The Third Miss St Quentin

Miss St Quentin had some difficulty in keeping her gravity.

“No,” she said quietly. “I do not mean charge of that kind. You forget that to look after a large house like this, even with very good servants, takes a great deal of experience. I have had it to do more or less ever since I was younger than you, but it was not easy, I can assure you.”

“Then why shouldn’t I begin now? If you and Ermine were married I might have to keep house for papa here. Why shouldn’t I begin to learn?” asked Ella.

“It isn’t likely you would ever have to do that,” began Madelene. Then she hesitated. “I shall be glad to teach you what I can – but I think you should have some definite work in the house too. I was thinking you might take charge of the books in the library, dusting them and seeing that they are kept in order, for papa doesn’t like the servants to touch them. And I think he wants an addition to the catalogue made. And then, it would be a great help to Ermine if you looked after the flowers in the drawing-room every morning.”

“Can’t the gardeners do that?” said Ella.

“We have always superintended it ourselves,” said Madelene simply.

Her reply rather disconcerted Ella. She wanted to be able to say to herself that the disagreeable work was to be put upon her; the things her sisters did not like doing themselves – but in the face of Madelene’s remark she could scarcely hint at anything of this kind. So, she said nothing, but sat vaguely turning over the leaves of the music-book before her. Suddenly the door opened —

“Lady Cheynes,” said the servant.

Madelene hastened to meet the new-comer, her face lighting up with pleasure.

“Oh, Aunt Anna,” she exclaimed, “how nice of you! You have come to stay all day, I hope, at least to luncheon?”

“To luncheon, well perhaps, but I must leave immediately after,” said the old lady, kissing her niece as she spoke. “And now – where is the child?” and she glanced round.

“Ella,” said Madelene, “she was here an instant ago – can she have run off?”

“Shy?” asked Lady Cheynes. Madelene smiled.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Ah, there you are,” she went on, as Ella appeared from the other side of a screen, where she had momentarily hidden herself. “Ella, Lady Cheynes remembers you, though I don’t think you remember her.”

Ella raised her lovely eyes to the old lady’s face with a softer expression than Madelene had yet seen in them.

“I am not quite sure of that,” she said very gently, “things are beginning to come back to me a little. I almost think I do remember my – Lady Cheynes a very little.”

The old lady laid her two hands on Ella’s shoulders and drew her forward a little.

“Is she like her dear mother at all?” speaking half to herself and half to her niece.

“I scarcely think so,” said Miss St Quentin softly.

“Her voice is like Ellen’s,” Lady Cheynes went on, “and – yes, her eyes are like hers too. You must see it,” she added to Madelene.

“I do,” Madelene replied, honestly, though truth to tell she had not before perceived it; “I quite see it now,” for the gentleness was still in Ella’s eyes.

“God bless you, my child,” Lady Cheynes murmured, and she kissed Ella on the forehead; “I could not wish anything better for you than that you should be like your mother in every way, except that I hope you are stronger. And she looks so, does she not, Maddie?”

“I don’t think she could possibly look better,” said Madelene. Ella glanced at her with a less amiable expression than that with which she had been favouring Lady Cheynes, but the visitor was loosening her mantle at that moment, and did not see it.

“Of course they will make out that I am as strong as a horse,” the girl was saying to herself.

“Where have you located her?” the old lady went on to ask. “The rooms you were intending for her can’t be ready.”

“No,” said Madelene, “that is the worst of Ella’s unexpected arrival, and we couldn’t – papa did not wish her to be in the north side – so – ”

“I am in the nursery,” said Ella, meekly. “I am quite comfortable there.”

“In the nursery,” repeated Lady Cheynes with a comical expression, “but I don’t expect you will stay there long, do you?”

Ella looked down.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It is quite a nice little room. Would Lady Cheynes like to see it, perhaps?” she asked demurely.

Miss St Quentin felt at that moment more inclined to shake Ella than at any time since her arrival.

“Why should my aunt wish to see it?” she said sharply. “You forget Ella, that she knew this house long before any of us were heard of. It was her own old home.”

Ella’s eyes opened in genuine astonishment.

“I didn’t know – I can’t understand,” she said. “Was your unmarried name St Quentin, then, god – Lady Cheynes I mean?”

“No, for in that case I should be your aunt, my dear, which I am not. All the same this was my home, for Coombesthorpe at that time belonged to my father. But why do you call me Lady Cheynes? Why not godmother, as in your letters?”

Ella’s eyes sparkled. “That’s one for Madelene,” she would have said had she been acquainted with schoolboy language. “I wasn’t sure,” she began.

“Don’t be afraid of putting the blame on me,” interrupted Madelene. “It was I, Aunt Anna, that told Ella it was better to call you by your name unless you wished her to do otherwise.”

Lady Cheynes smiled.

“Call me godmother then,” she said, “though I warn you, Ella, I mean to take all a godmother’s privileges. I shall – well – pet you if you are a good girl, but – I can scold too,” and she knitted her brows, without much effect however, as her bright eyes had plenty of fun in them.

“I’m not afraid, godmother – not a bit,” said Ella laughing.

“Why can she not be like that to us?” thought Madelene regretfully.

“How did you know of Ella’s arrival?” she asked her aunt suddenly.

“Through Philip, of course. And oh, by the by, I was to ask you if you will be at home this afternoon, if so, he will come over, but he is rather busy, and prefers not to chance it.”

“I don’t think we can possibly be at home,” said Madelene. “I have to go to Weevilscoombe, and Ermine is going to drive over to Waire, to get the addresses of some masters for Ella. Papa is anxious that she should begin some regular occupation at once. But I do want to see Philip. May I drive back with you, Aunt Anna? and then I could easily walk to Weevilscoombe, and papa can meet me there – he has to go there too.”

“By all means,” Lady Cheynes replied.

Then there fell a little silence, which was broken by Madelene.

“Ella,” she said, “I think you should not put off writing to your aunt, as papa said. You will be out all the afternoon.”

Ella rose at once.

“Shall I – may I write in the library?” she said meekly.

“Of course,” Miss St Quentin replied.

Lady Cheynes kept silence till Ella had closed the door behind her – then she turned quickly to her niece.

“Now tell me all about it, Maddie,” she said. “Of course Philip didn’t know more than the mere fact. But I can see you are put out – I was anxious to hear all; that was why I hurried over. There can’t be much amiss however – the sight of the child has reassured me. She has quite won my heart already, and she seems most anxious to please you – ready to take your least hint.”

Madelene hesitated before replying. She was unselfishly anxious for Ella to propitiate her godmother and really glad that the first impression had been so favourable. Yet – all things considered – it was a little hard upon her! It took some self-control to listen to Ella’s praises with perfect good temper.

“I am sorry if I have seemed ‘put out,’ Aunt Anna,” she replied at last. “I am very glad indeed you are pleased with Ella, and I hope you will make papa a little happier about her. He is rather hard upon her perhaps – about her coming off as she did,” and Miss St Quentin went on to tell the story of Ella’s taking the law into her own hands, as she had done.

Lady Cheynes listened attentively, smiling a little now and then.

“Ah,” she said, “I understand. Yes, just the sort of thing to annoy Marcus. For my part, I don’t like the child the less for it. And she knows nothing of the real position of things. Philip and I were talking it all over last night, and he told me what he had said to you, and I agreed with it. Yes – the first thing to do is thoroughly to gain her confidence and affection – but that surely will not be difficult.”

“It seems as if it should not be so, certainly,” said Madelene. “But you see, aunt, papa has taken up some ideas about Ella, very strongly. And we cannot oppose him, and yet I am so afraid of her thinking that it is we, not papa. Just as you came in I was trying to get her to agree to, or rather to like the idea of, these lessons. She has got some absurd notion in her head that Ermie and I are wanting to keep her down.”

“She has been spoilt,” said the old lady decidedly. “But I am sure she has a good heart. It is to be hoped,” she added, “that Philip and she won’t see much of each other while she has these ideas about you and Ermine. He would be so angry that he would take a prejudice to her, and I should regret that.”

“So should I,” said Madelene. “Perhaps,” she went on, after a little pause, “it will be as well if we just go on quietly by ourselves for a little. There are no gaieties in prospect at present, so the question of Ella’s ‘grown-up-ness’ need not be discussed, and if she is sensible and pleases papa about these lessons, he may perhaps relax a little after a while. I am not even altogether sorry,” she added, “much as we shall miss him, that Philip is to be away. In Ella’s present mood it would have been – a little difficult.”

“He will be leaving very soon,” said Lady Cheynes, “but I must have him home by Christmas. You will let the child come over to me now and then, won’t you? I will undertake to do no harm, and I may be able to help you.”

“Of course,” said Madelene heartily, “and if she shows her best side to you as I think she will, you will find her very charming. I think – I fancy she has a much more cordial feeling to you, aunt, than to us,” and Miss St Quentin could not help sighing a little.

“All the better – in one sense, that is to say,” replied the old lady briskly. “If she were prejudiced against me too, it would be a bad look-out I can influence her far more if she fancies me impartial.”

“Or partial – to her,” suggested Madelene smiling.

“What does Mrs Robertson say to this escapade of Ella’s? You have heard from her?” asked Lady Cheynes.

“Yes, there is a letter to papa this morning. She is very distressed about it of course, but her principal anxiety seems to be to exonerate Ella. She is dreadfully afraid, evidently, of its vexing papa with her, just at the first.”

“Just what it has done,” said Lady Cheynes; and then they went on to talk of other matters.

At luncheon Ella maintained the same quiet demure tone which amused even while it irritated Madelene. And though Lady Cheynes appeared to take it quite naturally, and even now and then rather acted the part of drawing out the timid little stranger, the twinkle in her bright old eyes from time to time convinced Miss St Quentin that Ella’s godmother knew what she was about.

“And perhaps of us all,” thought Madelene, “she gauges Ella’s character the most correctly.”

The thought in itself was a relief. Madelene no longer felt so perplexed and dispirited. She even could afford to smile, inwardly, at the sight of Ella’s preternaturally resigned expression and meek tone of voice when Ermine told her, rather sharply perhaps, to get ready for their drive, the pony-carriage being already at the door.

“I beg your pardon,” Ella replied. “I did not know, at least not clearly, that you were going to be so kind as to take me a drive.”

“I shall shake her well before long,” said Ermine, as she stood in the hall with her aunt and sister, waiting for the little delinquent. “I can stand her temper and impertinence,” laughing as she used the word. “It’s so absurd and comical. But I can’t stand her suffering-saint-ism. I really can’t.”

“For my part I should think it’s the more amusing of the two,” said Lady Cheynes, “but then to be sure I have not yet been favoured with a sight of the little volcano’s explosions. When I have done so I’ll give you my opinion.”

At that moment Ella made her appearance. She was dressed as on her arrival the day before, and as she bade the girl good-bye, kissing her as she did so, her godmother “took her in” from head to foot.

“I think I have scarcely perhaps estimated the difficulties seriously enough,” said Lady Cheynes, when she and Madelene were installed in her carriage. “There is any amount of determination, not to say obstinacy, about that small personage. And she has certainly been spoilt. I see it more clearly. The style of her dress is far too old, even though one cannot call it showy, but it is a degree too soigné, I hardly know how to express it, for a girl of seventeen. I like neatness of course, but that is quite a different thing.”

“I fancy Ella has been allowed to give a great deal of time and thought to her appearance,” said Madelene. “But after all, there must come a stage of that kind, I suppose, in every girl’s life.”

“Perhaps,” said her aunt. “But for my part I prefer it later. I do love a good honest tom-boy girl of fifteen or so.”

“But Ella is seventeen past,” said Madelene; “that makes all the difference.”

“Umph,” grunted the old lady. “I am quite sure she never was a tom-boy. Just think of Ermine at seventeen.”

And Madelene could not help smiling.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Ermine was very different, certainly. I remember how she cried at having her skirts lengthened, and tried privately to shorten them again. Still we must remember that Ella’s life has been quite different.”

“You must make her dress more simply,” said Lady Cheynes. “Those tight-fitting garments without a crease or wrinkle, and perfect gloves, and pointed boots may be all very well in town, though for my part I don’t like that sort of particularity carried too far; it takes off the thoroughbred look. But in the country it is absurd. Get her a brown holland frock or two, or a homespun with a nice little Norfolk jacket and a belt, and see that the skirts are shorter and that she has sensible boots.” Then an amused look stole over the old lady’s face.

“What is it, Aunt Anna?” asked Madelene, without, it must be confessed, much amusement in her tone. Indeed she was looking and feeling decidedly lugubrious, the prospect of such a transformation of Ella’s wardrobe was appalling!

“I was only thinking what fun Philip would make of her if he saw her setting off for a country ramble like a little figure out of the Revue de la Mode. That hat of hers, and the little veil, fastened just at the proper height, or depth, and the parasol, held so daintily, and – ”

“Oh, please stop, aunt,” said Madelene. “I don’t want Philip to make fun of her, I’m sure, but how to transform her, as you calmly propose, I don’t see.” And poor Miss St Quentin really looked as if she were ready to cry.

Lady Cheynes began to laugh, and her laugh gathered strength and soon became a hearty one.

“My dear Maddie,” she said, “you have met your match. You, who are never put out or disturbed in your regal calm by anything or anybody! It is very wicked of me, but I can’t help laughing.”

Madelene herself by this time could not help joining in it. They were both still somewhat hilarious therefore when, at the lodge gates of Cheynesacre they came upon Sir Philip. He threw away his cigar and got into the carriage beside them.

“My dear friends,” he began. “My very much respected grandmamma, my admired cousin – I am enchanted, but at the same time, slightly, very slightly, surprised to see you indulging in such mirth. May I – dare I venture to inquire its cause?”

Madelene only laughed the more, especially when Lady Cheynes turned upon Philip. “Don’t be so silly, Philip,” she said sharply; “why can’t you say plainly, ‘what are you laughing at’? Not that I am going to tell you, for I am not.”

Philip turned his eyes plaintively on his cousin.

“Nor you? Is it useless to appeal to you?”

“Quite,” Madelene replied. “It is a private joke of auntie’s and mine. I have come round this way on purpose to see you, Philip, as you would not have found any of us at home to-day. I suppose it will be to say good-bye, as you are leaving so soon, I hear.”

“I am leaving very soon, certainly,” he replied. “The day after to-morrow, probably. But I quite intend to come over to Coombesthorpe first. I want to say good-bye to Uncle Marcus and Ermine too.”

“They are coming here to luncheon to-morrow,” said his grandmother promptly.

“Oh, indeed,” said Sir Philip. “Well then if Maddie will invite me I will drive back with them to afternoon tea.”

“I shall not be at home,” said Madelene.

“Maddie,” said Philip reproachfully, “it is mean, it is unkind of you to force me to avow my real motive. The fact is – I am dying to see the third Miss St Quentin. Why is she not with you to-day? You might have some regard for my feelings.”

“She has gone to Waire with Ermine,” said Lady Cheynes. “Madelene is arranging about her having lessons from the same masters as the little Hewitts at the rectory. And,” she went on, “they are nicely brought-up girls – they will be pleasant companions for Ella.”

“Those gawky Hewitt children!” said Philip, with a complete change of tone. “Why I thought Ella was seventeen and quite a grown-up sort of person!”

“She is seventeen,” said Lady Cheynes, calmly, “but some girls are grown-up at seventeen and others are children.”

“Oh,” said Philip. “Well for my part, I don’t care about girls of the Hewitt type. I suppose then, that Mrs Robertson has kept her back – that she is what you call ‘quite in the schoolroom’ still.”

“If you had heard what she said to me, you would suppose her still in the nursery, even,” replied his grandmother.

“Then,” Philip remarked, “I think I will defer for the present my introduction to your sister, Madelene.”

“Just as you please,” Miss St Quentin replied indifferently.

But as they got out of the carriage, “I did not know,” she whispered, “that you could be so naughty, Aunt Anna.”

Chapter Seven

An Invitation

The summer was gone; autumn itself was almost giving place to winter. Ella St Quentin looked out of the window one morning as she finished dressing, and shivered as she saw the grass all silvered over, faintly gleaming in the cold thin sunshine.

“How freezing it seems!” she said to herself. “I hate winter, especially in the country. I wish – if it weren’t for that old wretch I really think I would write to auntie and ask her to invite me for a week or two’s visit. It can’t be so cold, and certainly not so dull, at Bath as here. I do think I deserve a little fun – if it were even the chance of some shopping – after these last three or four months. To think how I’ve practised and bored at French and German – not that I dislike my lessons after all,” and she smiled a little at the consciousness that had she done so it would indeed have been a case of “twenty not making him drink.”

“These teachers are really very good ones, and I don’t dislike reading English with Ermine, either. If she were a teacher and not my sister, I could really get very good friends with her. But all the same —what a different life it is from what I expected. If auntie could see me in this horrid rough frock that makes me look as if I had no waist at all,” and Ella impatiently tugged at the jacket of the very substantial sailor serge which Madelene had ordered for the cold weather, “and in this poky room.”

For Ella was still “in the nursery.” She was not to inhabit her permanent room till the winter was over, for the chimney had been found to smoke, and there was a leakage from the roof which had left the wall damp. And Ella had caught a slight cold, thanks to her thin boots, which had alarmed her father quite unreasonably. So the decree had gone forth that in her present cosy quarters she was to remain till the milder weather returned, which gave her the delight of another grievance.

As she stood gazing out at the wintry landscape which to less prejudiced eyes would have been full of its own beauty, the prayers bell rang. Ella started – her unpunctuality had been a frequent cause of annoyance for several weeks after her arrival at Coombesthorpe, but, perverse as she was, the girl was neither so stupid nor so small-minded as to persist in opposition when she distinctly saw that she was in the wrong. So this short-coming had to a great extent been mastered.

She tugged at her belt, gave a parting pat to her hair, saying to herself as she caught sight of her reflection in the glass, “It certainly takes much less time to dress as I do now than in the old days,” and flew along the passages and down stairs just in time to avoid a collision with Mr Barnes, as, heading his underlings, he politely followed the long file of women-servants into the library, where Colonel St Quentin always read prayers.

Ella took her place by the window; outside, a cheery red-breasted robin was hopping about on the gravel, and the sunshine, which was gathering strength, fell in a bright ray just where the little fellow stood. It is to be feared that much more of her attention was given to the bird than to her father’s voice.

“What a little duck he is,” she exclaimed, as soon as prayers were over. “See, Madelene – ” and as her elder sister came forward with ready response, Ella’s face lighted up with pleasure. The whole world seemed brighter to her; so impressionable and variable was she.

“Yes,” said Miss St Quentin, “he is a dear. We can hardly help fancying it is always the same robin. For ever since Ermine and I were quite little there is one to be seen every winter on this terrace. It is here we have the birds’ Christmas tree, Ella – one of those over there. It is so pretty to see them. There are so many nice things in the country in winter – I really do not know sometimes which I like the best – summer or winter.”

Ella felt a little pang of self-reproach – she remembered how five minutes before she had been grumbling up in her own room.

“Madelene must be much nicer and better than I am in some ways,” she thought to herself; “perhaps I would have been like her if they had kept me with them, or had me back some years ago,” and the reflection hardened her again, just as the softer thought was about to blossom.

At that moment Colonel St Quentin’s voice was heard from the adjoining dining-room.

“Breakfast is ready and the letters have come,” he said.

“Nothing for me?” said Ermine; “what are yours, Maddie?”

“One from Flora at Cannes,” said Miss St Quentin, “two or three answers to the advertisement for a laundry-maid, and – oh, here’s something more interesting. The Belvoirs are giving a dance – on the 20th. Here’s the card,” and she tossed it over to Ermine, “and there’s a note from Mrs Belvoir, too, ‘to make sure of us,’ she says.”

“Colonel and the Misses St Quentin,” murmured Ermine, “that means – I suppose – ” and she looked up hesitatingly at Madelene.

“Oh,” said Madelene, “it means what you choose, in the country. It isn’t like London, where one has to calculate the inches of standing and breathing space for each guest.”

“It means of course,” said her father, “such of the Misses St Quentin as are – ‘out.’” He pronounced the last word with a good deal of emphasis, then turned to his coffee and his own letters as if the question were settled.

Ella had not lost a word. A flush of colour had come to her cheeks and a brightness to her eyes on first hearing her sister’s announcement.

“They can’t mean not to take me,” she said to herself. “Just at Christmas too – why, girls who aren’t a bit out go to Christmas dances.”

And Madelene, for her part, was wishing more devoutly than she had ever wished concerning a thing of the kind in her life, that she had not been so impulsive as to mention the invitation in her younger sister’s hearing.

“I only long for her to go,” she said to Ermine when they were alone. “I’d give anything if papa would let her. And I don’t see that it could do any harm – a Christmas dance is different, and really she has been good about her lessons, especially about her practising. Three wouldn’t be too many, to such old friends.”