The Third Miss St Quentin

“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.