down now, but she sat listening intently with a
startled, uneasy look, painful to see on her pretty little face.
"But mamma won't let me have the shabby old clothes, _mamma_ loves me
too, Harvey," she persisted.
"Yes, yes--but poor mamma's very ill. But never mind, darling. While
Harvey's here no one shall put upon you, and then there's your Auntie
Phillis. _She_ loves my Miss Ella, that she does."
"Auntie's not here," said the child.
"No, but may be she'll come some day soon," said Harvey mysteriously,
"only don't you say I said so. You don't want to get poor Harvey
scolded again, do you, darling?"
"No," said Ella, but that was all, and when Harvey kissed her, though
she submitted quietly, she did not in any way return the caress.
Then she got down from her nurse's knee and collected her picture books
together, and put them away.
"Sha'n't I read anything to you? There's lots of other pretty stories,"
Harvey asked.
"No," said Ella again, "I don't like no stories."
And once or twice during that day, even Harvey was startled, and a
little conscience-stricken at the expression on the child's face.
That same morning in a pretty sitting-room on the ground floor of the
house, Madelene St Quentin and her sister Ermine were reading, or rather
preparing some lessons together, when the door opened and an elderly
lady in walking dress came in. Madelene started to her feet.
"Oh, Aunt Anna," she exclaimed, "I am so glad you have come. I have
felt so fidgety all the morning, I couldn't settle to anything. It is
so good of you to have come over again so early."
"I promised you I would, my dear," the new-comer replied. "I knew you
would be anxious to see me after your father being with us last night."
"You had a long talk with mamma first, and then you and papa had time to
consider it all?" said Madelene, "oh, I do hope--"
Lady Cheynes interrupted her.
"I will tell you all about it," she said, "but first tell me--how is
poor Ellen this morning? Had she a good night?"
Madelene shook her head.
"Not very, I'm afraid. It is so provoking--with all our care to save
her anxiety--last night when Ella was taken to say good-night to her,
mamma found out in an instant that the child had a cold, and she has
been worrying about it ever since. I spoke as severely as I could to
Harvey this morning. Of course it is all her fault."
Lady Cheynes in her turn shook her head.
"Of course it is her fault. But I am afraid it is no use for you to say
anything, my dear Maddie. It is a vicious circle. Ellen's faith in
Harvey must not be destroyed, for it could only be done at a terrible
risk to your poor mother--and yet the more Harvey is left to herself the
more and more she presumes upon it."
"I am not quite sure of that, Aunt Anna," said Madelene. "There must be
good in Harvey, I hope--Ella is very fond of her."
Lady Cheynes tapped the umbrella she held in her hand, impatiently on
the floor. She was a small, handsome old lady, scarcely indeed old in
point of years, but looking so, thanks to her white hair and the style
of dress she affected. She was never seen except in black, but black of
the richest, though as she had not changed the fashion of her garments
since her widowhood some thirty years ago, she had something quaint and
old-world-like about her, decidedly pleasing however when combined with
freshness of material and exquisite neatness of finish. She had bright
dark eyes, and delicate features. A very attractive old lady, but
somewhat awe-inspiring nevertheless.
"Rubbish, Maddie," she said sharply. "I don't mean," she hastened to
add, "that there is no good in the woman. If so, she would be a fiend.
But as for the child being fond of her--that says nothing; people talk a
good deal of nonsense about children's innate discernment. There is
nothing so easy as to humbug a child--up to a certain point, that's to
say. Harvey can easily wheedle Ella into fancying herself fond of her,
when it suits the woman's purpose. But at bottom I doubt if the child
does care for her."
"Ella has a generous nature," said Madelene.
"Yes," Ermine agreed, speaking for the first time; "she always flies up
in defence of any one she thinks ill-used."
Lady Cheynes glanced across the room at the last speaker.
"I did not notice you were there, Ermie," she said abruptly, "Philip is
kicking his heels somewhere about. Suppose you go out and look for him?
The two of you can entertain each other for half an hour or so while I
talk to Madelene. It's no secrets--you needn't feel hurt. But I never
have been and never shall be able to talk comfortably _a trois_."
Ermine got up from her place at the table and moved towards the door,
turning a laughing face to Lady Cheynes as she did so.
"My feelings offended, auntie!" she said. "That would be something new,
wouldn't it? Now do make a nice and gratifying little speech to me for
once."
Lady Cheynes smiled at Ermine as she left the room.
"I wish Ella were as good tempered as Ermie," said she, with a sigh.
"The child is very spoilt; that is the worst of it. And that brings me
to what you are so anxious about, my dear."
"Yes?" said Madelene eagerly, her face flushing, and her large soft eyes
lighting up.
But her aunt hesitated. She knew the extreme disappointment her next
words must convey, and though her manner was abrupt, her heart was
tender and sympathising.
"It is no use, Maddie. I said everything I could think of yesterday to
poor Ellen. And your father, as we know, agrees with us. But of course
he _cannot_ but give in now to that poor child of a wife of his. It
would be brutal not to do so."
Madelene did not speak, but her eyes filled with tears.
"Oh, auntie," she said at last.
"You must be _truly_ unselfish, my dear, and not take it to heart too
much."
"I had thought it would have been a comfort to poor mamma, for she has
been very good to Ermine and me. I think--I do think, considering she
has had us herself since we were quite little, that she might trust us,"
said Madelene in a tremulous voice.
"She does--thoroughly," said Lady Cheynes, "don't make it more painful
for yourself by any doubts of that kind, my dear child. And there is
reason in what she says, too. Ellen is not a foolish woman."
"No," said Madelene, "I did not mean--"
"You are very young, you know, my dear, though older than your years.
And even as it is, things will not be easy for you. That is what poor
Ellen feels. There is your father--it is very hard upon him, still a
young man, to be a second time left a widower. And he will never marry
again--not a third time."
Madelene started. Her aunt patted her hand gently.
"Don't be shocked at my alluding to such a possibility," she said. "I
know your father and Ellen would like you to understand all. So much
hangs on you, Maddie. It is to you Ellen confides your father, and that
is one of her great reasons for wishing the child to be away. It would
be too much upon you. I see that myself. You would have to get a
first-rate nursery-governess, or some one of that kind, or, worst of
all, you might be bound to keep Harvey."
"But Harvey will stay with her as it is--stay and do her best to poison
our little sister against us," said Madelene. "For you see, aunt, the--
the position will be rather an awkward one afterwards, when we are all
grown-up, I mean. And Ella must come back to her own home, some time."
"If she lives," said Lady Cheynes, "but that is another point. Ellen
may be fanciful--I hardly agree with her myself; her own illness seems
to me accidental. Her family is strong, but, rightly or wrongly, she
thinks Ella very delicate. And Mrs Robertson lives in a mild climate
and would take the child abroad if necessary. In that way there is
something to be said in favour of the plan."
"Yes," said Madelene, but she still sighed. "Aunt Anna," she added in a
moment or two, "I will try and bear the disappointment well, and be as
cheerful as I can with poor mamma, for--for the little while that
remains."
"Yes, dear, I am sure you will. Now, perhaps, we had better call in
Ermine and Philip--he is anxious to see all he can of you before he
goes. And next week Bernard will be here--they will go back to school
together."
"Oh," exclaimed Madelene, "I am so glad Bernard is coming. Ermie and I
have always wished so to see him. Only--everything is so sad here just
now," and she hesitated.
"You and Ermie must come over once or twice to spend a day with us while
the boys are still here. Ellen would like it--she was saying only
yesterday how unhappy it makes her to see your young lives so saddened."
"Poor mamma, she is very unselfish," said Madelene.
Then Lady Cheynes got up, and followed by her grand-niece, made her way
out of the room, down a long passage with a glass door at the end
leading into the garden, where for a moment she stood looking out.
"I don't see them," she said; "get a shawl, Maddie, and we'll go and
look for them. A breath of air will do you good."
She slipped her hand through the girl's arm, and together they walked
slowly along the broad gravelled terrace, which ran round two sides of
the house.
"They may have gone to the stables," said Madelene. "Ermine is always
glad of an excuse for visiting the horses, and papa won't allow her to
go alone."
"I should think not, indeed," said the old lady. "Even with Philip, I
don't know--Philip is only a boy--"
Laughing voices were just then heard.
"There they are," said Lady Cheynes, as round a corner came the two she
and Madelene had come out to look for. "Dear me, running races, are
they? Ermie is really a tom-boy, I am afraid."
But a very attractive tom-boy, it must be allowed, she could not but add
to herself, as Ermine, her cheeks flushed with running, her bright brown
hair, some shades darker than Maddie's, flying behind her, her merry
hazel eyes sparkling with fun, came rushing towards them.
"We've had such a race," she exclaimed breathlessly. "I expect it's
about the last time I'll have a chance of gaining. Philip's legs _are_
growing so long."
"Time they should," said Philip. "I think you forget, Ermine, that I
was fourteen last week. And I'm not anything like as tall as most
fellows of my age."
"Take your hands out of your pockets if you want to look taller," said
Madelene in an elder-sisterly tone. "It makes boys slouch so
dreadfully. And, by the by, Philip, you haven't even offered to shake
hands with me."
The boy started and looked ashamed.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, Madelene, I do, indeed," he said, "won't you
forgive me?"
He looked up at her--she was a little taller than he--with real distress
in his dark eyes. He was a strikingly handsome boy, with his
grandmother's delicate features, though in his case sun-browned and
stronger looking, and eyes which the old lady used to say confidentially
to some of her friends, made her tremble for the mischief they might do
in the future. Already in the present they were not to be resisted.
Madelene laughed a little and held out her own hand, which Philip took
eagerly.
"I am glad," she said, "to hear from Aunt Anna, that your friend Bernard
is coming next week to keep you in order till you go back to school."
"Oh," Ermine exclaimed, "is _he_ coming? I'm not glad at all. I hate
prigs."
Rather to Madelene's surprise Philip said nothing. "Is he a prig?" she
asked.
Philip coloured a little.
"No," he said, "of course he isn't. Ask granny. He's not a prig, but
I'm cross."
Lady Cheynes looked rather puzzled.
"What's the matter, Phil?" she said. "You were pleased enough this
morning about Bernard's coming."
"I know I was," said the boy. "But it's since coming over here and
feeling the old jolly way. It's so horrid not to see more of each
other. I'd rather have you girls than any one when I'm at home. And
Bernard's older and you don't know him. He'll make you seem quite
grown-up, and--"
"Maddie, perhaps--not me," Ermine interrupted. "Never mind, Phil. You
and I will keep each other company."
"But I've scarcely seen you these holidays," said Philip. "Granny,
can't they come over to us?" Madelene shook her head.
"Not just now," she said sadly. "We really have a good deal to do. One
or other of us has to walk or ride with papa every afternoon--mamma
fidgets so if she thinks he doesn't go out--and then one of us must be
within hail in case she was worse. And then there's Ella--"
There _was_ Ella in fact. For as she said the words, a little shrill
voice came sounding over the lawn.
"Maddie, Ermie, I'm here. And oh there's big Phil. Take me a ride,
Phil, on you's shoulders, do, _do_."
"Horrid little minx--" the boy was beginning to say, though in a low
voice, but the words died on his lips. The little figure looked so
bright and innocent as it flew towards them like a lapwing, heedless of
Harvey and her remonstrances in the background, sure, with the
irresistible confidence of childhood, of its welcome.
"Good morning, godmother," she said, holding up her sweet little face
for a kiss. "I'se got a bad cold," and she tried to cough, "but Harvey
said it would do me good to come out a little in the sun. And I'm going
to see mamma when I go in, to let her see my cold isn't worse. Oh, big
Phil, _do_ take me a ride on your shoulders."
She clasped her hands entreatingly. Everything she did was full of
pretty childish grace, when, that is to say, Ella chose to be in good
temper.
"Hoist her up," said Philip, and between them the two elder sisters
managed to settle the child on his shoulders.
"That's right--gallop away. Oh! how nice!" she exclaimed, and when
after two or three canters round the lawn, which was really as much as
ever Philip had breath for, he deposited her again safely on the ground,
she thanked him as graciously as a little princess.
"What a pity Maddie and Ermie are too big for you to ride them too," she
said condescendingly, at which they all laughed.
"Yes," said Lady Cheynes, smiling, but not for Ella to hear, "you can be
generous enough, my little girl, when you get your own way."
"And when she is _first_" added Ermine. "It is too funny, auntie, to
see that sort of feeling in Ella, already. I'm sure Maddie and I
weren't like that when we were little."
Lady Cheynes looked round, Harvey was coming up the path, the old lady
made a little sign to Ermine to take care.
"I think perhaps Miss Ella has been out long enough, if you'll excuse
me, my lady," said the maid, in her smoothest tones.
"Take her in then by all means," said Lady Cheynes. "Ella, my dear,
your nurse is waiting for you."
Ella was playing with Phil, a few paces off.
"I won't go in," she said coolly.
Madelene took her by the hand.
"Come, dear," she said, "you mustn't make your cold worse."
The child pulled away from her.
"You're very naughty, Maddie," she said. "You only want me to go away
that you and Ermie may play with Phil yourselves. Phil, say I'm not to
go."
"Not I," said Philip. "You're a spoilt, rude little girl, and I'm very
sorry I gave you a ride."
Ella turned upon him like a little fury, but Harvey interposed.
"Come, Miss Ella, my dear," she said. "Sir Philip will think you're
growing into a baby instead of a big girl if you dance about like that."
And by dint of coaxing and persuasion which Harvey knew how to employ
skilfully enough when it suited her, the child was at last got away.
"Grandmother," said Philip Cheynes, half-an-hour or so later, when the
two were on their way home in the old lady's pony-carriage, "don't you
think it is a great pity that Colonel St Quentin married again? It has
brought them all nothing but trouble--Mrs St Quentin so delicate, and
that spoilt little brat."
"You mustn't abuse my godchild, Phil," Lady Cheynes replied. "She might
be a charming child. And her poor mother--No, I think Madelene and
Ermie owe a great deal to her."
"Oh, well," said Philip, boyishly, "I suppose they do. Maddie's awfully
cut up about Ella's going away from them. For my part, I'm very glad
she is going away. Still, she is a jolly little thing when she's in a
good temper."