The Third Miss St Quentin

“Not altogether,” she said. “But, Maddie, I don’t despair yet of things coming right somehow. I suppose,” she added with a little smile, “when one is happy one’s self, it is easier to feel hopeful about other people, even – ” but here she hesitated; “even about you and Bernard.”

“Oh, Ermine, do leave that subject alone,” said Madelene.

“Next week I shall write to Ella,” said Ermine, “papa will let me send a message from him I feel sure.”

Ella had been fully four weeks at Mrs Burton’s when Ermine’s letter came. It was a mild day in March, one of the occasional early spring days which are not false to their name; Ella had persuaded her aunt to let her go for a walk by herself, and with many injunctions as to the direction she was to take, and the roads and paths she was not to wander from, Mrs Burton had consented. In spite of herself the fresh, yet soft air, the sensation of “promise” in the birds’ chirpings, and the few all but invisible green specks in the hedges, still more the discovery of a lingering snowdrop or two, and of something not unlike buds here and there among the primrose tufts, gave her a thrill of keen pleasure and invigoration.

“I wish I could go away – quite away, ever so far,” she said to herself. “I should like to make a fresh start and show them all I am not the spoilt, self-willed child they have thought me. I wish they would write and tell me about Ermine’s engagement, it must be openly announced by now. I do wish they would tell me of it, and then I think I would take courage and write to dear godmother. I am afraid she is very angry with me, and no wonder. It must have seemed very unnatural to her that if I was in trouble at home I did not go to her, when she was so sympathising about my thinking Madelene didn’t care for me. But Cheynesacre was the last, the very last place I could have gone to.”

She was crossing the wide breezy downs not far from Mrs Burton’s house on the outskirts of the town. Already the short afternoon was closing in, and the colours in the sky, softened by the wintry haze, announced the approaching sunset. Ella stood still to admire.

“How lovely it would be just now at home,” she thought; the word slipping out half-unconsciously, “I do love the real country, and yet when I was there with them I used to fancy I longed for streets and shops. I must have changed – yes, I am sure I have changed. But I am very babyish still. I do feel this afternoon somehow as if I were going to be happy – and yet I don’t know why.”

She hastened on.

“Aunty will be getting frightened,” she thought. And as if in reply to the thought, suddenly just emerging on to the open ground, she caught sight of Mrs Burton’s familiar figure. She was walking quickly, more quickly than usual, for aunt Phillis was stout and short and not very much given to exertion. Ella’s conscience reproached her as she perceived that the good lady was panting for breath and considerably redder in the face than usual.

“Oh, aunty,” she exclaimed, “I’m so sorry. Have I stayed too long?”

For a moment or two Mrs Burton could not get her breath to reply, instead of speaking she held out a letter – it was addressed to Ella in Ermine’s writing.

“I couldn’t wait till you came in. I was so eager to tell you. I felt so excited,” panted the good lady at last. “I am so pleased and I am sure it will bring things round. Madelene has written to me, that is how I know. I do think it very nice of her. And they have – your father and they have invited us to the wedding – Mr Burton and me. It is very gratifying,” and Aunt Phillis beamed with complacency.

Ella had taken the letter in silence. But she had grown deadly pale. It had come then – the blow which she had been vaguely anticipating; which she had – how mistakenly she now saw – come to believe she thoroughly realised, had fallen.

“I knew something was going to happen,” she said to herself; “I felt it coming, and like a fool I fancied it was going to be something happy.”

Her silence startled her aunt. She glanced at her hastily.

“My dear child,” she exclaimed. “You look quite white. How thoughtless of me to startle you so. Don’t be frightened, Ella dearest. It is pleasant – good news, nothing to be distressed about.”

Ella turned to her with what was intended to be a smile, but failed disastrously.

“I – I was only startled,” the poor child said at last, with a painful sort of gasp.

Mrs Burton grew more and more alarmed. She glanced round; there was a bench a few paces off.

“Let us sit down for a minute or two,” she said. “It is cold. But you must rest and recover yourself. Read your letter quietly. I won’t speak to you till you feel all right again.”

She had fortunately some eau de Cologne in her pocket, by the help of which and a few minutes of perfect quiet, Ella mastered her agitation. Then she opened the letter.

She had read but a few lines when a change came over her face, first a look of bewilderment which increased as she read, then a curious, half-fearful questioning appeared in her eyes, to be followed by a flush of eager, yet tremulous joy.

“Aunty,” she said breathlessly, “please look at it,” and she held out the letter, “am I making some strange mistake? I feel as if I were dreaming. Aunty – let me see your letter – do they tell you too who it is? Is it true – is it not Sir Philip that Ermine is going to marry?”

Mrs Burton glanced at her niece in astonishment, astonishment which soon changed to keen concern and sympathy as she understood Ella’s anxiety. She had plenty of good sense and ready wit however.

“Ella shall never know I have discovered her secret,” was the thought that flashed through her mind.

“Not Sir Philip,” she repeated, “why of course not – I never thought of him for either of your sisters. He has been far too much like a brother to them always.”

Her tone was quite matter-of-fact. Ella gave a half shy look at her – it was reassuring.

“Yes,” she said, “they have seemed like that, I know, but still – one never knows how things may turn out. Would you like to read my letter, aunt? – and may I see yours? Ermine’s is very, very kind.”

“Kinder than I deserve,” she added to herself. How grievously she had misjudged her sisters, Madelene especially! How suspicious and mean now seemed her fancies that Madelene was plotting to keep her out of Sir Philip’s way in order that she might bring about a marriage between him and Ermine! She grew more and more ashamed as she read Madelene’s own letter to her aunt, for it was evident that Miss St Quentin’s personal feelings were those of the greatest satisfaction; there was not the slightest shadow of regret or disappointment that Ermine’s choice should have fallen where it had.

“She could not have written as she does if she had ever thought of Sir Philip as I suspected,” thought Ella, and she sat, lost in her own reflections till her aunt’s voice interrupted her.

“Have you ever seen him, Ella – your future brother-in-law – Mr Guildford West?” asked Mrs Burton.

“N-no – no,” Ella replied, “at least I don’t remember him. I think – yes, I recollect Madelene’s saying once that he was at the Manor ball, but I don’t think I knew which he was.”

Then her mind reverted to what Madelene had said at different times about Ermine’s future, and she felt startled again to think how she had misinterpreted every allusion of the kind. Yet there was still something she could not altogether understand – why had Madelene spoken of her as such a care and burden, adding to the existing “complications?”

“No,” thought Ella, “I can’t quite make it out. But I will never mistrust Madelene again – it is the least I can do to trust her now after having so shamefully misjudged her. Some day perhaps, if she and I are ever together again – some day she will explain things perhaps and till then I can only ask her pardon in my heart.”

She was very pale and there were tears in her eyes as she roused herself to take part in her aunt’s eager speculations and comments on the interesting piece of news.

“It is so nice of Madelene to say they will hope to see us at the wedding. I hope Mr Burton will go; he is rather shy, you see, Ella, having been so long a bachelor, and that makes him seem gruff till people get to know him. But we must get him to go – it will be charming to see you as bridesmaid. I am so pleased about it altogether. And your father is pleased – it will do him good. Mr West must be very nice in every way,” she went on, “not very rich, I suppose, but with Ermine’s fortune that was not necessary.”

Ella turned to her with a little surprise.

“Will Ermine have much while papa lives?” she asked. “I have never heard much about it, but papa never speaks as if he were very rich.”

Mrs Burton fidgeted a little.

“Oh – Ermine will have a very handsome income,” she said evasively. “But I dare say they will explain things themselves to you, now you are really grown-up. I consider it a very good marriage for Mr West too.”

And Ella’s girlish mind gave no more thought to this part of the matter. Pounds, shillings, and pence were such very unimportant considerations in her eyes.

Chapter Twenty

“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 Fräulein Braune.”