It was still the old-fashioned days of early morning marriages: most of the guests were to assemble at the house, for the distance thence to the church was very short. Ella had not as yet seen anything of her godmother, for the evening before, with the exception of aunt Phillis and her husband, Colonel St Quentin and his children had spent alone—and the thought of the meeting with Lady Cheynes lay rather heavily on the girl’s mind. But like many anticipated evils it turned out quite differently from her fears.
“Run down to the fernery, Ella,” said Madelene, as they were giving the last touches to the bride, “and bring me one or two more sprays of maidenhair. No, Ermine, I’m not putting too much green. It needs just a tiny bit more.”
Off ran Ella, but half-way down stairs, at a sudden turn she came full tilt against Lady Cheynes, slowly mounting to Ermine’s room.
“Oh, dear—I beg your pardon,” Ella began. Then in a different voice, “Oh! godmother, dear godmother, is it you!”
She half threw her arms round the old lady’s neck, then drew back in affright.
“Oh, godmother, dear, will you kiss me? Will you forgive me?” she cried. “I’m afraid you’ve been very, very vexed with me, but I didn’t mean to do wrong—it—it was all a mistake somehow.”
Her voice faltered as if she were going to cry; in an instant Lady Cheynes was kissing her.
“My darling,” she said, “my poor little silly child. No, no—I was more grieved than vexed, dear, but perhaps I understand you as well as, or better than you understand yourself. But don’t cry, my little Ella. It would never do to have tears to-day.”
“I won’t, godmother, I won’t cry,” said Ella, choking back the tears bravely, “it is only,” she went on, “that you are—you are all so very good to me.”
“Well, well—we must have a good talk when all this bustle is over. I am going up to see Ermine; shall I be admitted?”