"HAVING IT OUT."
The primroses were over--the paler hues of spring were giving place to
the richer and fuller beauty of early summer when Ella found herself
once more at Coombesthorpe. It was the day before that of Ermine's
marriage when she arrived there with Mr and Mrs Burton. It had been
proposed that she should precede her aunt, but she shrank from doing so,
and with real kindliness and tact, her sisters had refrained from
pressing the matter.
"She must feel uncomfortable, poor little thing," said Ermine, "and it
will be easier for her if she only arrives when there are a good many
other people here."
"And naturally she feels that any sort of `explanations' would be
ill-timed just now when we have so much to think of," agreed Madelene.
"Nothing could be sweeter or gentler than her letters. Ermine, what
_can_ have come over the child? I cannot yet understand her strange
bitterness--for after all, what she overheard could have been simply
explained. It will have to be explained sooner or later--about money
matters I mean, and papa's exaggerated way of looking at it. Ermine--I
fear it was a mistake not to tell her the whole at first. Do you
remember the day she came, just when we had been talking it all over
with Philip? Not a year ago yet."
"If nobody ever did wrong and nobody ever made mistakes, this world
would not be this world any more, and I'm not at all sure but that it
would--with our present feelings--be a very dull place indeed," said
Ermine, philosophically. "Keep up your spirits, Maddie. I should not
be half as cheerful as I am about leaving you if I had not great faith
in some, at least, of my pet schemes ending well after all." Madelene
said nothing for a minute or two.
"If--if you are still thinking about _Philip_ and Ella, you are only
preparing fresh disappointment for yourself," she said. "He never
mentions her scarcely; he seems to have forgotten all about her."
"It did not look as if he were indifferent that day that you were so
horribly frightened about her--the day she ran off I mean," Ermine
replied.
"No," Madelene allowed. "That day I did think--He was fearfully upset.
But it may have been principally on our account. I shall never forget
how he looked when I sent over in my desperation to fetch him back from
Cheynesacre--he was almost _rough_ to me--fancy, Ermine! But I did not
mind--I was so frightened myself. And he was so clever and sensible
about it. He found out so wonderfully quickly that she was safe with
Fraulein Braune."
"And he managed Mrs Burton very well too," said Ermine.
"Don't forget our promise never to tell it was he who went to see her,"
said Madelene, quickly.
"Ella shall certainly not hear it from us," said Ermine, "but I doubt
Mrs Burton's capacity for keeping a secret."
"I hope she has not told it," said Madelene; "I could not bear poor Ella
to be misled into thinking Philip cares for her--I did my best to warn
her, but I doubt if it did any good."
"Except to make her angry with you," said Ermine. "That is usually the
fate of the warner in such cases."
"And perhaps it put the idea more in her head than it was," added
Madelene, regretfully. "They say, Ermine, that Philip is a great deal
at the Belvoirs' now, and Leonora is certainly a very nice girl."
"Rubbish," said Ermine. "He has known Leonora Belvoir since she was a
baby, and seen her constantly. And she is not _half_ as pretty, as
Ella. If only Ella had come back sooner, I think I could have got
Guildford to find out about it," she added meditatively. "I suppose you
couldn't get Bernard to do so?"
Madelene grew crimson.
"Ermine, how can you be so thoughtless?" she exclaimed. "It is really
unkind of you. I hope most earnestly, as you know, that Captain Omar
will not come. Philip knows I do not want him to come."
But Ermine said no more.
The day of the marriage was bright and sunny. When Ella woke up, and
saw from her window the familiar scene in all its summer beauty, she
shut her eyes for a moment, while a sort of fantastic wish went through
her that the last few months might prove to be only a dream, that she
had only now arrived for the first time at her home, and that all happy
possibilities lay before her. She was again in her old "nursery"--she
had begged that it might be so, though the rooms her sisters had
originally intended for her were long ago ready.
"Oh, dear, if I could but go back again, how different I would be," she
thought. "How is it? Madelene and Ermine seem so different now--it is
as if scales had fallen from my eyes. I wonder," she went on, "I wonder
if I had never remembered that silly old fancy about being like
Cinderella--I wonder if Harvey had never put it into my head, if things
would have turned out better? How sad it seems that bad or foolish
things should stick to us like burrs all through the years, and that
good and wise and useful things should be so quickly forgotten!"
She roused herself before long however; there was plenty for her to do
this wedding-day. She was full of the wish to be of all the help and
support she possibly could be to Madelene. For calm and quiet as Miss
St Quentin appeared, Ella well knew that the parting with her sister,
her "other self," for such indeed Ermine had been to her, was no light
matter, no slight wrench. And this reflection bore good fruit with the
youngest sister.
"I will never call Madelene cold or heartless again," she thought. "I
_know_ how she loves Ermine, and yet she is quietly smiling and calm--a
stranger might say she did not mind it at all."
It was still the old-fashioned days of early morning marriages: most of
the guests were to assemble at the house, for the distance thence to the
church was very short. Ella had not as yet seen anything of her
godmother, for the evening before, with the exception of aunt Phillis
and her husband, Colonel St Quentin and his children had spent alone--
and the thought of the meeting with Lady Cheynes lay rather heavily on
the girl's mind. But like many anticipated evils it turned out quite
differently from her fears.
"Run down to the fernery, Ella," said Madelene, as they were giving the
last touches to the bride, "and bring me one or two more sprays of
maidenhair. No, Ermine, I'm not putting too much green. It needs just
a tiny bit more."
Off ran Ella, but half-way down stairs, at a sudden turn she came full
tilt against Lady Cheynes, slowly mounting to Ermine's room.
"Oh, dear--I beg your pardon," Ella began. Then in a different voice,
"Oh! godmother, dear godmother, is it you!"
She half threw her arms round the old lady's neck, then drew back in
affright.
"Oh, godmother, dear, will you kiss me? Will you forgive me?" she
cried. "I'm afraid you've been very, very vexed with me, but I _didn't_
mean to do wrong--it--it was all a mistake somehow."
Her voice faltered as if she were going to cry; in an instant Lady
Cheynes was kissing her.
"My darling," she said, "my poor little silly child. No, no--I was more
grieved than vexed, dear, but perhaps I understand you as well as, or
better than you understand yourself. But don't cry, my little Ella. It
would never do to have tears to-day."
"_I won't_, godmother, I won't cry," said Ella, choking back the tears
bravely, "it is only," she went on, "that you are--you are all so _very_
good to me."
"Well, well--we must have a good talk when all this bustle is over. I
am going up to see Ermine; shall I be admitted?"
"Oh, dear, yes," said Ella, "she is almost ready. But I must be quick--
I was running down to the conservatory for some fern."
She ran off again, meeting no one till she had chosen and cut the sprays
of maidenhair. Then as she turned to leave the fernery, by way of the
drawing-room, she heard voices there. Two or three persons had entered
while she was busy about the maidenhair. And one of the voices was that
of Sir Philip Cheynes. Ella hesitated; her heart beat fast, she felt
for a moment or two as if she could not face him composedly; and at that
juncture she would have given years of her life rather than let him
perceive any traces of nervousness or agitation. Yet stay where she was
for more than a minute she could not.
"I am not going to play eavesdropper again. What an unlucky place this
fernery seems for me."
She could not avoid overhearing a little--the end of a conversation
between Sir Philip and another man, as they came strolling towards the
spot where she stood.
"It is awfully good of you, Phil, to take such an interest in it--but--
no I am not sanguine. If the obstacles are to some extent imaginary,
they are, with an almost morbidly conscientious mind like hers, all the
more difficult to combat. And this recent affair has done great harm;
she _will_ take all the blame of it to herself."
"Yes," came Philip's voice in reply, "I know. But don't lose heart, my
dear fellow. You can't--Why, _Ella_!" with a sharp exclamation, "is
it--is it really you?"
Ella's lips were trembling, but she made a tremendous effort. And the
sudden perception that Sir Philip was quite as nervous, or considerably
more so than herself helped in a marvellous way to calm her.
"I was cutting some maidenhair for Ermine," she began. "I--there was no
one in the drawing-room when I passed through."
"It is certainly a curious coincidence," said Sir Philip. "I--I wish--I
hate this place--one never knows who may or may not be here," he added
vehemently.
Ella grew cold as ice.
"If you mean that I have been listening, a _second_ time," she said with
frigid haughtiness, "you are mistaken. I only heard the last few words
you and this gentleman were saying, and that I could _not_ help."
The gentleman in question came forward; he smiled slightly as he caught
sight of Ella, but there was a half quizzical look on his face which did
not tend to smooth her ruffled plumage.
"I am afraid--I hope we have not been trespassing?" he began, looking
rather puzzled. "We should not have come so early, perhaps, Cheynes?"
"Oh no," said Ella sweetly, with a complete change of tone, as she
turned to the stranger, "of course it was quite right for--but--are you
Mr West?" she exclaimed suddenly, as the idea struck her.
The tall, dark man before her bowed formally.
"I have not the honour of being Mr West," he said. "I am only--"
"You have met before," Philip interrupted. "Ella, don't you remember
Captain Omar--Bernard Omar?"
Ella in her turn looked perplexed.
"I remember the name--I have often heard it," she said: "But I don't
remember ever seeing _you_, the bearer of it, before."
She pointedly addressed the stranger, and she seemed to take a perverse
pleasure in looking her sweetest and speaking in her softest tones. Sir
Philip bit his lip and turned away.
"I'll have it out with her," he muttered.
Captain Omar smiled again, more thoroughly this time; he had very white
teeth, and very blue eyes, though his hair was dark and his complexion
bronzed. And as his eyes smiled as well as his lips, the effect was
very pleasant.
"I cannot expect you to remember," he said. "But I do--the last summer
you spent here, as a baby almost--before you went to live with your
aunt--that summer I spent my holidays here--at Cheynesacre, that is to
say. That was in the days when Cheynes was `big Phil,' and ran races
with a certain little lady perched on his shoulders."
Ella grew crimson--but she would not seem annoyed by anything Captain
Omar said.
"Yes," she replied--her calm tone belying her face, "what absurd
creatures children are. But I was really only a baby then. No, I don't
remember you, Captain Omar, but I am very pleased to make your
acquaintance."
She held out her hand graciously--Bernard took it deferentially, as if
he appreciated the honour. Ella had not shaken hands with Philip.
"I must be quick," she said, "my sisters will think I have forgotten
what I was sent for," and with a smile and nod to Captain Omar she flew
off.
"What a lovely girl she has become," said he enthusiastically.
Sir Philip gave a sort of grunt.
"You think so?" he said. "Well, yes--she is very much admired."
"She will marry soon, I should think," said Captain Omar.
Sir Philip said nothing.
"She has no fortune," he remarked dryly after a minute or two's silence.
Captain Omar gave a slightly bitter laugh.
"Upon my word I think that fact is not likely to be an obstacle. If--if
Madelene had had no fortune you don't suppose things would have been as
they are for me? I wouldn't have allowed it in that case."
Sir Philip hesitated.
"It's not so much her being _rich_, as her having this place--and all
the responsibilities it brings, and the complication of her father and
his peculiar position, and--and latterly the addition of Ella and the
care of her future."
"But Ella will marry--that's to say she's sure to have opportunities of
doing so, if Madelene doesn't shut her up," said Captain Omar
impatiently. "Now that I have seen Ella, I understand all these new
difficulties less and less. Yet, surely," and he turned to Philip with
a sort of anguish in his eyes, "don't think me a brute, Cheynes, for
saying it--you have known the whole story all through--it can't be that
she has left off caring for me, and that she puts it on these pretexts,
and--"
"No, no," Sir Philip interrupted, "don't get anything of that kind into
your head, Omar. I'm perfectly certain that Madelene is as true as
steel, and--if things were to disentangle themselves a little, if she
was quite happy and satisfied about Ella's future and saw her way to
marrying you without any fear of conflicting duties, I'm sure it would
be all right. Don't lose heart just yet, my good fellow."
"There's not much time left for keeping up my heart in," the other
replied. "My leave's over next month, Cheynes."
But Sir Philip had no time to say more, for just then some other wedding
guests made their appearance in the drawing-room.
It was not till late that afternoon that Sir Philip had an opportunity
of putting into practice his doughty resolve of "having it out" with
little Ella. All had "gone off," as the saying is, to perfection; the
bride and bridegroom had driven away, most of the "assistants" had
thoughtfully taken their departure and Madelene, poor Madelene, had
ventured to shut herself up for an hour or two like the bride's sister
in the old song. She had some reason for tears, though scarcely as much
as she made herself believe, but Ella in her new-born sympathy with her
eldest sister, was almost inclined to exaggerate Madelene's troubles,
and ready to fly out like a little turkey-cock at any one who should
venture to think lightly of them.
With the object of securing some quiet for Miss St Quentin, Ella had
cleverly decoyed away the few younger guests who were remaining till the
next day, out to the tennis-court, where, with Mrs Burton as chaperon,
some sets were quickly arranged. But Ella herself hated tennis, she was
glad to find she was not required to play, and seeing everybody
apparently happily engaged, she strolled off a little way among the
shrubberies by herself. A rustic bench in a shady corner tempted her;
she sat down, gazing before her vaguely. She felt tired and strange,
and the remembrance of the _contretemps_ in the unlucky fernery that
morning did not tend to soothe or calm her feelings.
"I wonder what they are going to settle about me," she said to herself.
"I--I should like to stay here if I could be any good to Madelene, but
it doesn't look as if that could be. And for some things I would like
to go away and never come back again. I should like never to see Philip
Cheynes again."
A wish not to be fulfilled, for at that moment a quick step along the
path made her look up, Philip stood before her. Ella's eyes fell, and
she grew red as she congratulated herself that her last words had not
been spoken aloud. But she quickly looked up again, with a sort of cold
inquiry in her face.
Philip smiled slightly as he caught her expression.
"Yes," he said, "I knew you would be vexed at my following you. I kept
out of the tennis on purpose. I must speak to you, Ella. I want to
know what is the matter. Why did you behave so--uncivilly to me this
morning--and before Omar, too?"
"I had overheard a little of what you were saying," said Ella haughtily.
"It was much the same sort of thing as--as that other time."
Sir Philip muttered something between his teeth which Ella could not
catch. Then suddenly to her surprise his tone changed; he turned to her
with a smile.
"Are you glad Ermine is married?" he said. "Don't you like West?"
Ella hesitated.
"I like what I have seen of him," she replied. "He is not good-looking
though; he is small and rather insignificant."
"Not like Omar?"
"No," she agreed, "not nearly as handsome as Captain Omar." Then with a
sudden impulse, "Sir Philip," she said, "won't you explain to me--_why_
won't Madelene marry Captain Omar? Why am I made a--a burden and a
difficulty of? I would do anything; I have been so unhappy. I know I
have misjudged Madelene in some ways, but I don't now. I do want to--to
be good and nice, and--and--"
But the rest of her confidences were lost; her voice broke, and Philip
knew that she was crying.
"Ella," he exclaimed, "Ella, darling, I can't bear to see you like that.
Have we all been very cruel to you, somehow? I feel as if we had. I
feel as if _I_ had, and yet--and yet--I would do anything--I would give
my life to make you happy."
Ella's sobs ceased. She glanced up at Philip with a curious mingling of
expressions on her face.
"Sir Philip," she said quietly, "I am not a child. You shouldn't speak
to me quite--quite like that, though I know you mean it kindly."
"Kindly!" he repeated hotly. "Ella--you know it isn't that. I dare say
I'm a fool--you will probably only laugh at me, but I have waited and I
don't think it has done any good. Granny said you were too young, and
that it wasn't fair upon you till you had seen more of the world, but
things have gone wrong quite enough. I won't risk it any more. Ella--
do you, no, _could_ you ever get to care for me?"
Ella's eyes filled with soft tears again.
"Sir Philip, do you really mean it? Is it not only that you are sorry
for me? I--you are very kind--but I couldn't bear for you only to be
sorry for me!"
"My darling--what a way to put it! Sorry for you--my princess! No
indeed! I shall be sorry for myself, if--but it's not going to be that.
Ella, you will try to care for me, won't you?"
"I don't need to try," she answered gently. "It wouldn't be worthy of
you if any _trying_ were needed. Oh, Philip--if you are sure you mean
it--I have been so unhappy. I was so ashamed of--of caring for you--"
"Ashamed," Philip interrupted.
"Yes--for I thought you cared for--I thought at least you were going to
marry--Ermine. That was how I misjudged Madelene. That was the _great_
reason why I went away."
Philip's face cleared; a good many mists were dispersed by these words
of Ella's.
"But when you _knew_ that wasn't true--up to this morning even, why were
you so strange and cold to me?" he asked.
"Because there was something you said about my being an obstacle or a
difficulty--and of course I had no reason to think you cared for _me_,
even if you did not for Ermine. Philip," with a sudden thought, "if
this is to be--you and me, I mean--will it make it easier for Madelene
to marry Captain Omar?"
Philip nodded.
"She will think so, I have no doubt. Though really and truly there was
nothing to prevent it. But your father since his losses has got morbid
about your future, and Madelene has got morbid too in another way;
self-sacrifice seemed the readiest means of cutting the knot, and so she
has persuaded herself that it was her duty. But now--"
He had drawn Ella's pretty head close till it all but rested on his
shoulder, suddenly she drew herself away and faced him with anxious eyes
and tremulous mouth.
"Morbid about my future! How do you mean?" she exclaimed.
"What a fool I am," Philip replied. "I forgot you didn't understand.
It was only, darling, that the money that should have been for _you_--
Madelene and Ermine having very large fortunes from their mother--was
lost several years ago. And there might have been difficulties, once
your sisters were married and all that, in the way of their making any
_certain_ provision for you, so--"
"So Madelene would have sacrificed herself for _me_?" Ella interrupted.
"In a sense, yes, I suppose I must say so. But also for the sake of
your father's peace of mind, and the fear of not being free to do her
duty as a wife. She has mounted it all up most ingeniously. But now--
Maddie will be _so_ glad, Ella."
Ella's face was turned away however. Sir Philip grew uneasy.
"Ella," he repeated, and with gentle force he turned her head, so that
she had to look at him. She was crying.
Philip changed his tone.
"Ella," he said gravely, "I don't think this is fair upon me. Any one
to see you, as you are now, would not believe that you were happy in
what you have just promised. Are you regretting it already?--if so--"
Ella melted at once.
"Oh, no, no! You know it is not that," she said. "How _could_ I? I
have only just told you how I care for you. I care for you
_dreadfully_, Philip. But it is just that that makes me so unhappy--so
frightened that it is only, or mostly that you pity me. I never dreamt
that I was poor. I wish, I do wish they had told me."
"It was done with the best and purest motives," Sir Philip answered
quietly. "But, Ella, how can you say such things? The very breath of
them spoils it all--all our pretty romance. Why, my darling, if you had
been a great heiress like your sisters it would have lost all its charm;
you would not have been what you are--my fairy princess, my Cinderella!"
And Ella looked up smiling again among her tears.
"Let us go and tell them all," she said. "Madelene and my father. And
oh, Philip, dear godmother! It was she after all--a great deal
certainly was her doing. For if we hadn't met first as we did,
perhaps--who knows?--perhaps you would never have taken such a fancy to
me?"
"Who knows?" said Philip teasingly. "There is one thing I must get out
of granny, Ella. I shall insist on your being married in those little
old slippers."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The End.