“I wonder you go abroad if you don’t care about the language,” she said. “You’ll have to rough it you may be sure, and I don’t fancy you’ll like that.”
“I dare say not, but that part of it can’t be helped,” said Ella smiling a little. “But it won’t be worse for me than for others.”
“I don’t know that,” the girl replied. “You look as if you had had a nice home and all that kind of thing. I’ve never had a home; I was an orphan as a baby—that makes a difference.”
“My mother died when I was three years old—that makes a difference,” said Ella. Her companion nodded her head as if to say she “understood,” and a picture of a harsh and unloving stepmother turning this pretty young creature out of her home crossed her mind’s eye. But she was too delicate-minded to ask any questions, and the conversation drifted off to less personal subjects. The girl was leaving England the next day; Ella never saw her again, but her words had left their impression. It was with a little shiver that lying awake in the middle of the night she recalled them. “Roughing it,” what might that not mean? Rough words and looks and tones, as well as more practical physical discomfort—nobody to care about her, whether she were happy or miserable—nobody to love her—“and I have so longed to be loved,” thought Ella. “But except poor aunty, and—yes, I believe my godmother does love me, or did, she will probably give me up in disgust now—except those two I hardly think any one has ever really loved me. Oh, Madelene, if you had only been a little loving, I would have turned to you now and—perhaps if I had been able to confide in you I would not have been so easily taken in by him, by his manner, which meant nothing when I thought it meant everything. For Madelene was wise—she did warn me; if only she had cared for me a little. But it is too late now. Such as it was, it was my home, but I have thrown it away. What would that poor girl think if she could see it? Fancy her never having had any home—”
Ella’s pillow was wet with tears the next morning when she woke. She dreaded and yet hoped for a letter—but there was none. Mrs Ward noticed her anxious face.
“There has hardly been time for an answer from Fräulein Braune,” she said kindly, though in her heart not sorry that the girl was beginning to realise the full bearing of her rash step. “You would be the better for a little air, I think. Would you not like to go out?”
Ella glanced down the long breakfast-table.
“Is there any one who could go with me, do you think?” she asked timidly. Mrs Ward looked up rather sharply.
“Are you afraid of going out alone?” she said. “You must get used to it, my dear. You will never get on if you are so dependent.”
“I am not afraid,” replied Ella, growing very red as she spoke. “But it is just that I have never had to go out alone.”