The Third Miss St Quentin

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.