Читать книгу: «The Third Miss St Quentin», страница 15

“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.

“It is a nice manly letter,” said Madelene at last. “But Ermine will be angry, I fear.”

And Ella meanwhile had flown up stairs to her “nursery,” the scene of her mature as well as of her childish trials. It had come at last, the certainty of the event she had so dreaded. Ermine and Philip were to be openly engaged. Must she stay to see it? Could she bear it? Pride said yes; her hot, undisciplined girl’s heart said no. And in this conflict she passed the morning, till suddenly a sort of compromise suggested itself. She would write to her Aunt Phillis – surely she could trust her? “I will tell her that I am very unhappy here and ask her to write at once inviting me to go to her. She will do it, I am sure. I will promise her to be as nice as possible to Mr Burton. Oh, if only I can get away I shall not care about him or anything!”

Chapter Seventeen
Ella Overhears

The letter was soon written. But then came the question of how to post it. Ella would not send it openly with the rest of the letters as usual, for she was afraid of Madelene’s catching sight of it.

“I will take it to the post-office in the village myself,” she decided. “They won’t miss me. They are far too busy and absorbed about Ermine. And Sir Philip will very likely be coming over to luncheon. How I wish I could say I was ill and keep out of the way! It is too hard to feel myself a complete stranger and alien in my own home – and it will cut me off from dear godmother too. I can never see much of her now.”

A few minutes saw her wrapped up and making her way down the drive. It reminded her of that other morning only a very few weeks ago when she had found little Hetty in distress at the lodge and had stopped to help her, and when, all unconscious of her smutty face, she had met Philip at the gate. She had not even known his name then, and now – if only he had not been Philip Cheynes, but a stranger as she had imagined him! He had once wished she were really “Miss Wyndham.”

“I wonder why,” thought Ella. “Perhaps if I had been a stranger everything would have been different. There would have been no Madelene to interfere and stop it all. And I was so sure Ermine did not care for him – I wonder how it has all come about.”

But she felt as if she dared not let her thoughts dwell on it. She hurried on, safely posted her letter, and turned to go home again without misadventure. It was not till she was within the lodge gates, walking more slowly now that she had accomplished her purpose, that it suddenly struck her what a risk she had run of meeting Sir Philip, and she started as she realised this, and for half a moment stood still to reflect if she could not reach the house by some other way. But no – there was no choice of road till much nearer home – and then, as if evoked by her fears, the sound of a horse approaching at a steady trot broke on her ears. It was some way off, even a slight noise travelled far in the clear frosty air, but Ella had a long way to walk still before she could reach the concealment of the shrubberies, and where she was now standing her figure stood out clear and distinct against the sky.

“If it is he, he has seen me already,” she thought with a sort of shiver, and she started off almost at a run, from time to time stopping for a moment both to take breath and to listen if the horse and his rider were indeed coming her way. Yes – she heard them stopping at the lodge gate – then on again, faster, a good deal faster, surely!

“He has recognised me,” thought Ella, running now at full speed, till her heart beat almost to suffocation and her breath came in panting sobs. She was near the shrubbery now – and once there she could easily elude him – another effort, though she was all but breathless now, and – no, it was too late!

“Ella!” cried the voice she knew so well, “what in the world is the matter? What are, you running away in that mad fashion for?”

She had to stop – it was almost a relief to her that she was physically incapable of speaking – her face was scarlet, she panted so that Sir Philip was really startled. She tried to laugh, but the convulsive effort quite as nearly resembled a sob.

“Ella,” Philip repeated, “can’t you tell me – can’t, you speak?”

“It – it is nothing,” she replied at last. “I have only been running.”

“But why were you running so? It is wrong, it may really hurt you. You will probably catch cold if you overheat yourself so,” he went on seeming vexed and uneasy. “We might have walked up together comfortably from the lodge, as we did the day I brought you back your shoe. Do you remember?” Did she remember? Ella gave an instant’s glance at him, but without speaking.

“Is anything the matter?” Philip went on.

“Your father is not ill?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I have scarcely seen him and Madelene this morning. They are expecting you, I know. I think – Is it not a pity to keep them waiting?”

Sir Philip had got off his horse by this time. He gave an impatient exclamation.

“Say plainly you don’t want to speak to me, and I will understand you, Ella,” he said. “There is no such tremendous hurry for my seeing your father and Madelene. I was in such spirits,” he went on reproachfully. “I don’t think I ever felt so happy in my life as I did this morning when I was riding over, and when I caught sight of you I thought it such a piece of luck – ” his voice dropped a little, and his dark eyes looked quite pathetic – “and now you have spoilt it all. I don’t understand you this morning, Ella.”

“There is nothing to understand or not to understand,” said the girl, trying, though not very successfully to speak lightly. “I didn’t particularly want to speak to you, and I didn’t suppose you wanted particularly to speak to me. I – I heard a little this morning, though they don’t take me into their confidence. But I know they are waiting for you, and anxious to see you and talk it over.”

Philip looked at her curiously. She did not seem, as to him it would have appeared natural that she should do, either excited or much interested. Ermine however was not her own sister, he said to himself. Perhaps that made a difference, for that she was either self-absorbed or cold-hearted he could not for an instant believe.

“There is really no such tremendous hurry,” he repeated. “Uncle Marcus will be all the better for a little time in which to digest the news. They might as well have told you all about it. Madelene’s conscientiousness and caution run riot sometimes. I should like you to understand it all, and I am quite – ”

“Oh no, no, please no!” she cried, putting her hands hastily to her ears. “I don’t want you to – I would much rather wait for Madelene to tell me. Please – please let me go now. I hope it will be all right, and you know I do care for Ermine, and I do want her to be happy.”

“Of course you do. Whoever doubted it?” he replied, half smiling at her strange manner. “But, Ella – ”

His words were wasted. Before she had heard them Ella was off. She darted away, for she had recovered her breath by now, and was hidden among the neighbouring thick-growing shrubs, whose shelter she had all but reached before Sir Philip had first accosted her. He stood for a moment looking after her, his brows knit, his bright face clouded with perplexity. But it would scarcely do for him to run after her, as if they were a couple of children playing at “I spy.” Besides which he had his horse to think of. So he slowly mounted again and rode on to the house.

“Something has rubbed her the wrong way this morning,” he said. “Madelene’s mistaken want of confidence probably. Maddie means well, but she doesn’t understand Ella. And there is some excuse for it. She does seem such a child, and yet she is not really childish.” He drew a long breath. “Perhaps granny is right about waiting, but I don’t know. One can’t make rules in such matters, and one may run great risks. I will not let any misunderstanding come between us – that I will not do. Before I leave to-day, I will tell her all there is to tell about Ermine, and show her she is in my confidence at least.”

And with no very serious misgiving the young man rang at the hall door and was told that the master of the house was expecting him and would see him in his own room.

It was one of the days of Ella’s “lessons.” Her German teacher was due at two o’clock. As a rule a very little haste at luncheon left her free by the time appointed, which could not have been easily altered as Fräulein Braune’s “time” to her, poor woman, was “money.” But when Ella came into the dining-room at half-past one no one was there. A sudden idea struck her: it would be the greatest possible relief to escape making one at the family party. She helped herself hastily to a slice of cold meat, and having eaten it quickly, took a piece of cake in her hand and rang the bell. Barnes, who was extra attentive and condescending to-day, as he scented some news in the air, appeared in person.

“Tell Miss St Quentin and my father,” said Ella coolly, “that I could not wait to have luncheon with them as I should be too late for Fräulein Braune.”

“Certainly, Miss Hella,” Barnes replied patronisingly. “It will be of no consequence, I feel sure. My master and Miss St Quentin and Sir Philip are still hengaged in the study. Orders not to be disturbed. It will do if I explain your absence, miss, when the Colonel comes in to luncheon?”

Ella did not trouble herself to reply. She detested Barnes, and he, on his side, did not love her. Their intercourse had débuté badly; Ella had never forgotten or forgiven the half-suspicious condescension with which he had received her on her first unexpected appearance at Coombesthorpe, and had she better understood the facts of her position there, she would have been still more irate. For carefully as the St Quentins believed themselves to have kept private all the details of their family history such things always leak out. There was not a servant of any intelligence in the establishment who was not thoroughly aware that the place and the money belonged to the two elder sisters, that “the Colonel, poor gentleman,” had lost his own fortune in risky investments, and that the young daughter of his penniless second wife was to all intents and purposes a pauper. “But for the goodness of our own young ladies,” Barnes, plus royaliste que le roi, was wont to say, “Miss Hella, for all her high and mightiness, would have to earn her daily bread – and a deal of good it would do her.”

Fräulein Braune was punctual: the hour of her lesson passed heavily to-day; it was very difficult for Ella to give her usual attention. The German was a good, tender-hearted creature, who had known too much suffering in life herself not to recognise the symptoms of it in another, though she smiled inwardly as she thought that trivial indeed and probably imaginary must be the troubles of one so placed as her fortunate pupil – “young, lovely, rich, surrounded by friends, what can she really have to grieve about?”

“My dear, you are tired to-day,” she said kindly. “You have a headache I see. There is only a quarter of an hour more. Let us spend it in conversation. Would the open air do you good?”

Ella gladly acceded.

“I will walk to the furthest gates with you, Fräulein,” she said, “and we will talk as we go. I have a headache, but it is not a real one; it is because I am unhappy.”

The gentle woman gave her a glance of sympathy, but she tempered her sympathy with common-sense.

“Beware, my child,” she said, as they walked down the drive, “of imagining causes of unhappiness. One is so apt to do so when one is young,” and she sighed.

“Ah, but I have some real troubles,” Ella replied, “troubles that no one could deny. I have no mother, you know, Fräulein, and only half-sisters who till lately were complete strangers to me.”

“Certainly the want of a mother is a great want,” her companion agreed. “But an elder sister may go far towards making up for it.”

“Ye-es, sometimes,” acquiesced Ella. But the tone was enough.

“Poor little girl,” thought Fräulein Braune when she left her, “she does seem lonely. And she is so lovable! Miss St Quentin must be of a cold nature.” Ella retraced her steps: it was cold, but she walked slowly. She felt sure Sir Philip would not be staying long; as he had come over so early, and she wandered about the grounds, choosing the side of the house from which she would not be visible to any one leaving it, in hopes of not re-entering it till he had gone.

But it grew too chilly at last. She determined to make her way in by the conservatory whence she could run up stairs to her own room without much risk of meeting any one. The conservatory felt pleasantly warm: she lingered in it for a moment or two, not observing at first that the door leading from it into the drawing-room was open, nor indeed attaching any consequence to the fact when she did observe it: the drawing-room was never used by the family in the earlier part of the day. Suddenly she heard voices. They were those of Madelene and her cousin.

“I can’t find it, Philip,” said the former. “Aunty must forgive my carelessness. I will send it back to-morrow before her Mudie box goes.”

“May not Ella know where it is?” Sir Philip suggested.

“Possibly. I think I saw her reading it. But she is at her German lesson and it is a pity to interrupt her.”

“Goodness, Madelene, you talk as if she were about twelve years old,” said Philip irritably. “When are you going to allow the poor girl to consider herself grown-up? At her age, you – ”

“It is no good going back upon what I was,” Miss St Quentin interrupted. “I was quite different, and circumstances were quite different. I do my best with Ella, though I fear I don’t succeed in making her happy. It has been a sore subject.”

“When – when Ermine goes, you must make more of a companion of her,” Sir Philip suggested. “And then – some day – if Ella goes in the same way – ”

“It would simplify matters of course; that is to say if it was for her happiness,” said Madelene, half reluctantly, it seemed to Ella.

“I should rather think it would. Why then Omar might take up his quarters here for good. He would be a perfect right-hand to Uncle Marcus. I can understand your feeling that with Ella here it might not be a pleasant or natural position for him. Uncle Marcus scarcely counts as a third person – he is so much in his own room.”

“Philip, don’t talk about it,” said Madelene decidedly. “You almost seem to want to tempt me into wishing Ella away. Very certainly with both her and my father in a sense on my hands I have no right to undertake other ties. And if both Ermine and I married, it would complicate matters financially, you know.”

“Yes, I do know,” said Philip, “and I repeat what I said. It would be a very good thing if Ella – ”

“Oh, do be quiet, Philip,” said Madelene in a tone almost of entreaty. “She is much too young, and – by the time there is any prospect of her being provided for, it will be too late for me.”

Sir Philip gave a sort of grunt, which did not express assent, but he said no more.

“It is cold in here,” said Madelene. “Come back to the library.”

“I must be going,” he replied. “You have letters to write I know, and if Ella is to be shut-up at her lessons all the afternoon, the prospect is not lively.” Then Ella heard them leave the room.

With a rush there came over her the realisation of what she had been doing – “Listening!” Her face grew scarlet with shame but not for long.

“I could not have helped it,” she thought with a kind of defiance. “Their very first words were about me: I should never have known the truth had I interrupted them. And at all costs it was best to know it. Now I need have no hesitation. I will not stay another night here – they shall never be troubled by me again.”

Her face glowed as she recalled some of the expressions she had overheard. Then again she felt perplexed at certain allusions she could not explain. What did Madelene mean by speaking of “financial” complications?

“We are all three sisters; it isn’t as if one of us were a son,” she thought. “Even if most is to go to Madelene as the eldest, papa is certainly rich enough to provide well for Ermine and me too. Not that I want their money – I shall let them see that. I don’t in the least mind earning my own living, and I am sure I am able to do so. I should thank papa, I suppose, for having made me work hard since I have been here. It is as if he had foreseen it.” Then her thoughts took another turn. Who was “Omar”? Some one that Madelene was to marry, or would have married already, it appeared, but for her, Ella’s, unlucky advent.

“Everything of course, everything unfortunate is put upon my shoulders,” she reflected bitterly. “Still Madelene means to be good and unselfish, I do believe. She shall not be sacrificed to me. And when she is married to this Mr Omar, whoever he is, and Ermine to Sir Philip, I don’t think they will have much to reproach me with, ‘sore subject’ though I am.”

She sat still for a moment or two till she felt a little more collected. Then she crept quietly up stairs to her own room, locked the door by way of precaution and set to work.

All her belongings were together and in neat order. “It will be quite easy for any one to pack everything up,” she thought. Then she dressed herself in her warmest clothes, put a few things into a bag not too heavy for her to carry, and when all was ready, sat down to write a few words, which, as is the fashion of heroines in such circumstances, she fastened conspicuously to her toilet pincushion. The note was addressed to Miss St Quentin and contained these words: —

“I overheard what you and Sir Philip were talking about in the drawing-room; I know it was dishonourable to listen, but I could not help it, after the first. It is not my fault that I have been such a sore trouble to you hitherto, but it would be if I stayed here, knowing better now. I will write to you when my plans are settled, but it isn’t any use sending after me, as I am not going anywhere you know. I hope you will be very happy – and I hope Ermine will be very happy too. Please tell papa I see now how wise it was to make me go on with my lessons.

“Your affectionate sister, —

“Ella Marcia St Quentin.”

Then Ella made her way quietly down stairs, and out by a side-door. She met no one, and keeping as long as possible in the shade of the shrubberies, she gained the lodge, then the outer gates, a quarter of a mile further off, finding herself finally on the high road to Coombe. She knew her way quite well, though it was now growing dusk. She knew too what she meant to do, so she walked on without hesitating.

“I have nearly three pounds in my purse,” she reflected. “That will do. But I must get on as fast as I can. I don’t suppose Madelene will miss me till about five o’clock; it must be almost that now, and if they sent along the road they might overtake me.”

She hastened her steps; there was a short cut to Coombe through the lanes, which she knew, and by walking very fast, she reached her destination without risk of being overtaken.