“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.
“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.