The Third Miss St Quentin

“I had no idea you sang so beautifully,” he said to her when the little performance was over, and Miss St Quentin was engaged in accompanying another member of the party.

Ella’s eyes sparkled.

“Do you really think I sing well? I am so pleased,” she said simply. “I know you are a good judge. Ermine told me so. She and Madelene like my singing, I think. It – it is one of the few things Madelene seems to approve of in me,” she added with bitterness that was real though she tried to say it lightly as if in jest.

Philip looked at her with grave concern in his eyes.

“Are you in earnest, Ella?” he said; “real earnest, as the children say?”

Ella gave what in a less elegant and perfectly well-bred young person might have been called “a wriggle.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.

“About your sisters you mean?” he went on. “I certainly don’t want to do so either if, as I fear, you are unfairly prejudiced against them. At least I should be sorry to hear you say anything unfair, which – which might,” but here he hesitated. “Don’t think I am setting myself up as a judge,” he went on, “but it is possible I might be able to make you see things differently. I know my cousins so well, so thoroughly, and yet I think I can see that the position of things is difficult for you all.”

“I have nothing to say against Ermine,” said Ella quickly, with a sudden access of generosity. “Ermine is very good to me – ”

She glanced at Philip as she spoke: a pleased look had stolen into his eyes.

“Ah,” thought Ella.

“I am glad to hear you say that,” he said eagerly; “but Mad – ”

“Oh, for that matter,” Ella went on, “I don’t mean to say that practically Madelene is not good to me too. But – it is she who is prejudiced it seems to me,” she added with rather a wintry smile; “she does not judge me fairly. I don’t understand her, nor she me – that is the truth of it, I suppose. I don’t think she has ever been young, or had young feelings. She is so frightfully cold and measured, and she thinks every one should see things precisely as she does.”

Philip smiled too, but in his smile there was little more mirth than in Ella’s.

“Madelene cold and unfeeling!” he exclaimed. “My dear child, how little you know her! I allow,” he went on hastily, noticing an expression on her face which irresistibly reminded him of the days when she used to stamp her feet at “big Phil” if he refused to gallop about with her as much as she wanted, “I allow that Madelene’s manner is often against her. Very often the very extent and depth of her feeling makes her seem colder from the effort she puts on herself to be self-controlled.”

“That’s what is always said of cold, stiff, reserved people,” Ella answered. “Just because you can’t see or feel their feelings you are told to believe in them doubly! I hate reserved people.”

Philip was a little taken aback.

“I think they are rather to be pitied,” he said quietly.

The words were not without their effect on Ella, but she would not show it.

“You – ” she began, but a little quaver in her voice made her hesitate, “you won’t make me like Madelene any better for taking her part against me,” she said with a sort of incipient sob.

Philip laid his hand on her pretty white arm. “Dear Ella,” he said with genuine distress in his voice, “how can you mistake me so? If you only understood better! My only wish is that you should not make yourself unhappy when there is no need for it.”

Ella swallowed down one or two tears before replying.

“I am happy here,” she said. “I am always happy with dear godmother. I wish, Sir Philip, you would let me forget about home troubles for a little. I think you might – you are going away soon to amuse yourself; you needn’t grudge me my little bit of holiday.”

Philip grew more and more annoyed.

“I have done no good, I see,” he said in a tone of vexation. “Indeed I have done harm – for I have made you indignant with me for meddling. I wish to goodness – ” but here he stopped.

“What?” said Ella, gently.

“I wish you were Miss Wyndham, or Miss Anybody except what you are,” he said petulantly. “You will now always be thinking I am ‘taking parts,’ or some nonsense of that kind.”

“No – I don’t want to think that,” she replied glancing up at him half shyly with a sort of deprecation in her lovely eyes.

“Thank you – thank you for saying that,” he replied eagerly. “Indeed you would be doing me the greatest injustice if you – ” but at that moment as he was bending towards Ella, speaking though earnestly, in a lower tone than usual, a voice interrupted them. It was that of Miss St Quentin, who had risen from the piano.

“Ella,” she said in her quiet, impassive way, “I want you to take Ermine’s part in that duet that she and I have just got. I am sure you can manage it.”

Ella rose at once, though without speaking.

“Upon my word,” said Sir Philip to himself, “Madelene is strangely deficient in tact. She might trust me to do the child no harm – she knows how anxious I am to bring about a more cordial state of feeling.”

And his manner towards his cousin for the rest of the evening was decidedly a shade less cordial than it was wont to be.

Chapter Sixteen

Out in the Cold

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.