Читать книгу: «The Third Miss St Quentin», страница 17
Chapter Nineteen
“A Marriage is Arranged.”
This was what Mrs Burton had to tell. On the evening her niece had left Coombesthorpe she had been startled by a telegram from Madelene, inquiring if Ella were with her, to which of course she was obliged to reply in the negative.
“I was not so very frightened as I would have been had I not that very morning got your letter asking me to invite you for a visit. Fortunately Mr Burton was out when the telegram came,” she went on, “so I did not need to tell him about it – it is just as well – I don’t think he need hear more than that you are coming on a visit – oh, but I am running on without explaining,” seeing Ella raise her eyebrows with a look of surprise. “I must tell you that all the next day and the day after, I kept thinking you would walk in, my dear, and when you did not come and there was no letter I began to be really frightened. I was just making up my mind to tell Mr Burton all about it and start for Coombesthorpe when last night to my astonishment there came a message – ”
“A telegram?” Ella interrupted.
“No, neither a telegram nor a letter. A message brought by a messenger from your sister Madelene,” said Mrs Burton, with a little confusion of manner which did not escape Ella’s sharp eyes, “as she could not come herself – ”
“And why could she not come herself? If she had really cared – ” interrupted Ella with a little choke in her voice.
“And your father so ill! You forget, Ella.”
“Papa ill – he was much better?” Ella exclaimed with a little start.
“But he had a sort of attack the evening you left. Did you not know? Oh, no of course, how could you. He had had a good deal to agitate him that day, it appears, and at first they were very much alarmed, but it was more nervousness than anything else, and he is better now, but he won’t hear of Madelene leaving him. She must have had rather a time of it, I fancy – what with the fright about you and all. But I dare say it will do her no harm to be shaken out of her apathy a little.”
Ella’s face had grown very grave. Poor Madelene! Had she been frightened about her – Ella – then, and Ermine away?
“Was it about my – about me that papa was upset, do you think, aunt?” she asked.
“Not only that. Si – the – I understood that Madelene made the best of it to the Colonel,” said Mrs Burton, “took the blame upon herself of some misunderstanding. You will tell me all about it of course. The least Madelene could do was to blame herself, I should say! And now, darling, that I have explained things, supposing you get ready? I have seen Mrs Ward and settled everything with her.”
“But I don’t understand in the least,” said Ella, “you haven’t explained anything, aunt Phillis. What did Madelene’s messenger say to you? Had she not seen Fräulein Braune? Do you not know that I am only waiting here for their consent – a nominal form that Mrs Ward insists on – to my going to Germany as – as a sort of governess?”
Mrs Burton gave a gasp. Yes – she knew it all, but she had been warned to act with the greatest caution and tact and to avoid as much as possible all irritating discussion. And just as she was flattering herself that she had done so, and managed it all so beautifully, here Ella faces round upon her, and nothing has been done or settled at all!
“My dearest child,” she exclaimed, “you cannot seriously think such a step would be allowed? Of course Madelene has seen Fräulein Braune and had a long talk with her. But it can’t be – your father would not hear of it. And think of the scandal!”
“I can’t help that,” said Ella quickly. “Of course people would talk of it – the daughter of a very rich man like my father, going out as a governess, would naturally make people talk. But I will not go back, and so as I won’t do what they wish I do not ask for any money – not even the money that when I am of age would be legally mine. I am quite willing to work for myself. I told Madelene, at least I wrote it, that I would give up my share, but I would not stay at home.”
“You wrote that to Madelene about giving up your share,” repeated Mrs Burton with a curious expression in her face, an expression which Ella did not understand.
“Of course I did. What is money without affection?” said Ella, rearing her little head superbly.
Mrs Burton hesitated. They were treading on delicate ground, ground on which she herself had been specially warned to tread with the greatest caution, and she grew nervous.
“My dearest child,” she began after a moment’s silence. “I have not said that your father insists on your returning to Coombesthorpe, even though he refuses his consent to your going to Germany. On the contrary he does not want you to go back to them. He seems to think it better not.”
“And Madelene?” asked Ella sharply. “What does she wish?”
“Personally, as far as I could make out, she was most anxious for you to go back. She was suffering terribly, so – that may have been exaggerated – at not being able to come herself to you, but she gave in to your father’s decision.”
“And what was that?”
“That you should come back to me, darling. It was what you wished yourself when you wrote last week,” said Mrs Burton anxiously.
“Yes, but things have changed since then. I don’t want any temporary plan. I want to – to be independent for good. I want never to return there, to Coombesthorpe,” said Ella, almost fiercely.
Mrs Burton groaned. What was she to do or say? She had undertaken the mission cheerfully and hopefully, confident in Ella’s affection for herself and, judging naturally enough by the letter she had so recently received, without any misgiving but that her niece would be ready and glad to return to her care, once she was assured of a welcome.
“It will be all right, you will see,” she had said to Miss St Quentin’s “messenger;” “she would have come straight to me, I know, but for her fears that Mr Burton might not be willing to receive her. And that I can satisfy her about.”
But Ella’s unexpected attitude set her quite at fault. She put her hand in her pocket to draw out her handkerchief, for she really felt as if she were going to cry, and with a sudden exclamation of relief she drew it out again, with not her handkerchief but a letter. It was addressed to Ella.
“I am forgetting this,” said Mrs Burton, “perhaps it may have more effect than my words.”
The writing was Madelene’s. A slight flush rose to Ella’s pale face as she saw it, and without speaking she opened the envelope.
“My dear Ella,” the letter began, —
“I have been completely miserable about you. I would have set off at once in search of you, had it been possible to leave papa. Thanks, to” and here some word was erased, “inquiries I was able to make without raising any gossip, I satisfied myself that you were in safe hands, and Fräulein Braune has now kindly come to see me herself. We cannot consent to your going to Germany; all I can do at present is to beg you to go to Mrs Burton’s in the meantime. I cannot tell you how unhappy I am that you should have overheard and somehow so terribly misconstrued what I said to Philip in the drawing-room. I do not altogether understand you even now, and I know you do not understand me. I can only pray that some day it may be different. Forgive the pain I have – oh, so unintentionally – caused you. If Ermine were here I would beg her to write instead of me – she would know better what to say, and I think you trust her. I shall know no peace till I hear that you are safe with your aunt. I have been almost overwhelmed these last few days and I scarcely know what I write. Papa is better, and I have not allowed him to blame you. I have made him see it has been my fault. Let me hear you are with Mrs Burton.
“Your affectionate sister, —
“Madelene.”
Ella kept her eyes fixed on the paper for some time after she had read it; she did not want her aunt to see the tears, which rose unbidden and which with a strong effort she repressed again. When she looked up it was with a calm, almost impassive expression.
“I will go back with you, aunt Phillis,” she said. “I do not wish to make an exposé of our family affairs by attempting to defy my father. I will go back with you in the meantime.”
“My darling!” Mrs Burton exclaimed. “I knew you would not be obstinate. And you will see – Mr Burton will be delighted to have you with us. You must feel you are really coming home, my own dear child.”
“Poor aunty,” said Ella half affectionately, half patronisingly. But she smiled graciously enough, and Mrs Burton was satisfied.
Ella contrived to say a word or two in private to Mrs Ward before she left. She thanked her for her kindness and added, —
“You must not think I have given up my plan, Mrs Ward. I had to give in in the meantime, but when I am of age, or sooner perhaps, you will probably hear of me again.”
The matron smiled.
“I shall always be pleased to hear of you, Miss St Quentin,” she answered. “But not as wanting to be a governess, I hope. Try to be happy and useful at home. There is no place like it – except in very exceptional circumstances. And then there are so many women who must work and find it very difficult to do so. I am always sorry to see their ranks increased unnecessarily.”
Ella seemed rather struck by this remark.
“I had never thought of it that way,” she said. It was not till her aunt and she were ensconsed in a comfortable railway carriage by themselves that she ventured upon the question she had been all along burning to ask.
“Aunt Phillis,” she began, “have you nothing more to tell me? Did – did Madelene’s messenger say nothing more?”
“What do you mean, my dear?” said Mrs Burton with manifest uneasiness.
“I am almost sure I know who the messenger was,” Ella went on, “and under the circumstances it was, I think, really kind. But you don’t want to tell me, so I won’t ask. Only – did this mysterious person not tell you any news – anything about Ermine?”
Mrs Burton looked up with evident relief. This was plainly a safe tack.
“About Ermine?” she said with perfect candour; “no, my dear, nothing at all – except – yes, I think – that was said – that she is coming home immediately; she must indeed be home already, I fancy.”
“And that was all?”
“Yes, all, I assure you. What news did you expect?”
“I can’t tell you,” Ella replied. “We shall be hearing it before long no doubt.”
Then she relapsed into silence, and Mrs Burton in her own mind began to put two and two together. Could Ella’s determination to leave her home have anything to do with the handsome young cousin of her sisters’ – Madelene’s “messenger,” as the girl had shrewdly surmised? Could it be that he had been playing a double game, and making the poor child believe he cared for her when in reality engaged, or in some tacit way plighted, to one of her sisters? For Mrs Burton had heard some gossip more than once about Sir Philip Cheynes and the Coombesthorpe heiresses. If it were indeed so it would explain all. And yet – it was difficult to believe anything of the kind of the young man.
“He seemed so frank and chivalrous,” thought Ella’s aunt, “and he spoke in such an entirely brotherly way of Madelene and Ermine. And they all seem to have unshed to make Ella happy. The keeping from her the true state of affairs about the property was kindly done. And I am sure Sir Philip Cheynes was genuinely concerned and anxious about Ella. He really seemed terribly sorry. I do wish she had never left me; and to think that poor Marcus’s money is all gone, and that there is nothing for her! If I had known it, I would never have married again, never, kind as Mr Burton is! I do hope he and Ella will take to each other, and I think they will, his best comes out to any one in trouble.”
It was very strange to Ella to find herself again – and after the lapse of comparatively speaking so short a time – under her aunt’s roof, or to speak more correctly, under Mr Burton’s. She would have shrunk from meeting the worthy gentleman a short time before, but late events had changed her greatly. She was quiet and gentle enough now, so much so indeed that her aunt and her husband agreed that they would be glad to see a spark or two of her old spirit.
“How you and she used to fight,” Mrs Burton exclaimed half regretfully.
“And now,” her husband added, “she is as quiet and mild as a lamb. I don’t like it, Phillis – no, my dear, I don’t like it. I take blame to myself for having let her leave you, and if there is anything I can do to make up for it, I will do so. She has such pretty, thoughtful ways too. Did you notice how she sees that my paper is always folded ready for me? Her father must be hard to please if he was not satisfied with her.”
It was true. Ella was much softened; her sore heart was grateful for kindness, and she was ashamed to recall her childish petulance and impertinence to her aunt’s husband. But kind as the Burtons were to her, there were often times when she regretted that she had not been allowed to take her own way; for life was dull and dreary to her. She missed the companionship of her sisters, little as she had prized it while with them. Madelene’s gentleness and refinement, Ermine’s merry humour and bright intellect had become more to her than she had in the least realised. “If only, oh, if only they had loved me a little,” she repeated to herself.
Time passed – slowly enough to Ella; at the end of a week she felt as if she had been a month with her aunt; at the end of a fortnight she could have believed a year had gone by since she left Coombesthorpe; before the first month was over the whole of the past year began to seem to her like a strangely mingled dream of pain and pleasure. She wrote to Madelene, gently and regretfully, but vaguely, and Madelene who had been longing for this letter, and building some hopes upon it, felt saddened and discouraged. She handed it to Ermine, who read it carefully.
“Can you understand her?” asked Miss St Quentin.
Ermine knitted her brows.
“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.
