The Third Miss St Quentin. Molesworth Mrs.
Colonel St Quentin was forced to smile.
Then Madelene and he joined the two others in the drawing-room.
“Can we not have a little music?” said Colonel St Quentin, a minute or two latter. “Ella, my dear, you play I suppose – or do you sing?”
His tone was kindlier again. Madelene’s spirits rose. She thought her talk with her father had done good. She went towards the piano and opened it, glancing smilingly at her young sister.
Ella was seated on a low chair in a corner of the room – the light of a lamp fell on her face and bright hair. It struck Madelene that she looked paler than on her first arrival.
“Will you play something, Ella?” she said, “or are you perhaps too tired?”
“I am not the least tired, thank you,” the girl replied, “but I hate playing. I never practise, on that account.”
“Upon my word,” muttered Colonel St Quentin.
“Do you sing then?” Ermine interposed, quickly. Ella hesitated.
“Your mother – mamma,” said Madelene, using purposely the old name for her stepmother, “mamma sang beautifully.”
Ella turned towards her.
“Do you mean my own mother?” she asked coldly.
“Of course,” Madelene replied. “I said so.” Colonel St Quentin moved impatiently.
“Why can you not answer Ermine’s question simply, Ella?” he said. “And why do you speak to Madelene in that tone? It is, to say the least, very questionable taste to accentuate in that way the fact that you and your sisters had not the same mother. And – if no one has told you so before, I tell you now that your mother, my second wife, loved my two elder daughters as if they had been her own, and her best wish for you was that you might resemble them. Where you have got these vulgar notions about half-sisters and so on – I see you are full of them – I can’t conceive. Is it from your Aunt Phillis?”
“No-o,” Ella replied, a little startled apparently by her father’s vehemence. “I did not intend to say anything to annoy you,” she added.
“But about the singing?” Ermine said again.
“Yes,” said Ella, “I do sing a little. I like it better than playing. I will try to sing if you – if papa wishes it.”
Her tone was humble – almost too much so. There was a kind of obtrusive dutifulness about it that was rather irritating. Still Madelene gave her credit for having put some force on herself to keep down her temper.
“Shall I play a little in the first place?” Miss St Quentin said, seating herself at the piano as she spoke.
Madelene played beautifully, though her style was very quiet. Ella rose gently from her seat and came nearer her; she stood silent and motionless till the last soft notes had died away.
“That is lovely, most lovely,” she said, her whole face and manner changing. “I should love the piano if I could play like that.”
“You must love music, I suspect,” Madelene replied. “Perhaps it is the actual mechanical part of playing that has discouraged you.”
“I have bad hands for it,” said Ella, looking at her very little fingers, as she spoke.
“You have peculiarly small ones,” said her sister; “that is like mamma. Still she managed to play very charmingly. Now what will you sing? I dare say we have some of your songs.”
Ella opened a book of songs and ran through its contents.
“Yes,” she said, “there are one or two of mine here. Perhaps,” she added more timidly, “they are some that mamma sang, as Aunt Phillis chose them. I will try this if you like,” and she pointed to what had been in fact one of Mrs St Quentin’s special favourites.
It was a simple enough song, calling for no great execution, still, though the observation may sound absurd, it was a song depending for its beauty on the voice of the singer. And Ella’s young voice suited it perfectly. There was complete silence till she ended. Then a slight sigh from her father made her glance at him.
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