The Third Miss St Quentin

“And he managed Mrs Burton very well too,” said Ermine.

“Don’t forget our promise never to tell it was he who went to see her,” said Madelene, quickly.

“Ella shall certainly not hear it from us,” said Ermine, “but I doubt Mrs Burton’s capacity for keeping a secret.”

“I hope she has not told it,” said Madelene; “I could not bear poor Ella to be misled into thinking Philip cares for her – I did my best to warn her, but I doubt if it did any good.”

“Except to make her angry with you,” said Ermine. “That is usually the fate of the warner in such cases.”

“And perhaps it put the idea more in her head than it was,” added Madelene, regretfully. “They say, Ermine, that Philip is a great deal at the Belvoirs’ now, and Leonora is certainly a very nice girl.”

“Rubbish,” said Ermine. “He has known Leonora Belvoir since she was a baby, and seen her constantly. And she is not half as pretty, as Ella. If only Ella had come back sooner, I think I could have got Guildford to find out about it,” she added meditatively. “I suppose you couldn’t get Bernard to do so?”

Madelene grew crimson.

“Ermine, how can you be so thoughtless?” she exclaimed. “It is really unkind of you. I hope most earnestly, as you know, that Captain Omar will not come. Philip knows I do not want him to come.”

But Ermine said no more.

The day of the marriage was bright and sunny. When Ella woke up, and saw from her window the familiar scene in all its summer beauty, she shut her eyes for a moment, while a sort of fantastic wish went through her that the last few months might prove to be only a dream, that she had only now arrived for the first time at her home, and that all happy possibilities lay before her. She was again in her old “nursery” – she had begged that it might be so, though the rooms her sisters had originally intended for her were long ago ready.

“Oh, dear, if I could but go back again, how different I would be,” she thought. “How is it? Madelene and Ermine seem so different now – it is as if scales had fallen from my eyes. I wonder,” she went on, “I wonder if I had never remembered that silly old fancy about being like Cinderella – I wonder if Harvey had never put it into my head, if things would have turned out better? How sad it seems that bad or foolish things should stick to us like burrs all through the years, and that good and wise and useful things should be so quickly forgotten!”

She roused herself before long however; there was plenty for her to do this wedding-day. She was full of the wish to be of all the help and support she possibly could be to Madelene. For calm and quiet as Miss St Quentin appeared, Ella well knew that the parting with her sister, her “other self,” for such indeed Ermine had been to her, was no light matter, no slight wrench. And this reflection bore good fruit with the youngest sister.

“I will never call Madelene cold or heartless again,” she thought. “I know how she loves Ermine, and yet she is quietly smiling and calm – a stranger might say she did not mind it at all.”

It was still the old-fashioned days of early morning marriages: most of the guests were to assemble at the house, for the distance thence to the church was very short. Ella had not as yet seen anything of her godmother, for the evening before, with the exception of aunt Phillis and her husband, Colonel St Quentin and his children had spent alone – and the thought of the meeting with Lady Cheynes lay rather heavily on the girl’s mind. But like many anticipated evils it turned out quite differently from her fears.

“Run down to the fernery, Ella,” said Madelene, as they were giving the last touches to the bride, “and bring me one or two more sprays of maidenhair. No, Ermine, I’m not putting too much green. It needs just a tiny bit more.”

Off ran Ella, but half-way down stairs, at a sudden turn she came full tilt against Lady Cheynes, slowly mounting to Ermine’s room.

“Oh, dear – I beg your pardon,” Ella began. Then in a different voice, “Oh! godmother, dear godmother, is it you!”

She half threw her arms round the old lady’s neck, then drew back in affright.

“Oh, godmother, dear, will you kiss me? Will you forgive me?” she cried. “I’m afraid you’ve been very, very vexed with me, but I didn’t mean to do wrong – it – it was all a mistake somehow.”

Her voice faltered as if she were going to cry; in an instant Lady Cheynes was kissing her.

“My darling,” she said, “my poor little silly child. No, no – I was more grieved than vexed, dear, but perhaps I understand you as well as, or better than you understand yourself. But don’t cry, my little Ella. It would never do to have tears to-day.”

“I won’t, godmother, I won’t cry,” said Ella, choking back the tears bravely, “it is only,” she went on, “that you are – you are all so very good to me.”

“Well, well – we must have a good talk when all this bustle is over. I am going up to see Ermine; shall I be admitted?”

“Oh, dear, yes,” said Ella, “she is almost ready. But I must be quick – I was running down to the conservatory for some fern.”

She ran off again, meeting no one till she had chosen and cut the sprays of maidenhair. Then as she turned to leave the fernery, by way of the drawing-room, she heard voices there. Two or three persons had entered while she was busy about the maidenhair. And one of the voices was that of Sir Philip Cheynes. Ella hesitated; her heart beat fast, she felt for a moment or two as if she could not face him composedly; and at that juncture she would have given years of her life rather than let him perceive any traces of nervousness or agitation. Yet stay where she was for more than a minute she could not.

“I am not going to play eavesdropper again. What an unlucky place this fernery seems for me.”

She could not avoid overhearing a little – the end of a conversation between Sir Philip and another man, as they came strolling towards the spot where she stood.

“It is awfully good of you, Phil, to take such an interest in it – but – no I am not sanguine. If the obstacles are to some extent imaginary, they are, with an almost morbidly conscientious mind like hers, all the more difficult to combat. And this recent affair has done great harm; she will take all the blame of it to herself.”

“Yes,” came Philip’s voice in reply, “I know. But don’t lose heart, my dear fellow. You can’t – Why, Ella!” with a sharp exclamation, “is it – is it really you?”

Ella’s lips were trembling, but she made a tremendous effort. And the sudden perception that Sir Philip was quite as nervous, or considerably more so than herself helped in a marvellous way to calm her.

“I was cutting some maidenhair for Ermine,” she began. “I – there was no one in the drawing-room when I passed through.”

“It is certainly a curious coincidence,” said Sir Philip. “I – I wish – I hate this place – one never knows who may or may not be here,” he added vehemently.

Ella grew cold as ice.

“If you mean that I have been listening, a second time,” she said with frigid haughtiness, “you are mistaken. I only heard the last few words you and this gentleman were saying, and that I could not help.”

The gentleman in question came forward; he smiled slightly as he caught sight of Ella, but there was a half quizzical look on his face which did not tend to smooth her ruffled plumage.

“I am afraid – I hope we have not been trespassing?” he began, looking rather puzzled. “We should not have come so early, perhaps, Cheynes?”

“Oh no,” said Ella sweetly, with a complete change of tone, as she turned to the stranger, “of course it was quite right for – but – are you Mr West?” she exclaimed suddenly, as the idea struck her.

The tall, dark man before her bowed formally.

“I have not the honour of being Mr West,” he said. “I am only – ”

“You have met before,” Philip interrupted. “Ella, don’t you remember Captain Omar – Bernard Omar?”

Ella in her turn looked perplexed.

“I remember the name – I have often heard it,” she said: “But I don’t remember ever seeing you, the bearer of it, before.”

She pointedly addressed the stranger, and she seemed to take a perverse pleasure in looking her sweetest and speaking in her softest tones. Sir Philip bit his lip and turned away.

“I’ll have it out with her,” he muttered.

Captain Omar smiled again, more thoroughly this time; he had very white teeth, and very blue eyes, though his hair was dark and his complexion bronzed. And as his eyes smiled as well as his lips, the effect was very pleasant.

“I cannot expect you to remember,” he said. “But I do – the last summer you spent here, as a baby almost – before you went to live with your aunt – that summer I spent my holidays here – at Cheynesacre, that is to say. That was in the days when Cheynes was ‘big Phil,’ and ran races with a certain little lady perched on his shoulders.”

Ella grew crimson – but she would not seem annoyed by anything Captain Omar said.

“Yes,” she replied – her calm tone belying her face, “what absurd creatures children are. But I was really only a baby then. No, I don’t remember you, Captain Omar, but I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

She held out her hand graciously – Bernard took it deferentially, as if he appreciated the honour. Ella had not shaken hands with Philip.