Kitabı oku: «The Third Miss St Quentin», sayfa 14
“For the trick I played you, or helped to play you and Philip here the other evening? Philip has forgiven me – it really was very funny.”
Sir Philip came forward from the other side of the screen where he had been talking to Madelene. “Ella has done better than I, granny,” he said, as he shook hands with her. “She has not only forgiven but forgotten, it appears.”
Ella started a little when he spoke of her by name. It was still difficult to disassociate him from the attractive “stranger” of the Manor ball.
“I think it was rather too bad of them all,” she said, “but I couldn’t have been vexed with godmother when it was all her doing – all the deliciousness of going to the dance at all.”
She had no time to say more, barely to catch sight of the grave expression with which Madelene was listening to her, when she was interrupted by the arrival of other guests.
There was a party of fourteen, all strangers to Ella, though several among them recognised her as the lovely “Miss Wyndham” who had so puzzled everybody at the Manor. Ella’s squire was a man who declared he had not yet recovered from the disappointment of her not having given him a dance on the occasion in question. He was evidently an adept at flirting and seemed very disappointed when a few words from his charming companion proved that that was “not her style.” Not so, Sir Philip, whose dark eyes spoke satisfaction when he overheard the ladylike little snub, for he had arranged with his grandmother that Ella should be his neighbour on the left.
“She will be so much of a stranger; it is really the first time she has dined here properly,” he said, and Lady Cheynes made no difficulty.
That dinner was a very pleasant experience to Ella. Philip’s manner was perfect. He made her feel quite at home, even while taking care that no one present could have suspected such care was required.
“It is the first time I have really felt as if I had not been brought up a stranger to them all,” thought she to herself, and the only thing that in the least marred her complete satisfaction was the catching sight now and then of Madelene’s eyes fixed upon her with an anxious, almost, Ella could have imagined, pitying expression.
“She thinks I am having my head turned,” thought Ella, with a slight involuntary toss of the said head. “And she is pitying me too for imagining that Sir Philip could possibly care about me, when all his devoirs are, or should be, consecrated to Ermine.” And it was with increased determination to resist any attempt at restraint which Madelene might try, that Ella responded in her sweetest and most charming manner to her “step”-cousin’s attentions.
Her godmother was not displeased, thus much was certain. For she called the girl to her in the drawing-room after dinner, to introduce her to her old friend Lady Beltravers, who with her husband made two of the guests, and made her sit beside her while she fondled and petted her.
“I must make much of her, you see,” she said half apologetically to Lady Beltravers. “She has been away from us for so long! It is not like having a godchild of one’s own, never to see her, is it? Did Philip take good care of you at dinner, my dear child?” she went on, turning to Ella. “He would not give you up to any one else, I assure you, though by rights Mrs Monkerton should have been at his left side.”
Lady Beltravers smiled kindly at Ella.
“I wish we had any young people about us,” she said with a little sigh. “My son has no children, you know – and then he is always so busy. Won’t you bring Miss St Quentin – ”
“Call me ‘Ella,’ please,” interrupted the girl. “I’m not Miss St Quentin, and besides – any friend of dear godmother’s – ”
“Ella, then,” went on the old lady, completely subjuguée– “won’t you bring Ella over to see me, while she is with you? We might make up a little party – it is so near Christmas and there are a few young people in the neighbourhood just now – let me see, the day after to-morrow – ”
“But I am not staying here after to-morrow,” said Ella gently, “my sister and I are going back to Coombesthorpe to-morrow morning.”
“Yes,” said Madelene, who at that moment joined the group, “we must be off early, too. There are such a lot of things to do just at Christmas time. We have to settle about Christmas day too, Aunt Anna. Papa does so hope you and Philip will come to us.”
“On one condition,” said Lady Cheynes quickly, “and that is that you will leave me Ella till then. I will bring her back to you on Christmas eve, that is next Monday, without fail. Ermine leaves – let me see, when is it?”
“The day after Christmas,” Madelene replied.
“Ah, well then, it would of course be selfish to take Ella from you when you are alone. But till then – you and Ermine will have lots of preparations to make for her visit; this child here would only be in the way.”
Madelene murmured something about “papa.” Her face was a curious study, so mingled were its expressions – of pleasure and even excitement, of almost wistful anxiety and misgiving. Ella watched her closely; the misgiving she was quick to see, not so the pleasure.
“Of course she will find some reason against it,” thought the girl.
Lady Cheynes tapped Miss St Quentin on the arm.
“Come, Maddie, my dear,” she said, “you are keeping us all waiting. Lady Beltravers too.”
Madelene coloured.
“I don’t really think it is for me to decide, Aunt Anna,” she replied. “You have quite as much – more – voice in it than I. I should be delighted for Ella to stay – and I am almost sure papa would be so too.”
“Then put it upon me,” said the old lady decidedly. “Tell your father I kept Ella – subject to his approval of course – if he doesn’t like it, he may send over to fetch her home to-morrow afternoon.”
Ella crept to her godmother’s side and threw her arms round Lady Cheynes ecstatically.
“Oh, godmother, how sweet you are! Oh, Madelene, you will make papa let me stay, won’t you?”
Madelene smiled: it was impossible to resist Ella sometimes.
“I do hope it will do no harm,” thought the elder sister to herself.
Just then Sir Philip and the other men came in; Madelene was asked to play, and Ella to sing, her sister accompanying her. It was the first time Philip had heard her.
“I had no idea you sang so beautifully,” he said to her when the little performance was over, and Miss St Quentin was engaged in accompanying another member of the party.
Ella’s eyes sparkled.
“Do you really think I sing well? I am so pleased,” she said simply. “I know you are a good judge. Ermine told me so. She and Madelene like my singing, I think. It – it is one of the few things Madelene seems to approve of in me,” she added with bitterness that was real though she tried to say it lightly as if in jest.
Philip looked at her with grave concern in his eyes.
“Are you in earnest, Ella?” he said; “real earnest, as the children say?”
Ella gave what in a less elegant and perfectly well-bred young person might have been called “a wriggle.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.
“About your sisters you mean?” he went on. “I certainly don’t want to do so either if, as I fear, you are unfairly prejudiced against them. At least I should be sorry to hear you say anything unfair, which – which might,” but here he hesitated. “Don’t think I am setting myself up as a judge,” he went on, “but it is possible I might be able to make you see things differently. I know my cousins so well, so thoroughly, and yet I think I can see that the position of things is difficult for you all.”
“I have nothing to say against Ermine,” said Ella quickly, with a sudden access of generosity. “Ermine is very good to me – ”
She glanced at Philip as she spoke: a pleased look had stolen into his eyes.
“Ah,” thought Ella.
“I am glad to hear you say that,” he said eagerly; “but Mad – ”
“Oh, for that matter,” Ella went on, “I don’t mean to say that practically Madelene is not good to me too. But – it is she who is prejudiced it seems to me,” she added with rather a wintry smile; “she does not judge me fairly. I don’t understand her, nor she me – that is the truth of it, I suppose. I don’t think she has ever been young, or had young feelings. She is so frightfully cold and measured, and she thinks every one should see things precisely as she does.”
Philip smiled too, but in his smile there was little more mirth than in Ella’s.
“Madelene cold and unfeeling!” he exclaimed. “My dear child, how little you know her! I allow,” he went on hastily, noticing an expression on her face which irresistibly reminded him of the days when she used to stamp her feet at “big Phil” if he refused to gallop about with her as much as she wanted, “I allow that Madelene’s manner is often against her. Very often the very extent and depth of her feeling makes her seem colder from the effort she puts on herself to be self-controlled.”
“That’s what is always said of cold, stiff, reserved people,” Ella answered. “Just because you can’t see or feel their feelings you are told to believe in them doubly! I hate reserved people.”
Philip was a little taken aback.
“I think they are rather to be pitied,” he said quietly.
The words were not without their effect on Ella, but she would not show it.
“You – ” she began, but a little quaver in her voice made her hesitate, “you won’t make me like Madelene any better for taking her part against me,” she said with a sort of incipient sob.
Philip laid his hand on her pretty white arm. “Dear Ella,” he said with genuine distress in his voice, “how can you mistake me so? If you only understood better! My only wish is that you should not make yourself unhappy when there is no need for it.”
Ella swallowed down one or two tears before replying.
“I am happy here,” she said. “I am always happy with dear godmother. I wish, Sir Philip, you would let me forget about home troubles for a little. I think you might – you are going away soon to amuse yourself; you needn’t grudge me my little bit of holiday.”
Philip grew more and more annoyed.
“I have done no good, I see,” he said in a tone of vexation. “Indeed I have done harm – for I have made you indignant with me for meddling. I wish to goodness – ” but here he stopped.
“What?” said Ella, gently.
“I wish you were Miss Wyndham, or Miss Anybody except what you are,” he said petulantly. “You will now always be thinking I am ‘taking parts,’ or some nonsense of that kind.”
“No – I don’t want to think that,” she replied glancing up at him half shyly with a sort of deprecation in her lovely eyes.
“Thank you – thank you for saying that,” he replied eagerly. “Indeed you would be doing me the greatest injustice if you – ” but at that moment as he was bending towards Ella, speaking though earnestly, in a lower tone than usual, a voice interrupted them. It was that of Miss St Quentin, who had risen from the piano.
“Ella,” she said in her quiet, impassive way, “I want you to take Ermine’s part in that duet that she and I have just got. I am sure you can manage it.”
Ella rose at once, though without speaking.
“Upon my word,” said Sir Philip to himself, “Madelene is strangely deficient in tact. She might trust me to do the child no harm – she knows how anxious I am to bring about a more cordial state of feeling.”
And his manner towards his cousin for the rest of the evening was decidedly a shade less cordial than it was wont to be.
Chapter Sixteen
Out in the Cold
Ella woke the next morning with that most delightful of all delightful feelings – the vague consciousness of something nice having happened ere she fell asleep. She slowly, half reluctantly opened her eyes —
“I do hope it wasn’t only a dream,” she murmured, but as she caught sight of the objects around her, the large bow-window with its curtains of richer material than the old faded chintz of the Coombesthorpe “nursery,” the toilet table with its marble top and large mirror, and the wardrobe of beautiful inlaid wood – for Lady Cheynes made a point of installing her little god-daughter in one of the “best” rooms – a smile crept over her face, and she closed her sleepy eyes again with a sensation of vivid satisfaction.
No, it was no dream – she was to stay a whole week at Cheynesacre, with her dear godmother. Papa would never be so cruel as to send for her back again, whatever Madelene said, and Madelene had as good as promised to plead her cause, and after all she, Ella, had no real reason for thinking her elder sister actually insincere. Then her mind reverted to what Sir Philip had said the night before.
“He thinks so very highly of Madelene,” thought Ella, “and he must know her well. He speaks more of her than of Ermine, but – ” and a slight frown clouded her brow, “that might mean that he cares most for Ermine, really. How I wonder if he does! He shouldn’t be —quite like what he is to – to other girls, if he does. Perhaps he’s one of those men that can’t help being charming to everybody,” and at this point in her cogitations poor Ella gave a deep sigh. “But any way,” she went on, “Ermine doesn’t care for him, not that way, though of course she might if it was put in her head.”
And then the quicksilver of her eighteen years refused to let her ponder any more.
“I’m going to be happy – for a week at least, come what may,” she said aloud as she sprang out of bed. “And as I’m his guest it’s Sir Philip’s business to make me enjoy myself, and it would be very surly of me not to.”
Certainly it looked as if the host’s task was not to be a very arduous one – never, in Madelene’s sight at least – had the girl been so sweet and bright and happy.
“Dear child, she seems in love with all the world,” said her godmother when she and Madelene were alone that morning for a few minutes before Miss St Quentin took her departure. “How I wish poor Ellen could see her! It must make you feel happy, dear Maddie, to see her so bright and blooming.” But Madelene did not respond as heartily as she really wished she could do.
“She is so different at home, Aunt Anna,” she said. “She seems as if she could not trust us, me especially. It seems unnatural in one so young and impressionable,” and she sighed.
“It will all come right,” said the old lady cheerily; “you are too gloomy, Maddie.”
She did not understand the new direction of Madelene’s anxieties; had she overheard a word or two that passed between the cousins as Philip stood at the carriage door saying good-bye, she might have been enlightened.
“Philip,” Miss St Quentin whispered, “I must say one word to you at the risk of offending you. I hope I am doing right in leaving Ella – Phil dear, don’t be angry with me – remember she is very, very young and – you know you can be so very charming.”
The blood mounted to the young man’s forehead.
“Madelene,” he said, “I really sometimes cannot understand you. Do you want me to be actually unkind to your half-sister? Do you think that would mend matters?”
And he turned coldly away.
“I wish I had not gone,” said Madelene to Ermine when the sisters were together again at Coombesthorpe. “It has only made Philip angry with me, and done no good to Ella. I wish Aunt Anna would adopt her altogether.”
“Papa would never consent to that,” said Ermine, “at least not in the sense you mean, though in my sense, nothing could be more delightful. I am enchanted that she is staying there – it would have been too stupid of you to oppose it.”
“I would have done so if I could,” Madelene replied. “I am so unhappy about Ella for her own sake, Ermine. I can see that she is already very much attracted by Philip and – ”
“Well? What could you possibly have to say against it? It won’t be your doing.”
“I am afraid Philip is only amusing himself. You know how charming he can be. And that would be dreadful for her, poor child. It has all come of that absurd comedy at the beginning of their acquaintance.”
“Yes,” said Ermine, “I hope it has.”
Colonel St Quentin made not the smallest objections to Ella’s remaining at Cheynesacre, and once satisfied as to this, the girl gave herself up to full enjoyment of the present.
“I have never been so happy before,” she said to her godmother on the last day of her stay. And she said truly. Sir Philip who was in the room at the time glanced at her as she spoke.
“We must have a jolly Christmas at Coombesthorpe,” he said. “Poor Maddie and Ermine have had plenty of dull ones there.”
“Have they?” said Ella quickly. “Well it must have been their own fault.”
“No, indeed it wasn’t,” Philip replied rather coldly, “unless you call their unselfishness and patience their ‘fault.’”
Ella made no reply, but her bright face clouded over. An hour or two later when Sir Philip and she were on their way to the pond for “a last skate” as she said, he reverted to what had passed.
“Ella,” he began, “since I saw that it vexed you the other night I have said nothing more about your – well I can only call it prejudice against your sisters. But I see it is still there. I wish I could disabuse you of it – you don’t know how earnestly I wish it. You are so sweet and affectionate to every one else – I cannot really understand it.”
“It is often the case that near relations don’t get on as well with each other as with – strangers,” said Ella somewhat primly.
“But you don’t count granny and me strangers, I hope?” he asked eagerly. “And granny is not a person that every one gets on with.”
“Perhaps not, but she loves me – I feel that she does. And I shouldn’t mind anything she said, not even if she scolded me badly – just because of that. And I never can feel that way to Madelene. But I do get on very well now with Ermine,” she added though with a shade of reluctance.
“Dear Ermine,” said Philip. “I can scarcely imagine the possibility of not ‘getting on’ with her. Everybody takes to her wherever she goes. I am so delighted she is going to the Marchants,” he added.
“You are going too?” asked Ella, though she knew it already.
“Yes. I hope to be there the first week of Ermine’s visit, at least,” he replied.
“Oh,” said Ella, “that will be very pleasant.”
“Delightful,” replied Philip absently.
This time Ella made no observation.
Suddenly Philip turned to her again.
“Ella,” he said, “do forgive me for harping on the subject, but don’t you think all this might be put right? If you could show a little more confidence in Madelene, a little more affection in your manner, she would, I feel certain, be quick to respond. I can’t – ” and here he hesitated, “I can’t just yet tell you all I should like you to know – I wish I could – but some day you will understand better.”
Ella felt choking. “Understand” – did she not understand? But pride and some better feeling than pride, for after all she had no real grounds of complaint against Sir Philip, came to the rescue.
“I will try to be gentler and pleasanter at Coombesthorpe, if you think it would do any good,” she said bravely. “And changes come – it may not be for very long. I should like you and my godmother to know I had done my best, for – for the time we must be all together there.”
The tears trembled on her eyelashes, but she turned away to hide them: she did not see the expression on Philip’s face as he heard her words. She only heard his answer.
“Thank you, dear Ella,” he said. “I know you will do what you say, and you have made me very happy by speaking so, for I have been terribly afraid of making things worse instead of better, by my interfering. No – it may not be for long as you say. But you are so young, Ella,” and there was a half regretful intonation in his voice, “you will see things differently afterwards, and you will like to look back and feel that you have done your best.”
Ella glanced up at him. There was a look in his eyes which made her cheeks flush.
“Dear Ella,” he added softly.
“I will do my best,” she repeated. And to herself she said, believing that she fully realised her words, that come what would she would deserve his approval. “Even if he is only to be – a sort of brother to me,” she thought, “I would like him to see that I try to be good.”
And she believed it was as a reward for her heroism that the world all about her looked so bright again, and some faint rays of wintry sunshine that lighted up the frost-besprinkled fields and palely gilded the tops of the dark fir-trees, seemed to her to glow with the warmth and brilliance of a midsummer sky.
Christmas passed with cheerfulness, if not exactly with “jollity,” at Coombesthorpe. Colonel St Quentin was still too much of an invalid to stand a large party, but a few old friends and neighbours joined the family circle. Madelene was quiet as ever, but gentle and almost affectionate to Ella, who, true to her promise, received her elder sister’s advances in good part and refrained from all sharp or icy retorts, even when, as must happen, however good the will on both sides, perfect unanimity of opinion was not the case. And Ermine was in such tremendously good spirits that the infection of them was to some extent irresistible. She was so gracious to Philip that he, in his own mind, was a little puzzled by it, for a coldness, slight but yet to themselves tangible enough, still seemed to hang between Madelene and himself. His cousins for once seemed to be at issue, he fancied, and he was small enough to try to punish Madelene by a show of even extra responsiveness to Ermine.
And Ella watched and wondered; sometimes feeling certain that her misgivings as to the state of things between Philip and Ermine were founded on fact; sometimes rising to a flutter of delight and hopefulness at some slight incident which seemed to prove to her conclusively that there was “nothing in it.”
“If there were,” she said to herself more than once, “would Madelene be vexed with him; as I am almost sure she is?”
And yet – that there was perfect good feeling between him and Ermine she could not doubt, and what that might not mean in reality she could not bear to think!
Wednesday – for Christmas day had been a Tuesday – saw the whole party scattered. Lady Cheynes returned home; Ermine started on her journey to Shenewood Park, whither Philip was to follow her the next day from Cheynesacre. And Ella, as she stood at the window watching the last carriage disappear, felt that now was the real test of her promise to Philip. The prospect of a whole fortnight alone with Madelene; Madelene quieter and “duller,” as Ella expressed it, than she had yet known her, was not inspiriting. For curiously enough, though it was Ermine whom the girl’s fancy had erected into a rival, it was not on her, but entirely on her elder sister that she resented the fact.
“I could never dislike Ermine. She is so bright and open,” thought Ella, while a tear or two trickled unbidden down her face. “Even as Philip’s wife I don’t think I could ever be jealous of her. But it is so different with Madelene; everything is calculation with her. She has settled that it would be a good thing for them to marry, and she is determined to carry it out – whether they care enough for each other or not. She has never cared for any one – that’s certain.”
The mood was not a very propitious one, for some vague warnings which Miss St Quentin unluckily thought it her duty to give her younger sister. It was when they were sitting together in the already fading light that afternoon – Ella after fidgeting about restlessly the whole day, having at last taken a book and settled herself in the library where Madelene was already installed with what the younger girl mentally dubbed “that everlasting knitting of hers.”
But the book did not prove very interesting. Ella yawned, then gave a sort of groan, and ended by flinging it aside.
“Do you not care for that book?” asked Madelene calmly. “I think I like it. But the other new Mudie books are in the drawing-room.”
“I don’t think I should like any book to-day,” said Ella frankly. “I do feel so stupid. Do you never feel that sort of way, Madelene?” she went on with a sudden irresistible craving for sympathy. “As if – as if you didn’t care for anything.”
Madelene glanced at her half curiously. Was this mere childishness – or – were her fears for poor little Ella’s peace of mind already beginning to be realised? Was this the first taste of the weary pain – the sickness of heart which she herself had not yet grown innured to?
“And in her case it would be ever so much worse,” she said to herself, “if Philip does not really care for her. I at least have always been sure of Bernard, though even thus, heaven knows it has been hard to bear!”
Her heart ached for the young creature looking up at her with troubled eyes. But she must ignore what she still hoped was but superficial.
“Everybody knows that kind of feeling at times, I suppose,” she said placidly. “It generally is a sort of reaction. We have had a little more excitement than usual, you see, and you enjoyed yourself very much at Cheynesacre.”
“I never was so happy in my life,” Ella replied impulsively.
“I am glad you liked it. Philip is certainly a model host – he is a favourite everywhere, and deservedly, for he is very kind-hearted. And it says a good deal for him that his being such a favourite – especially with women – has not quite spoilt him.”
Ella looked up sharply.
“Do you mean that he is a flirt?” she asked abruptly.
Madelene hesitated.
“Not exactly that,” she said. “He may flirt a little sometimes but there is no harm in that. But he would never consciously, intentionally go further than that. Still his very kind-heartedness has its weak point; he cannot bear to see any one unhappy. And he is impressionable and impulsive in some ways – I should be a little anxious about throwing any – very inexperienced girl much in his society.”
“But you and Ermine have always been thrown with him,” said Ella.
Miss St Quentin drew herself up a little.
“That is quite different,” she said. “I am, to all intents and purposes, older than Philip.”
“But Ermine is not,” thought Ella bitterly, though aloud she only replied, “Oh yes, of course.”
Ermine’s letters came nearly every day, bright and sunny, overflowing with fun and enjoyment. Now and then Madelene gave one, or a part of one to Ella to read, which the girl did eagerly, especially when Sir Philip’s name was mentioned, as was constantly the case.
“How much Ermine seems to be enjoying herself,” said Ella one morning. “When I am what you consider quite ‘out,’ Madelene, I may pay visits like this of hers, mayn’t I?”
They were at the breakfast-table. Colonel St Quentin, who by this time was as well as usual, overheard the remark.
“I hope so,” Madelene was beginning with an ill-assured glance at her father, when he suddenly interrupted her.
“I hope not, Ella,” he said. “That sort of thing would only put nonsense in your head. It is quite different for Ermine.”
Ella gazed at him in astonishment. His tone was not unkind, but very decided. To his last words she could give one interpretation – it was different for Ermine because she was already tacitly engaged to Philip, and but for this her father evidently would not have approved of her visiting by herself. Ella felt herself grow pale, but she did not speak.
“Oh, papa,” Madelene interposed, “that is too sweeping. Some day I hope Ella may see something of country-house society – with me you would trust her?”
Colonel St Quentin murmured something, of which Ella only caught the words – “Plenty of time – rational life for a girl.”
But she felt now as if she did not care.
The next morning brought no letter from Ermine, the day after came one which Madelene read to herself with somewhat clouded brow.
“Ermine is so tiresome, papa,” she said. “For some reason or other she seems to have got a fit of homesickness. Just when I was so delighted to think she was enjoying herself. She actually talks of coming home the day after to-morrow.”
“Umph,” said Colonel St Quentin, “that will be Friday. Tell her I can’t send to the station that day – Brown is going to look at that new pair, and I won’t trust Parker’s driving in this weather; she must stay any way till Monday. Is Philip still there?”
“No,” said Madelene, going on with her letter. “At least he is leaving to-day.”
“Ah, well, that settles it. She might have arranged to come back with him had he been staying till Friday, if she is really home-sick, poor child. But as it is she must wait till Monday.”
“I can’t make her out quite,” said Madelene, “But I will tell her what you say. Perhaps – if she is dull, I suppose she had better come home.”
Ella went up stairs to her own room and stood gazing out at the cold, wintry landscape. It was a grey, sunless day. It seemed to her like an image of her own life.
“Why did I ever come here?” she said. “It would have been better, yes far better, to have borne old Barton’s impertinence. Only – poor aunty – it might have made her unhappy! It would not now – I am so changed. I should be meek enough. What a fool I have been – to dream that Philip Cheynes had fallen in love with me! He was only amusing himself and thinking of Ermine all the time. But why did he? He must have seen I was a fool;” and her cheeks burnt as she recalled the little trifles – trifles at least, if put into words – looks and tones more than actual speech or action, which had seemed to her so significative.
“And Madelene suspects it. Yes, I know she does. Perhaps after all she has meant to do her duty by me. If she had only been a little more loving at the first I might have confided more in her; I might have been guided by her. But it is too late now. I won’t stay here, where no one cares for me. They may keep my share of the money and everything. I don’t want anything where I am not loved.”
What should she do? She could not decide. For the next day or two her head felt confused and dreamy – she longed to do something, to go somewhere, but lacked the energy to determine upon anything, and a vague, not unpleasing feeling came over her that perhaps she was going to be ill, to have a brain fever and die possibly, and that in this case it was not worth while planning to go away or anything.
She must be looking very ill, she said to herself with some complacency, for more than once she caught Madelene’s eyes fixed upon her with an anxiety that was almost tender.
