Ella's eyes rested on her second sister with admiration scarcely less
than that which her first glance at Madelene had aroused.
"At least," she thought to herself, for a moment throwing her prejudice
and irritation aside, "at least I have no reason to be anything but
_proud_ of my belongings. They are both beautiful."
Ermine who was tall also, though an inch or two shorter than Madelene,
stooped to kiss her. And her kiss seemed to Ella less cold than her
elder sister's.
"I shall like her the best," she rapidly decided, for she was much given
to rapid decisions.
"You have quite taken us by surprise, Ella," said Ermine, in a tone
which told nothing. The truth was that she was on the look-out for some
sign or signal from Madelene as to what was the meaning of this sudden
invasion and in what spirit it was to be met. For though they were not
absolutely free from small differences of opinion in private, the mutual
understanding and confidence existing between the sisters were thorough
and complete, and even had this not been the case, they would never have
allowed any outsider to suspect it.
Madelene caught and rightly interpreted Ermine's unspoken inquiry.
"Ella has thought it right," she began in a somewhat constrained tone,
"to come home sooner than was arranged, on--on account of annoyances
which she has been exposed to at Mrs Robertson's and--"
"`Annoyances,'" flashed out Ella, thereby giving Ermine her first
glimpse of the fieriness of which Madelene had already in the last
quarter of an hour seen a good many sparks, "`annoyances,' do you call
them? I think that is a very mild term for unendurable, unbearable
insult, and--"
"Ella," said Madelene quietly, "you have told me quite as much as I want
to hear at present. Papa will be home soon and then you can see what he
says. In the meantime it seems to me very much better to drop the
subject--it would only leave a painful association with the beginning of
your life here to do nothing but uselessly discuss disagreeables. The
thing is done--you have left your aunt's and you are now with us.
Neither Ermine nor I need to say anything about it and it is probably
much better that we should not."
"Very well," said Ella, with as near an approach to sullenness in her
tone, as such an essentially un-sullen person could be capable of. "I
don't like it, but I don't want you to think me ill-natured or
quarrelsome when I know I am neither, so I'll give in. But all the same
I feel that you blame me and disapprove of me, and I hate to feel that."
She glanced up with a slight suspicious dewiness in her lovely brown
eyes.
"Poor little thing," murmured Ermine half under her breath, but a glance
from Madelene restrained her. "I know how she means, Maddie," she said
aloud, "I hate the feeling of unexpressed blame or disapproval more than
the worst scolding spoken out to me."
"But there is no question of either, just now," said Madelene smiling a
little. "I did tell Ella openly what I thought, but she did not agree
with me, and so I don't see that there's the least use in saying more.
Do let us get into the shade--and I am sure Ella is longing for some
tea."
"It is all ready," said Ermine, leading the way to the table under the
trees, as she spoke. "I had some fresh made."
"And Philip?" asked Madelene with the very slightest possible touch of
hesitation.
"He is gone," said Ermine. "He left immediately after you went in."
"I thought perhaps he would have stayed after all," she said vaguely.
Ella listened, not without curiosity.
"Who is Philip?" she had it on the end of her tongue to say, but she
hesitated. "If they wanted to make me feel at home--_one of them_," she
said to herself, "they would have begun telling me all about everybody
and everything, and if they don't choose to tell I don't choose to ask.
`Philip,' I remember something about some one of the name in a dreamy
way. And just now in the house Madelene spoke of a cousin--`our
cousin,' I think she said. Well I suppose he is my cousin too, and if
so, I can't but hear about him before long, without asking."
One question however occurred to her as a perfectly natural and
permissible one.
"Is my godmother, Lady Cheynes, at home just now?" she asked abruptly.
Madelene looked a little surprised.
"`My godmother,'" she repeated to herself inwardly, "what a queer way of
speaking of our aunt! Of course it is only because she is our aunt that
she is Ella's godmother, I remember her offering to be it `just to
please poor Ellen,' as she said. What does Ella want to know for?
Perhaps she is thinking of making a descent upon Cheynesacre if she
doesn't find things to her mind here! I suppose our mention of Philip
put it in her head."
Ella repeated her question in another form.
"Lady Cheynes lives near here, does she not? and she _is_ my godmother,"
she said with a touch of asperity, as much as she dared show to
Madelene, for there was something in Miss St Quentin's calm,
self-contained manner which awed even while it irritated her younger
sister.
"Yes," Madelene replied. "She lives at Cheynesacre, which is about five
miles from here. But she is our aunt."
"Oh," said Ella, looking a little mystified, "then should I call her
aunt? When I have written to her I have always said `godmother.'"
"She is not your aunt," said Madelene gently. "Unless she particularly
wished it, I should think it best for you just to call her by her name."
Ella grew crimson.
"Another snub," she said to herself.
"She is really our great-aunt," Ermine said quickly, as if divining
Ella's feelings. "She was our mother's aunt, and her grandson, Sir
Philip Cheynes, is, therefore, only papa's first cousin once removed.
But he always calls papa uncle."
"Oh," said Ella. "Of course," she went on bitterly, "I can't be
expected to understand all the family connections, considering I have
been brought up a stranger even to my father. I _suppose_ Colonel St
Quentin is my father," she went on sarcastically, "but I begin to feel a
little doubtful even about that."
"Ella," said Ermine, "what do you mean? You must not take that tone.
You are vexing and hurting Madelene," for Miss St Quentin's face was
pale and her lips quivering, "and I can just tell you, my dear child,
now at once, at the first start, that I won't have Madelene vexed or
hurt. You are a foolish baby, otherwise--"
Ella's crimson had turned to something still fierier by this, and her
eyes were literally gleaming. She controlled herself for a moment or
two to the extent of not speaking, but she lost no time in mentally
retracting her decision that she "would like Ermine the best." It was,
perhaps, fortunate that at that moment Barnes reappeared upon the scene.
He was not in the habit of so much condescension, but for once dignity
had yielded to curiosity. Barnes was dying to have another look at the
new arrival, and to be able to judge how things were going to turn out.
So he seized the excuse of his master's dog-cart being seen approaching
to betake himself again to the lawn.
"If you please, ma'am," he began, hesitating when he had got so far,
partly because he did not feel quite at ease under Miss Ermine's rather
sharp glance, and partly because he was conscious of being rather out of
breath--
"Well, Barnes?" said Madelene coldly.
"I thought you would like to know, ma'am, that the colonel will be here
directly. James has just seen the dog-cart at the mile-end turn."
This was a land-mark visible by experienced eyes from Coombesthorpe
gates, though at some considerable distance.
"Very well. Thank you, Barnes. You can tell my father he will find me
in the library. I should like to see him as soon as he comes in," said
Madelene composedly, and Barnes retired, very little the wiser for his
expedition, though Ella's burning cheeks had not been altogether lost
upon him, and he gave it as his private opinion to the housekeeper that
less peaceful times were in store for "his" young ladies than hitherto.
Miss St Quentin got up.
"Ella," she said, "will you come with me at once to see papa?"
Ella looked a little taken aback. She had expected to find that
Madelene was going to have a long, confidential talk with her father in
the first place.
"If you like--if you think it best," she said, with the first approach
to misgiving or shyness she had yet shown.
"Would you like better to see papa alone?" asked Madelene.
Ella instinctively made a little movement towards her.
"Oh no, no, thank you," she said, looking really, frightened.
"Well then, we will go together," said Madelene softened, though her
manner scarcely showed it.
And in a few minutes Ella found herself again in the library where she
had waited for her sister, little more than half-an-hour before.
Wheels crunching the gravel drive were heard almost immediately, then
Barnes's voice and another in the hall.
"In the library, do you say?" this new voice repeated. And in a moment
the door was opened quickly.
"Are you here, Madelene? There is nothing wrong, I hope? Barnes met me
at the door to tell me you wanted me at once."
"Yes, papa," said Miss St Quentin, rising as she spoke. "You didn't
meet Philip, then? No, there is nothing wrong. It is only that--" She
half turned to look for Ella. The girl was standing just behind her,
and it almost seemed to Madelene as if she had intentionally tried to
conceal herself from Colonel St Quentin's notice at the first moment of
his entering the room. And for the second time a softened feeling, half
of pity, half almost of tenderness, passed through her towards her young
sister. "Ella," she went on, and Ella came forward. "You see, papa,"
Madelene added, "_this_ is why I wanted to see you at once. Ella has
arrived--sooner than we expected." She tried to speak lightly, but
Colonel St Quentin knew her too well not to detect her nervousness. He
knew, too, that this sudden move on Ella's part could not but be
annoying and disappointing to his elder daughters, who had been making
all sorts of plans and arrangements for her joining them at the time
already fixed upon.
"Ella!" he exclaimed. Then he held out his hand, and, drawing her
towards him, kissed her quickly on the forehead. "Is there anything the
matter with your Aunt Phillis? You have grown a good deal since last
year."
For he had seen Ella from time to time, though but hurriedly.
The remark was not a happy one.
"I don't think I have grown at all for two years," she said. "I have
certainly stopped growing now."
Her tone was not conciliating. Colonel St Quentin slightly raised his
eyebrows.
"I beg your pardon, my dear," he said. "I had forgotten your mature
age. And to what then are we indebted for this unexpected pleasure?" he
went on.
Madelene looked distressed. This was exactly the tone she most dreaded
to hear her father take. He did not mean to hurt Ella, up to now indeed
he had no reason to feel displeased with her. For all he knew she had
been driven away from Mrs Robertson's by an outbreak of smallpox, or by
the house having been burnt down! And Madelene and Ermine were
accustomed to this half-satirical, bantering manner of his, and the good
understanding between the three was complete, more perfect indeed than
is often the case between father and daughters. For there was an
element of something nearly allied to _gratitude_ in Colonel St
Quentin's affection for his elder daughters, which even on the parent's
side, between generous natures is quite compatible with the finest
development of the normal paternal and filial relations.
"It was nothing wrong--that is to say no illness or anything of that
kind," Madelene hastily interposed, "but Ella thought it better to come
away. Mr Burton, the old gentleman you know, papa, that Mrs
Robertson--"
"Yes, yes, that Mrs Robertson is going to marry. Well, what about
him?" he interrupted. Colonel St Quentin was much more vivacious than
his eldest child.
"He seems to have been getting rather jealous, exacting, I don't know
what to call it--annoyed at Ella's sharing her aunt's attention with
him, I suppose. Is not that it, Ella? And he has shown it in a
disagreeable, ill-bred way, it seems," said Madelene.
"He was actually rude, insulting," said Ella. "He seemed to think I was
nothing and nobody, quite forgetting I was your daughter, and--"
"Insufferable, purse-proud old ruffian he must be," interjected her
father.
Ella's eyes danced.
"Yes, papa--that's just what it is," she said, "He could not have been
less--respectful," she added with a little hesitation, "if I had really
been a penniless pauper, instead of having a family and home of my own."
Colonel St Quentin glanced at Madelene. He was on the point of
speaking, but a sign from her, imperceptible to Ella, restrained him.
He contented himself with a sigh. Ella imagined it to be one of
sympathy with her wrongs, and her spirits rose--"penniless pauper," had
been very telling, she said to herself.
"And so--and so, you and your aunt thought it best for you to come
away," he said. "Well, well, it is a pity things could not have gone on
smoothly a little longer, considering how many years you have been with
her and how good she has always shown herself to you. In any case she
surely might have written or telegraphed--I certainly think she might
have considered us a _little_ as well as old Burton. Of course she sent
a servant with you."
"No, no," said Ella, hesitatingly. "I came alone."
Colonel St Quentin's face darkened.
"She let you--a child like you, travel here alone!" he exclaimed. "Upon
my word, Madelene--you knew this?" he added, turning to her.
Madelene looked very uneasy.
"Papa," she said, "you don't quite understand. Mrs Robertson is not so
much to blame as you think. Ella--" and she looked at her sister, "Tell
papa yourself. It is no use concealing anything. Mrs Robertson will
of course be writing herself, and then--"
"I have no wish to conceal anything," said Ella, haughtily. "I never
dreamt of such a thing. Yes, what Madelene says is quite true, papa.
Aunt Phillis did not send me away. She did not know of my leaving. She
will only have heard it by a telegram I sent her from Weevilscoombe."
"Do you mean to say," said Colonel St Quentin slowly, "that you left
your aunt's house without her sanction or even knowledge, as well as
without writing to consult me--in short, that you ran away?"
"Something very like it," said Ella defiantly. Madelene looked
grievously distressed.
"Oh, Ella," she said, "do not speak like that. She does not mean it
really, papa--she has explained more about it to me. Ella, tell papa
you are sorry if you have vexed him. It was natural for her to come to
us, papa--even if she has acted hastily."
But Ella would say nothing. She stood there proudly obstinate, and Miss
St Quentin's appeal in her favour fell on unheeding ears. One glance at
her, and her father turned away and began walking up and down the room
in a way which as Madelene well knew betokened extreme irritation.
"Little _something_," she heard him murmur, and she hoped Ella did not
suspect that the half inaudible word was "fool"--"nothing, no
conjunction of things could have been more annoying."
Then he stopped short and stood facing his youngest daughter.
"Ella," he said quietly, but there was something in his tone which made
the girl inwardly tremble a little in spite of her determination, "you
have acted very wrongly. You have placed me in a most disagreeable
position--obliging me to apologise for your rudeness to your aunt, to
whom already I was under heavy obligations for you," here Ella glanced
up in surprise, and seemed as if about to speak, but her father would
not listen, "and you have certainly given this Mr Burton a victory.
The more vulgar he is, if he really is vulgar--I don't know that I feel
inclined to take your word for it--the more he will enjoy it." Ella
compressed her lips tightly. "And," Colonel St Quentin went on, his
hard tone softening as he glanced at Madelene, "there are other reasons
why I _extremely_ regret the way you have chosen to behave. You have
shown no sort of consideration for our--for your sisters' convenience."
Ella started up. This time she would be heard.
"That part of it I cannot in the least understand," she said. "It seems
extraordinary to talk of _inconveniencing_ one's own nearest relations
by coming home when--when one had nowhere else to go," and her voice
faltered a very little.
Her father looked at her with a sort of expression as if he were
mentally taking her measure.
"Ah, well," he said, "I did not say I expected you fully to understand.
You have shown yourself too childish. But you are not too childish to
understand that when one does a distinctly wrong thing one may expect
undesirable results in more directions than one. And this--the
inconvenience to your sisters _I_ lay stress upon, and I shall expect
you to remember this. What room are you intending Ella to have?" he
went on, turning rather abruptly to Madelene. "Those you meant for her
of course are not ready."
"No," Miss St Quentin replied. "They are not yet begun, and what should
be done will take some weeks. I wanted them to be so nice," she said
regretfully.
"I know you did," said her father, and the sympathy in his tone made
Ella unreasonably angry.
"In the meantime," Madelene continued, "I was thinking of giving Ella
one of the rooms in the north wing. Indeed they are the only--"
"No," said Colonel St Quentin, "that will not do. We may need those
rooms for visitors any day. It is much better for her to have the
nursery on the south side. You can easily have what additional
furniture is needed moved in, and, as it is Ella's own doing, she cannot
object to less comfortable quarters than you had intended for her for a
time."
Ella reared her little head, but said nothing.
"You must be tired," said Madelene, glad to suggest any change, "and I
am sure you would like to take your hat and jacket off. Come with me to
my room; and I will see about getting the nursery ready, papa."
Ella's head rose, if possible, still higher as she turned to leave the
room. Madelene was leading the way, but as they got to the door her
father called her back.
"I don't want to give her a room with a north exposure," he said to his
eldest daughter in a low voice, "you know we cannot be sure of her
health yet, and she has hitherto been always in such mild places. But
of course we must not make her fanciful."
"No, papa. I quite understand," said Madelene, gently.
But this little incident did not tend to smooth down the ruffled wings
of the small personage who followed her sister up the wide staircase
with the gait of a dethroned queen.
"For to-night, Ella," said Madelene, "I think you had better sleep in my
dressing-room. There is a nice little sofa-bed there that Ermine
sometimes uses when we have a fancy for being quite close together.
Sometimes when papa is away this big house seems so lonely."
"Is there no bed in the--the _nursery_?" she inquired icily.
"Oh, yes," said Madelene, "there has always been a bed there. It is a
comfortable little room; it is not what used to be the _night_ nursery;
that has been turned into a large linen room. But this is what was your
day nursery when you were a tiny child. You can't remember the house in
the least of course?"
"Not in the least."
"We have used the nursery, as we still call it, now and then for
visitors when the house was very full," Madelene went on.
"Oh, yes; for ladies'-maids, I suppose," said Ella pleasantly.
"No," said Madelene, "not for ladies'-maids. We would not put our
sister in a room used for servants. And I do not wish you to sleep
there till it has been made quite comfortable. It is perfectly clean
and aired, but I shall change some of the furniture to make it look
nicer, even though you are only to have it temporarily, and, to-night,
as I said, you can sleep in my dressing-room. Here it is." She threw
open a door as she spoke and passed quickly through the large bedroom it
opened into to a smaller one beyond. Both rooms were very pretty and
handsomely furnished, with all sorts of girlish "household gods" about,
telling of simple but refined tastes, and long association. For in the
bookcase, side by side with the favourites of Madelene's grown-up years,
were old childish story-books in covers that had once been brighter than
now, and behind the glass of the cabinets were many trifling ornaments
of little value save for the memory of those by whom, or the occasions
on which, they had been given.
Ella glanced around with a peculiar expression. The fresh admiration
which had escaped her at sight of the garden was wanting. She said
nothing, but stood looking in at the dressing-room door.
"Thank you," she said, "if I may leave my hat and jacket here just now;
I will fetch them again as soon as I know where to put them. But I
should prefer not to sleep here--I suppose there is no actual
objection--it is not particularly inconvenient," with a slight accent on
the two last words, "that I should sleep at once in what is going to be
my room. I should very much prefer doing so."
"No," said Madelene in a rather perplexed tone, "it can be got ready at
once if you really wish it." She was anxious not to oppose Ella when
not actually obliged to do so, and she determinedly swallowed her own
not unnatural disappointment that the young girl should seem so
reluctant to meet her in any direction "half-way."
"Thank you," said Ella, more heartily than she had yet spoken, "yes, I
should like it very much better. Perhaps you would not mind showing me
my room now," she went on, "then when it is ready I can find my way to
it alone without troubling you again."
Miss St Quentin did not speak, but she turned to leave the room,
followed as before by Ella. They crossed the landing and passed down
another corridor.
"Down there," said Madelene, pointing to the end of the passage, "are
your real rooms--those that Ermine and I have been planning about for
you. The nurseries are down this way," and she descended a few steps
leading on to another smaller landing, from which a flight of back
stairs ran down to the ground floor. "I warn you that the room will not
seem very attractive, but there is a nice look-out at this side. Our
mother and--and yours--both liked these nurseries. They get all the sun
going, in winter."
It was a plain room certainly, old-fashioned-looking, for it was less
lofty than the other side of the house, and the furniture, such as there
was, was simple and seemed to have seen good service. The carpet was
rolled up, and the small bed was packed into a corner; the
window-curtains were pinned up to keep them clean, though enough was
left visible to show that they were of faded chintz.
Ella in her turn was silent, but she at once deposited the little
hand-bag she carried, and her parasol on the only available place,
namely the top of the chest of drawers, with an air of taking
possession.
"I suppose my little box--I only brought one quite small one with me--
may be brought up here?" she said.
"Yes, certainly, but you _must_ leave the room to the housemaids for an
hour or two," Madelene replied. "Will you dress in Ermine's room, in
preference to mine? It is nearer--just up the little flight of stairs."
"I don't mind in the least," said Ella. "I must say I had no idea, not
the very slightest, that my coming would have caused such a fuss.
Perhaps I should apologise, but--I begin to see I have been very
foolish. I have been allowing myself to forget the real state of the
case, I suppose."
"What do you mean by the real state of the case?" asked Madelene, calmly
resting her eyes on her sister's face.
"Why--" began Ella, a little discomfited though she would not show it,
"I mean that you and Ermine are not, after all, my own sisters. I seem
to be a sort of nobody's sister--or nobody's anything, and yet this is
my own father's house. I do not see why everybody should be so down
upon me."
"Nobody wishes to be down upon you, Ella," said Madelene gently. "And I
know that I have done and will do all I can to prevent papa being vexed
with you. But it has not been a good beginning--there is no use in
concealing it, and Ermine and I had wished to welcome you heartily. And
won't you come to my dressing-room after all, Ella, and let me feel that
things are not uncomfortable for you?"
But Ella stood firm. She shook her little head, though a slight smile
quivered about her mouth too.
"No thank you," she said, "I like much better to begin as I am going to
be. I hope you don't think me such a donkey as to mind what kind of a
room I have."
"_I_ mind," said Madelene, as she turned away. The housekeeper and
hostess instincts were very strongly developed in Miss St Quentin and
Ella had succeeded in wounding her in a tender place.
A few minutes later, when Ermine had come up stairs and was standing in
her own room, thinking about getting ready for dinner, there came a
knock at the door, and in answer to her "come in" Ella appeared. She
was carrying a dress on her arm.
"Would you mind--?" she began. "Oh I am afraid I am disturbing you--I
thought Madelene said something about--that I might dress in here."
"So you may if you like," said Ermine, not too graciously it must be
allowed, for she suspected Ella had been annoying her elder sister.
"There is plenty of time. I will go to Madelene till you are ready.
You can ring for Stevens, the second housemaid, to help you."
If Ella had had any idea of making friends with Ermine in preference to
Madelene it was speedily discarded.
"I detest them both," she exclaimed, as soon as the door had closed on
her sister, "nasty, cold, stuck-up things. I almost think I'd rather be
back with aunt, if it wasn't for that _horrid_ old Burton. But I'll
never let auntie know--no _never_, that I'm not happy here. It would be
such a triumph to that old wretch."
And this lively reflection stopped Ella's seeking relief for her
outraged feelings in tears, which she had been very nearly doing.
"Nobody shall be able to say I'm a cry-baby who doesn't know her own
mind," she said resolutely, as she dressed herself quickly but
carefully, for Ella had no love of making a fright of herself!