"Why I thought Ella was seventeen and quite a grown-up sort ofperson!"
"She is seventeen," said Lady Cheynes, calmly, "but some girls aregrown-up at seventeen and others are children."
"Oh," said Philip. "Well for my part, I don't care about girls of theHewitt 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 inthe _nursery_, even," replied his grandmother.
"Then," Philip remarked, "I think I will defer for the present myintroduction 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 finisheddressing, and shivered as she saw the grass all silvered over, faintlygleaming 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 Ireally think I would write to auntie and ask her to invite me for a weekor two's visit. It can't be so cold, and certainly not so dull, at Bathas here. I do think I deserve a little fun--if it were even the chanceof some shopping--after these last three or four months. To think howI've practised and bored at French and German--not that I dislike mylessons 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 makinghim drink."
"These teachers are really very good ones, and I don't dislike readingEnglish with Ermine, either. If she were a teacher and not my sister, Icould really get very good friends with her. But all the same--_what_ adifferent life it is from what I expected. If auntie could see me inthis 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 sailorserge which Madelene had ordered for the cold weather, "and in this pokyroom."
For Ella was still "in the nursery." She was not to inhabit herpermanent room till the winter was over, for the chimney had been foundto smoke, and there was a leakage from the roof which had left the walldamp. And Ella had caught a slight cold, thanks to her thin boots,which had alarmed her father quite unreasonably. So the decree had goneforth that in her present cosy quarters she was to remain till themilder weather returned, which gave her the delight of anothergrievance.
As she stood gazing out at the wintry landscape which to less prejudicedeyes would have been full of its own beauty, the prayers bell rang.Ella started--her unpunctuality had been a frequent cause of annoyancefor several weeks after her arrival at Coombesthorpe, but, perverse asshe was, the girl was neither so stupid nor so small-minded as topersist 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 toherself as she caught sight of her reflection in the glass, "Itcertainly takes much less time to dress as I do now than in the olddays," and flew along the passages and down stairs just in time to avoida collision with Mr Barnes, as, heading his underlings, he politelyfollowed the long file of women-servants into the library, where ColonelSt Quentin always read prayers.
Ella took her place by the window; outside, a cheery red-breasted robinwas hopping about on the gravel, and the sunshine, which was gatheringstrength, fell in a bright ray just where the little fellow stood. Itis to be feared that much more of her attention was given to the birdthan 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 readyresponse, Ella's face lighted up with pleasure. The whole world seemedbrighter to her; so impressionable and variable was she.
"Yes," said Miss St Quentin, "he is a dear. We can hardly help fancyingit is always the same robin. For ever since Ermine and I were quitelittle there is one to be seen every winter on this terrace. It is herewe have the birds' Christmas tree, Ella--one of those over there. It isso pretty to see them. There are so many nice things in the country inwinter--I really do not know sometimes which I like the best--summer orwinter."
Ella felt a little pang of self-reproach--she remembered how fiveminutes before she had been grumbling up in her own room.
"Madelene must be much nicer and better than I am in some ways," shethought to herself; "perhaps I would have been like her if they had keptme with them, or had me back some years ago," and the reflectionhardened her again, just as the softer thought was about to blossom.
At that moment Colonel St Quentin's voice was heard from the adjoiningdining-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 answersto the advertisement for a laundry-maid, and--oh, here's something moreinteresting. The Belvoirs are giving a dance--on the 20th. Here's thecard," and she tossed it over to Ermine, "and there's a note from MrsBelvoir, too, `to make sure of us,' she says."
"Colonel and the Misses St Quentin," murmured Ermine, "that means--Isuppose--" and she looked up hesitatingly at Madelene.
"Oh," said Madelene, "it means what you choose, in the country. Itisn't like London, where one has to calculate the inches of standing andbreathing space for each guest."
"It means of course," said her father, "such of the Misses St Quentin asare--`_out_.'" He pronounced the last word with a good deal ofemphasis, then turned to his coffee and his own letters as if thequestion were settled.
Ella had not lost a word. A flush of colour had come to her cheeks anda brightness to her eyes on first hearing her sister's announcement.
"They _can't_ mean not to take me," she said to herself. "Just atChristmas 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 everwished concerning a thing of the kind in her life, that she had not beenso impulsive as to mention the invitation in her younger sister'shearing.
"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 coulddo any harm--a Christmas dance is different, and really she has beengood about her lessons, especially about her practising. Three wouldn'tbe too many, to such old friends."
"Not to go to the ball," Ermine replied. "But I fancy they will want usto stay for a day or two. You see Mrs Belvoir says she will come overto make further arrangements. And three would be too many to go tostay. But Maddie, I--"
"No. I know what you're going to say, and you're not to say it,"Madelene interrupted. "You are not to be the one to stay at home.You're ever so much younger than I--"
"One year, eleven months and a day," said Ermine. "Twenty years--ahundred would come nearer it," said Madelene. "I was born old andcircumstances have not rejuvenated me. No--if we can get papa to agreeto let Ella go, _I_ shall stay at home. It stands to reason. I amgetting to an age when I should not be expected to go on dancing."
"Ah, well--we needn't quarrel about it yet," said Ermine lightly. "I amonly afraid the occasion will not arise, and that papa will beinexorable. There was something far from propitious in the accent heput on that `out' this morning."
She was right; inexorable he proved. Yet the sisters went about itdiplomatically enough. They said very little at first, and were carefulnot to fret the thing into a sore from the start, as is so often done,and for a day or two they congratulated themselves that their gentlysuggested arguments had carried weight. But when the following weekMrs Belvoir wrote to say she was driving over to settle about the daythey would come, and how many nights they would stay, and to discuss thewhole programme--then t
he bolt fell.
"Ella go? No, most certainly not," said Colonel St Quentin. "I neverthought of such a thing. I hope you haven't been putting anything ofthe kind into her head?"
"We have not mentioned it to her since the morning when the first notecame," said Madelene. "That morning unluckily I spoke of it beforeher."
"Why should you say `unluckily'? It is absurd to treat her in thatway," said her father. "There should be and there must be no questionraised, in