Ella woke the next morning with that most delightful of all delightful
feelings--the vague consciousness of something nice having happened ere
she fell asleep. She slowly, half reluctantly opened her eyes--
"I do hope it wasn't only a dream," she murmured, but as she caught
sight of the objects around her, the large bow-window with its curtains
of richer material than the old faded chintz of the Coombesthorpe
"nursery," the toilet table with its marble top and large mirror, and
the wardrobe of beautiful inlaid wood--for Lady Cheynes made a point of
installing her little god-daughter in one of the "best" rooms--a smile
crept over her face, and she closed her sleepy eyes again with a
sensation of vivid satisfaction.
No, it was no dream--she was to stay a whole week at Cheynesacre, with
her dear godmother. Papa would never be so cruel as to send for her
back again, whatever Madelene said, and Madelene had as good as
promised to plead her cause, and after all she, Ella, had no real reason
for thinking her elder sister actually insincere. Then her mind
reverted to what Sir Philip had said the night before.
"He thinks so very highly of Madelene," thought Ella, "and he must know
her well. He speaks more of her than of Ermine, but--" and a slight
frown clouded her brow, "that _might_ mean that he cares most for
Ermine, really. How I wonder if he does! He shouldn't be--_quite_ like
what he is to--to other girls, if he does. Perhaps he's one of those
men that can't help being charming to everybody," and at this point in
her cogitations poor Ella gave a deep sigh. "But any way," she went on,
"Ermine doesn't care for him, not _that_ way, though of course she might
if it was put in her head."
And then the quicksilver of her eighteen years refused to let her ponder
any more.
"I'm going to be happy--for a week at least, come what may," she said
aloud as she sprang out of bed. "And as I'm his guest it's Sir Philip's
business to make me enjoy myself, and it would be very surly of me not
to."
Certainly it looked as if the host's task was not to be a very arduous
one--never, in Madelene's sight at least--had the girl been so sweet and
bright and happy.
"Dear child, she seems in love with all the world," said her godmother
when she and Madelene were alone that morning for a few minutes before
Miss St Quentin took her departure. "How I wish poor Ellen could see
her! It must make you feel happy, dear Maddie, to see her so bright and
blooming." But Madelene did not respond as heartily as she really
wished she could do.
"She is so different at home, Aunt Anna," she said. "She seems as if
she could not trust us, me especially. It seems unnatural in one so
young and impressionable," and she sighed.
"It will all come right," said the old lady cheerily; "you are too
gloomy, Maddie."
She did not understand the new direction of Madelene's anxieties; had
she overheard a word or two that passed between the cousins as Philip
stood at the carriage door saying good-bye, she might have been
enlightened.
"Philip," Miss St Quentin whispered, "I must say one word to you at the
risk of offending you. I hope I am doing right in leaving Ella--Phil
dear, don't be angry with me--remember she is very, very young and--you
know you can be so very charming."
The blood mounted to the young man's forehead.
"Madelene," he said, "I really sometimes cannot understand you. Do you
want me to be actually unkind to your half-sister? Do you think _that_
would mend matters?"
And he turned coldly away.
"I wish I had not gone," said Madelene to Ermine when the sisters were
together again at Coombesthorpe. "It has only made Philip angry with
me, and done no good to Ella. I wish Aunt Anna would adopt her
altogether."
"Papa would never consent to that," said Ermine, "at least not in the
sense you mean, though in _my_ sense, nothing could be more delightful.
I am enchanted that she is staying there--it would have been too stupid
of you to oppose it."
"I would have done so if I could," Madelene replied. "I am so unhappy
about Ella for her own sake, Ermine. I can see that she is already very
much attracted by Philip and--"
"Well? What could you possibly have to say against it? It won't be
your doing."
"I am afraid Philip is only amusing himself. You know how charming he
can be. And that would be dreadful for her, poor child. It has all
come of that absurd comedy at the beginning of their acquaintance."
"Yes," said Ermine, "I hope it has."
Colonel St Quentin made not the smallest objections to Ella's remaining
at Cheynesacre, and once satisfied as to this, the girl gave herself up
to full enjoyment of the present.
"I have never been so happy before," she said to her godmother on the
last day of her stay. And she said truly. Sir Philip who was in the
room at the time glanced at her as she spoke.
"We must have a jolly Christmas at Coombesthorpe," he said. "Poor
Maddie and Ermine have had plenty of dull ones there."
"Have they?" said Ella quickly. "Well it must have been their own
fault."
"No, indeed it wasn't," Philip replied rather coldly, "unless you call
their unselfishness and patience their `fault.'"
Ella made no reply, but her bright face clouded over. An hour or two
later when Sir Philip and she were on their way to the pond for "a last
skate" as she said, he reverted to what had passed.
"Ella," he began, "since I saw that it vexed you the other night I have
said nothing more about your--well I can only call it prejudice against
your sisters. But I see it is still there. I wish I could disabuse you
of it--you don't know how earnestly I wish it. You are so sweet and
affectionate to every one else--I cannot really understand it."
"It is often the case that near relations don't get on as well with each
other as with--strangers," said Ella somewhat primly.
"But you don't count granny and me strangers, I hope?" he asked eagerly.
"And granny is not a person that _every one_ gets on with."
"Perhaps not, but she loves me--I feel that she does. And I shouldn't
mind _anything_ she said, not even if she scolded me badly--just because
of that. And I never can feel that way to Madelene. But I do get on
very well now with Ermine," she added though with a shade of reluctance.
"Dear Ermine," said Philip. "I can scarcely imagine the possibility of
not `getting on' with her. Everybody takes to her wherever she goes. I
am so delighted she is going to the Marchants," he added.
"You are going too?" asked Ella, though she knew it already.
"Yes. I hope to be there the first week of Ermine's visit, at least,"
he replied.
"Oh," said Ella, "that will be very pleasant."
"Delightful," replied Philip absently.
This time Ella made no observation.
Suddenly Philip turned to her again.
"Ella," he said, "do forgive me for harping on the subject, but don't
you think all this might be put right? If you could show a little more
confidence in Madelene, a little more affection in your manner, she
would, I feel certain, be quick to respond. I can't--" and here he
hesitated, "I can't just yet tell you all I should like you to know--I
wish I could--but some day you will understand better."
Ella felt choking. "Understand"--did she not understand? But pride and
some better feeling than pride, for after all she had no real grounds of
complaint against Sir Philip, came to the rescue.
"I _will_ try to be gentler and pleasanter at Coombesthorpe, if you
think it would do any good," she said bravely. "And changes come--it
may not be for very long. I should like you and my godmother to know I
had done my best, for--for the time we must be all together there."
The tears trembled on her eyelashes, but she turned away to hide them:
she did not see the expression on Philip's face as he heard her words.
She only heard his answer.
"Thank you, dear Ella," he said. "I know you will do what you say, and
you have made me very happy by speaking so, for I have been terribly
afraid of making things worse instead of better, by my interfering.
No--it may not be for long as you say. But you are so young, Ella," and
there was a half regretful intonation in his voice, "you will see things
differently afterwards, and you will like to look back and feel that you
have done your best."
Ella glanced up at him. There was a look in his eyes which made her
cheeks flush.
"Dear Ella," he added softly.
"I will do my best," she repeated. And to herself she said, believing
that she fully realised her words, that come what would she would
deserve his approval. "Even if he is only to be--a sort of brother to
me," she thought, "I would like him to see that I try to be good."
And she believed it was as a reward for her heroism that the world all
about her looked so bright again, and some faint rays of wintry sunshine
that lighted up the frost-besprinkled fields and palely gilded the tops
of the dark fir-trees, seemed to her to glow with the warmth and
brilliance of a midsummer sky.
Christmas passed with cheerfulness, if not exactly with "jollity," at
Coombesthorpe. Colonel St Quentin was still too much of an invalid to
stand a large party, but a few old friends and neighbours joined the
family circle. Madelene was quiet as ever, but gentle and almost
affectionate to Ella, who, true to her promise, received her elder
sister's advances in good part and refrained from all sharp or icy
retorts, even when, as must happen, however good the will on both sides,
perfect unanimity of opinion was not the case. And Ermine was in such
tremendously good spirits that the infection of them was to some extent
irresistible. She was so gracious to Philip that he, in his own mind,
was a little puzzled by it, for a coldness, slight but yet to themselves
tangible enough, still seemed to hang between Madelene and himself. His
cousins for once seemed to be at issue, he fancied, and he was small
enough to try to punish Madelene by a show of even extra responsiveness
to Ermine.
And Ella watched and wondered; sometimes feeling certain that her
misgivings as to the state of things between Philip and Ermine were
founded on fact; sometimes rising to a flutter of delight and
hopefulness at some slight incident which seemed to prove to her
conclusively that there was "nothing in it."
"If there were," she said to herself more than once, "would Madelene be
vexed with him; as I am almost sure she is?"
And yet--that there was perfect good feeling between him and Ermine she
could not doubt, and what that might not mean in reality she could not
bear to think!
Wednesday--for Christmas day had been a Tuesday--saw the whole party
scattered. Lady Cheynes returned home; Ermine started on her journey to
Shenewood Park, whither Philip was to follow her the next day from
Cheynesacre. And Ella, as she stood at the window watching the last
carriage disappear, felt that now was the real test of her promise to
Philip. The prospect of a whole fortnight alone with Madelene; Madelene
quieter and "duller," as Ella expressed it, than she had yet known her,
was not inspiriting. For curiously enough, though it was Ermine whom
the girl's fancy had erected into a rival, it was not on her, but
entirely on her elder sister that she resented the fact.
"I could never dislike Ermine. She is so bright and open," thought
Ella, while a tear or two trickled unbidden down her face. "Even as
Philip's wife I don't think I could ever be jealous of her. But it is
so different with Madelene; everything is calculation with her. She has
settled that it would be a good thing for them to marry, and she is
determined to carry it out--whether _they_ care enough for each other or
not. _She_ has never cared for any one--that's certain."
The mood was not a very propitious one, for some vague warnings which
Miss St Quentin unluckily thought it her duty to give her younger
sister. It was when they were sitting together in the already fading
light that afternoon--Ella after fidgeting about restlessly the whole
day, having at last taken a book and settled herself in the library
where Madelene was already installed with what the younger girl mentally
dubbed "that everlasting knitting of hers."
But the book did not prove very interesting. Ella yawned, then gave a
sort of groan, and ended by flinging it aside.
"Do you not care for that book?" asked Madelene calmly. "I think I like
it. But the other new Mudie books are in the drawing-room."
"I don't think I should like any book to-day," said Ella frankly. "I do
feel so stupid. Do you never feel that sort of way, Madelene?" she went
on with a sudden irresistible craving for sympathy. "As if--as if you
didn't care for anything."
Madelene glanced at her half curiously. Was this mere childishness--
or--were her fears for poor little Ella's peace of mind already
beginning to be realised? Was this the first taste of the weary pain--
the sickness of heart which she herself had not yet grown innured to?
"And in her case it would be ever so much worse," she said to herself,
"if Philip does not really care for her. I at least have always been
sure of Bernard, though even thus, heaven knows it has been hard to
bear!"
Her heart ached for the young creature looking up at her with troubled
eyes. But she must ignore what she still hoped was but superficial.
"Everybody knows that kind of feeling at times, I suppose," she said
placidly. "It generally is a sort of reaction. We have had a little
more excitement than usual, you see, and you enjoyed yourself very much
at Cheynesacre."
"I never was so happy in my life," Ella replied impulsively.
"I am glad you liked it. Philip is certainly a model host--he is a
favourite everywhere, and deservedly, for he is very kind-hearted. And
it says a good deal for him that his being such a favourite--especially
with women--has not quite spoilt him."
Ella looked up sharply.
"Do you mean that he is a flirt?" she asked abruptly.
Madelene hesitated.
"Not exactly that," she said. "He may flirt a little sometimes but
there is no harm in that. But he would never consciously,
_intentionally go_ further than that. Still his very kind-heartedness
has its weak point; he cannot bear to see any one unhappy. And he is
impressionable and impulsive in some ways--I should be a little anxious
about throwing any--very inexperienced girl much in his society."
"But you and Ermine have always been thrown with him," said Ella.
Miss St Quentin drew herself up a little.
"That is quite different," she said. "_I_ am, to all intents and
purposes, older than Philip."
"But Ermine is not," thought Ella bitterly, though aloud she only
replied, "Oh yes, of course."
Ermine's letters came nearly every day, bright and sunny, overflowing
with fun and enjoyment. Now and then Madelene gave one, or a part of
one to Ella to read, which the girl did eagerly, especially when Sir
Philip's name was mentioned, as was constantly the case.
"How much Ermine seems to be enjoying herself," said Ella one morning.
"When I am what you consider _quite_ `out,' Madelene, I may pay visits
like this of hers, mayn't I?"
They were at the breakfast-table. Colonel St Quentin, who by this time
was as well as usual, overheard the remark.
"I hope so," Madelene was beginning with an ill-assured glance at her
father, when he suddenly interrupted her.
"I hope _not_, Ella," he said. "That sort of thing would only put
nonsense in your head. It is quite different for Ermine."
Ella gazed at him in astonishment. His tone was not unkind, but very
decided. To his last words she could give one interpretation--it was
different for Ermine because she was already tacitly engaged to Philip,
and but for this her father evidently would not have approved of her
visiting by herself. Ella felt herself grow pale, but she did not
speak.
"Oh, papa," Madelene interposed, "that is too sweeping. Some day I hope
Ella _may_ see something of country-house society--with _me_ you would
trust her?"
Colonel St Quentin murmured something, of which Ella only caught the
words--"Plenty of time--rational life for a girl."
But she felt now as if she did not care.
The next morning brought no letter from Ermine, the day after came one
which Madelene read to herself with somewhat clouded brow.
"Ermine is so tiresome, papa," she said. "For some reason or other she
seems to have got a fit of homesickness. Just when I was so delighted
to think she was enjoying herself. She actually talks of coming home
the day after to-morrow."
"Umph," said Colonel St Quentin, "that will be Friday. Tell her I can't
send to the station that day--Brown is going to look at that new pair,
and I won't trust Parker's driving in this weather; she must stay any
way till Monday. Is Philip still there?"
"No," said Madelene, going on with her letter. "At least he is leaving
to-day."
"Ah, well, that settles it. She might have arranged to come back with
him had he been staying till Friday, if she is _really_ home-sick, poor
child. But as it is she must wait till Monday."
"I can't make her out quite," said Madelene, "But I will tell her what
you say. Perhaps--if she is dull, I suppose she had better come home."
Ella went up stairs to her own room and stood gazing out at the cold,
wintry landscape. It was a grey, sunless day. It seemed to her like an
image of her own life.
"Why did I ever come here?" she said. "It would have been better, yes
_far_ better, to have borne old Barton's impertinence. Only--poor
aunty--it might have made _her_ unhappy! It would not now--I am so
changed. I should be meek enough. What a fool I have been--to dream
that Philip Cheynes had fallen in love with me! He was only amusing
himself and thinking of Ermine all the time. But _why_ did he? He must
have seen I was a fool;" and her cheeks burnt as she recalled the little
trifles--trifles at least, if put into words--looks and tones more than
actual speech or action, which had seemed to her so significative.
"And Madelene suspects it. Yes, I know she does. Perhaps after all she
has meant to do her duty by me. If she had only been a little more
loving at the first I might have confided more in her; I might have been
guided by her. But it is too late now. I won't stay here, where no one
cares for me. They may keep my share of the money and everything. I
don't want anything where I am not loved."
What should she do? She could not decide. For the next day or two her
head felt confused and dreamy--she longed to do something, to go
somewhere, but lacked the energy to determine upon anything, and a
vague, not unpleasing feeling came over her that perhaps she was going
to be ill, to have a brain fever and die possibly, and that in this case
it was not worth while planning to go away or anything.
She must be looking very ill, she said to herself with some complacency,
for more than once she caught Madelene's eyes fixed upon her with an
anxiety that was almost tender.
"Are you feeling ill, Ella?" she said.
But Ella smiled and shook her head, and replied that she supposed it was
the cold; she had never liked cold weather.
So passed two or three days; then came the goad to sting her into
action.
Nothing further had been heard or said about Ermine's return, but on
Monday morning Miss St Quentin exclaimed eagerly, as she opened the
letter-bag, which she was accustomed to do if she was down before her
father.
"Ah, a letter from Ermine at last! That's right. Ella, dear, please
put these letters on papa's plate. Dear me--there is one with a
Shenewood envelope for him--whom can that be from? And--that's Philip's
writing. I wonder why he has not been over to see us?"
Almost as she spoke her father entered the room. He kissed his
daughters, making some slight remark as he did so on the extreme
coldness of the morning.
"Is that what is making you look so pale, Ella?" he added as he caught
sight of her face.
Again Ella forced a smile and murmured something vaguely about disliking
cold. But her father scarcely heard her reply. He had opened his
letters and was immersed in them, unsuspicious of the keen attention
with which his youngest daughter was observing him. His face grew
grave, very grave indeed as he read the one from Shenewood Park which
Madelene had remarked upon: a slight look of relief overspread it as he
glanced at the shorter letter from Sir Philip Cheynes.
"Madelene," he said hastily, handing both to her across the table, "did
you know anything of this?" and Ella saw that the fingers which held out
the letters trembled.
Miss St Quentin read both quickly. Then she looked at her father.
"No," she said, "nothing at all."
Her voice was grave and she had grown rather pale, still to Ella it
seemed that her evident emotion was not caused by distress.
"Philip is coming over himself, I see," Madelene said. "I am glad of
that. Talking is so much better than writing."
Colonel St Quentin pushed back his chair from the table where stood his
untasted breakfast.
"I suppose so," he said; "but--you will think me very foolish Maddie,
but this has completely unhinged me. I can't eat--I will go to my own
room, I think."
"Oh, papa," Miss St Quentin was beginning in a tone of remonstrance,
when Ella interrupted her.
"Is anything the matter?" she exclaimed. "You--you seem so strange,
Madelene, you and papa. If it is anything I am not to hear about, I
would rather go away: I have nearly finished my breakfast."
Her little pale face looked almost as if she were going to cry.
Madelene seemed as if she did not know what to say or do.
"It--it is nothing wrong," she said hastily, "but still not anything I
can quite explain to you just yet."
"It is something about Ermine. I know that," said Ella. "But if you
don't mind I would rather go, and then you and papa can talk freely."
And almost before they quite understood what she was saying, she had
gone.
"Has she had her breakfast really?" said her father, glancing at Ella's
plate. "Yes, I suppose so. But she isn't looking well, Madelene. I
think we must have Felton to look at her. However--just for the moment
I can only think of Ermine. Give me that letter again. Philip will be
able to tell us more. What crotchet has Ermine got in her head about
anything of the kind being `impossible'? I'm not such a selfish old
tyrant as all that, surely! And if I were--while I have _you_,
Maddie--"
"Yes, papa," Miss St Quentin replied, though her own lip quivered a
little. "Yes, with _me_, I hope you would never feel deserted. And
this is what we must impress upon Ermine, if--as seems the case--
everything else is favourable and desirable."
Then they read the letter over again more than once indeed, with eager
anxiety to discover from the written lines all they possibly could as to
the writer.
"It is a nice manly letter," said Madelene at last. "But Ermine will be
angry, I fear."
And Ella meanwhile had flown up stairs to her "nursery," the scene of
her mature as well as of her childish trials. It had come at last, the
certainty of the event she had so dreaded. Ermine and Philip were to be
openly engaged. Must she stay to see it? Could she bear it? Pride
said yes; her hot, undisciplined girl's heart said no. And in this
conflict she passed the morning, till suddenly a sort of compromise
suggested itself. She would write to her Aunt Phillis--surely she could
trust _her_? "I will tell her that I am very unhappy here and ask her
to write at once inviting me to go to her. She will do it, I am sure.
I will promise her to be as nice as possible to Mr Burton. Oh, if only
I can get away I shall not care about him or anything!"