Mrs Burton looked up with evident relief. This was plainly a safe tack.
“About Ermine?” she said with perfect candour; “no, my dear, nothing at all—except—yes, I think—that was said—that she is coming home immediately; she must indeed be home already, I fancy.”
“And that was all?”
“Yes, all, I assure you. What news did you expect?”
“I can’t tell you,” Ella replied. “We shall be hearing it before long no doubt.”
Then she relapsed into silence, and Mrs Burton in her own mind began to put two and two together. Could Ella’s determination to leave her home have anything to do with the handsome young cousin of her sisters’—Madelene’s “messenger,” as the girl had shrewdly surmised? Could it be that he had been playing a double game, and making the poor child believe he cared for her when in reality engaged, or in some tacit way plighted, to one of her sisters? For Mrs Burton had heard some gossip more than once about Sir Philip Cheynes and the Coombesthorpe heiresses. If it were indeed so it would explain all. And yet—it was difficult to believe anything of the kind of the young man.
“He seemed so frank and chivalrous,” thought Ella’s aunt, “and he spoke in such an entirely brotherly way of Madelene and Ermine. And they all seem to have unshed to make Ella happy. The keeping from her the true state of affairs about the property was kindly done. And I am sure Sir Philip Cheynes was genuinely concerned and anxious about Ella. He really seemed terribly sorry. I do wish she had never left me; and to think that poor Marcus’s money is all gone, and that there is nothing for her! If I had known it, I would never have married again, never, kind as Mr Burton is! I do hope he and Ella will take to each other, and I think they will, his best comes out to any one in trouble.”
It was very strange to Ella to find herself again—and after the lapse of comparatively speaking so short a time—under her aunt’s roof, or to speak more correctly, under Mr Burton’s. She would have shrunk from meeting the worthy gentleman a short time before, but late events had changed her greatly. She was quiet and gentle enough now, so much so indeed that her aunt and her husband agreed that they would be glad to see a spark or two of her old spirit.
“How you and she used to fight,” Mrs Burton exclaimed half regretfully.
“And now,” her husband added, “she is as quiet and mild as a lamb. I don’t like it, Phillis—no, my dear, I don’t like it. I take blame to myself for having let her leave you, and if there is anything I can do to make up for it, I will do so. She has such pretty, thoughtful ways too. Did you notice how she sees that my paper is always folded ready for me? Her father must be hard to please if he was not satisfied with her.”