Ronald, of course, knew all Sheila’s story by this time. He looked the sympathy he felt.
“I know, I know. It must have been very hard! But you are happy with your relations, are you not?”
“Y—yes,” answered Sheila a little doubtfully, adding after a brief pause; “only sometimes I think my aunt doesn’t much like me now.”
“Oh, don’t think that! Everybody has ups and downs, you know. We all of us have our cross days.”
“You don’t,” answered Sheila, “nor Miss Adene, nor any of you! But Aunt Cossart is sometimes very glum and cross with me.”
There was a little gleam in Ronald’s eyes. It is a known fact that lookers on sometimes see most of the game, and it had not been unnoticed by the Dumaresq party that Sheila was rather out of favour with her aunt. They could see the reason plain enough. The hotel was filling up now, and still Sheila held her place as the favourite, and small notice comparatively was bestowed upon Effie. There was no blinking the matter that Effie bored people. Her sprightliness was not of an engaging kind, it had a contradictious defiance about it that was irritating, and her shallow theories and self-centred way of looking at life made her conversation monotonous and tiresome. When she allowed herself to forget herself, she could be much more agreeable; but generally she could not get away from herself, and the result was disastrous for herself.
Some other young girls had come, and Sheila would romp up and down the house with them, leading them into fun and frolic, teaching them the Washington Post up and down corridors or verandah, throwing herself into games of which she was the life and soul, and in which Ronald was always an able assistant, and in a hundred little ways making life merry for herself and others, whilst Effie never seemed able to amalgamate in the merry crowd.
Health might be one cause; but another was a certain quality in herself. She was so used to being the first thought and consideration with those about her, that if she was not that, she did not know how to take any place at all. Her mother would look on anxious and dissatisfied, utterly perplexed to find the answer to the question always forcing itself upon her. At last she reached the conclusion that Sheila was somehow in fault. If Sheila were different and made Effie welcome, things would go differently. Effie ought not to be sitting with a book in the drawing-room whilst the young folks were frolicking outside. It was not right or proper; only if Effie did go out to them, she speedily returned, not finding any fun in what amused them.
So Sheila got into disgrace with her aunt by imperceptible degrees, and upon this Christmas morning her heart was rather heavy within her, though she scarcely knew why.
The service, however, did her good, though she could not always keep back her tears. The building recalled no associations; it was but an ugly little place, something between a round and a square, the authorities refusing to permit a cruciform church to be built. The flowers, too, did not look at all Christmas-like in spite of a few bits of holly here and there; arum lilies were the great feature with roses and poinsettias. But the familiar hymns brought home back, and Sheila choked once or twice, thinking of Oscar, the father who had left them so suddenly, and the dear old home she never expected to see again.