The Third Miss St Quentin

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!”

Chapter Seventeen

Ella Overhears

The letter was soon written. But then came the question of how to post it. Ella would not send it openly with the rest of the letters as usual, for she was afraid of Madelene’s catching sight of it.

“I will take it to the post-office in the village myself,” she decided. “They won’t miss me. They are far too busy and absorbed about Ermine. And Sir Philip will very likely be coming over to luncheon. How I wish I could say I was ill and keep out of the way! It is too hard to feel myself a complete stranger and alien in my own home – and it will cut me off from dear godmother too. I can never see much of her now.”

A few minutes saw her wrapped up and making her way down the drive. It reminded her of that other morning only a very few weeks ago when she had found little Hetty in distress at the lodge and had stopped to help her, and when, all unconscious of her smutty face, she had met Philip at the gate. She had not even known his name then, and now – if only he had not been Philip Cheynes, but a stranger as she had imagined him! He had once wished she were really “Miss Wyndham.”

“I wonder why,” thought Ella. “Perhaps if I had been a stranger everything would have been different. There would have been no Madelene to interfere and stop it all. And I was so sure Ermine did not care for him – I wonder how it has all come about.”

But she felt as if she dared not let her thoughts dwell on it. She hurried on, safely posted her letter, and turned to go home again without misadventure. It was not till she was within the lodge gates, walking more slowly now that she had accomplished her purpose, that it suddenly struck her what a risk she had run of meeting Sir Philip, and she started as she realised this, and for half a moment stood still to reflect if she could not reach the house by some other way. But no – there was no choice of road till much nearer home – and then, as if evoked by her fears, the sound of a horse approaching at a steady trot broke on her ears. It was some way off, even a slight noise travelled far in the clear frosty air, but Ella had a long way to walk still before she could reach the concealment of the shrubberies, and where she was now standing her figure stood out clear and distinct against the sky.

“If it is he, he has seen me already,” she thought with a sort of shiver, and she started off almost at a run, from time to time stopping for a moment both to take breath and to listen if the horse and his rider were indeed coming her way. Yes – she heard them stopping at the lodge gate – then on again, faster, a good deal faster, surely!

“He has recognised me,” thought Ella, running now at full speed, till her heart beat almost to suffocation and her breath came in panting sobs. She was near the shrubbery now – and once there she could easily elude him – another effort, though she was all but breathless now, and – no, it was too late!

“Ella!” cried the voice she knew so well, “what in the world is the matter? What are, you running away in that mad fashion for?”

She had to stop – it was almost a relief to her that she was physically incapable of speaking – her face was scarlet, she panted so that Sir Philip was really startled. She tried to laugh, but the convulsive effort quite as nearly resembled a sob.

“Ella,” Philip repeated, “can’t you tell me – can’t, you speak?”

“It – it is nothing,” she replied at last. “I have only been running.”

“But why were you running so? It is wrong, it may really hurt you. You will probably catch cold if you overheat yourself so,” he went on seeming vexed and uneasy. “We might have walked up together comfortably from the lodge, as we did the day I brought you back your shoe. Do you remember?” Did she remember? Ella gave an instant’s glance at him, but without speaking.

“Is anything the matter?” Philip went on.

“Your father is not ill?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I have scarcely seen him and Madelene this morning. They are expecting you, I know. I think – Is it not a pity to keep them waiting?”

Sir Philip had got off his horse by this time. He gave an impatient exclamation.

“Say plainly you don’t want to speak to me, and I will understand you, Ella,” he said. “There is no such tremendous hurry for my seeing your father and Madelene. I was in such spirits,” he went on reproachfully. “I don’t think I ever felt so happy in my life as I did this morning when I was riding over, and when I caught sight of you I thought it such a piece of luck – ” his voice dropped a little, and his dark eyes looked quite pathetic – “and now you have spoilt it all. I don’t understand you this morning, Ella.”

“There is nothing to understand or not to understand,” said the girl, trying, though not very successfully to speak lightly. “I didn’t particularly want to speak to you, and I didn’t suppose you wanted particularly to speak to me. I – I heard a little this morning, though they don’t take me into their confidence. But I know they are waiting for you, and anxious to see you and talk it over.”

Philip looked at her curiously. She did not seem, as to him it would have appeared natural that she should do, either excited or much interested. Ermine however was not her own sister, he said to himself. Perhaps that made a difference, for that she was either self-absorbed or cold-hearted he could not for an instant believe.

“There is really no such tremendous hurry,” he repeated. “Uncle Marcus will be all the better for a little time in which to digest the news. They might as well have told you all about it. Madelene’s conscientiousness and caution run riot sometimes. I should like you to understand it all, and I am quite – ”

“Oh no, no, please no!” she cried, putting her hands hastily to her ears. “I don’t want you to – I would much rather wait for Madelene to tell me. Please – please let me go now. I hope it will be all right, and you know I do care for Ermine, and I do want her to be happy.”

“Of course you do. Whoever doubted it?” he replied, half smiling at her strange manner. “But, Ella – ”

His words were wasted. Before she had heard them Ella was off. She darted away, for she had recovered her breath by now, and was hidden among the neighbouring thick-growing shrubs, whose shelter she had all but reached before Sir Philip had first accosted her. He stood for a moment looking after her, his brows knit, his bright face clouded with perplexity. But it would scarcely do for him to run after her, as if they were a couple of children playing at “I spy.” Besides which he had his horse to think of. So he slowly mounted again and rode on to the house.

“Something has rubbed her the wrong way this morning,” he said. “Madelene’s mistaken want of confidence probably. Maddie means well, but she doesn’t understand Ella. And there is some excuse for it. She does seem such a child, and yet she is not really childish.” He drew a long breath. “Perhaps granny is right about waiting, but I don’t know. One can’t make rules in such matters, and one may run great risks. I will not let any misunderstanding come between us – that I will not do. Before I leave to-day, I will tell her all there is to tell about Ermine, and show her she is in my confidence at least.”

And with no very serious misgiving the young man rang at the hall door and was told that the master of the house was expecting him and would see him in his own room.

It was one of the days of Ella’s “lessons.” Her German teacher was due at two o’clock. As a rule a very little haste at luncheon left her free by the time appointed, which could not have been easily altered as Fräulein Braune’s “time” to her, poor woman, was “money.” But when Ella came into the dining-room at half-past one no one was there. A sudden idea struck her: it would be the greatest possible relief to escape making one at the family party. She helped herself hastily to a slice of cold meat, and having eaten it quickly, took a piece of cake in her hand and rang the bell. Barnes, who was extra attentive and condescending to-day, as he scented some news in the air, appeared in person.

“Tell Miss St Quentin and my father,” said Ella coolly, “that I could not wait to have luncheon with them as I should be too late for Fräulein Braune.”

“Certainly, Miss Hella,” Barnes replied patronisingly. “It will be of no consequence, I feel sure. My master and Miss St Quentin and Sir Philip are still hengaged in the study. Orders not to be disturbed. It will do if I explain your absence, miss, when the Colonel comes in to luncheon?”

Ella did not trouble herself to reply. She detested Barnes, and he, on his side, did not love her. Their intercourse had débuté badly; Ella had never forgotten or forgiven the half-suspicious condescension with which he had received her on her first unexpected appearance at Coombesthorpe, and had she better understood the facts of her position there, she would have been still more irate. For carefully as the St Quentins believed themselves to have kept private all the details of their family history such things always leak out. There was not a servant of any intelligence in the establishment who was not thoroughly aware that the place and the money belonged to the two elder sisters, that “the Colonel, poor gentleman,” had lost his own fortune in risky investments, and that the young daughter of his penniless second wife was to all intents and purposes a pauper. “But for the goodness of our own young ladies,” Barnes, plus royaliste que le roi, was wont to say, “Miss Hella, for all her high and mightiness, would have to earn her daily bread – and a deal of good it would do her.”

Fräulein Braune was punctual: the hour of her lesson passed heavily to-day; it was very difficult for Ella to give her usual attention. The German was a good, tender-hearted creature, who had known too much suffering in life herself not to recognise the symptoms of it in another, though she smiled inwardly as she thought that trivial indeed and probably imaginary must be the troubles of one so placed as her fortunate pupil – “young, lovely, rich, surrounded by friends, what can she really have to grieve about?”

“My dear, you are tired to-day,” she said kindly. “You have a headache I see. There is only a quarter of an hour more. Let us spend it in conversation. Would the open air do you good?”

Ella gladly acceded.

“I will walk to the furthest gates with you, Fräulein,” she said, “and we will talk as we go. I have a headache, but it is not a real one; it is because I am unhappy.”

The gentle woman gave her a glance of sympathy, but she tempered her sympathy with common-sense.