Mrs Molesworth
"The Third Miss St Quentin"
Chapter One.
Six Years Old.
A very little girl was sitting on the rug in front of a brightly burning fire. She was amusing herself with picture books, a number of which were scattered about her, but her small face was flushed, her eyes were heavy, and she seemed restless and dissatisfied. She was suffering from a very bad cold.
“I can’t read, and I can’t see the picshures,” she said complainingly, “my eyes hurts, and my head too. You read to me, Harvey.”
The nurse to whom she spoke was busied in putting away the breakfast things.
“You must wait a bit, Miss Ella. I’ve got ever so many things to do this morning.”
Ella looked far from pleased.
“Things must wait, not me,” she said imperiously. “Mamma always reads to me this minute.”
“Your mamma’s ill, Miss Ella; and when there’s illness in the house there’s plenty for everybody to do without wasting one’s time over nonsense.”
Ella’s face grew scarlet with anger.
“’Tisn’t nonsense,” she said; “I’m ill too. I’ve got a cold, and you should amoose me.”
But before Harvey had time to reply, except by a short laugh, the door opened, and both the occupants of the nursery looked round to see who was there. A young girl of thirteen or fourteen, but with something in her air and manner which made her seem older, came in quickly. She was tall and slight, and though very plainly dressed, one could not have passed her by without noticing her.
“Harvey,” she said, and her tone, though not ungentle, was cold and even a very little haughty, “how is Miss Ella to-day? Mrs St Quentin is very anxious about her.”
Harvey glanced round with a sort of affectation of indifference that was irritating.
“There’s not the least need in the world to be anxious, miss,” she said. “The child’s got a cold, like everybody else in this changeable weather. There was no need for her mamma to hear nothing about it.”
The girl looked at her still more severely.
“It is your fault that she has a cold, and you know it,” she said. “She was out far too late the day before yesterday. I certainly do not wish Mrs St Quentin to be troubled, but if you are not more careful I shall speak to my father; I warn you plainly.” Ella had been listening open-mouthed to this discussion, and in the interest of it had forgotten her own tribulations. She got up from the floor, and moved by the generous childish impulse of defending the oppressed, resenting too, perhaps, that her sister had taken no direct notice of her since entering the room, she ran to Harvey and caught hold of her hand.
“Naughty Maddie,” she said, “you’re not to scold poor Harvey; I don’t like you, Maddie. Go away; I’ll tell mamma.”
Madelene glanced at the little girl, opened her lips as if to speak, but closed them again.
“If she is kind to Ella it is a good thing, I suppose, and perhaps I should not have said anything before the child,” was the reflection that rapidly passed through her mind.
“You don’t understand, Ella dear,” she said quietly, and with unusual self-control, though her fair face coloured a little. “I am very glad that you don’t like Harvey to be scolded.”
And without saying more, she left the room.
”‘Scolded’ indeed, by a upsetting piece of goods like her. Very fine, Miss Madelene, but you’re not mistress yet, nor never shall be to me, I can promise you,” muttered Harvey.
But Ella was clinging to her.
“You must read to me now,” the child urged. “I’m very good to you, Harvey. I wouldn’t let sister Maddie scold you, so you should be nice to me.”
A slight and not pleasant smile crossed the maid’s face.
“Come along then, Miss Ella,” she said. “If you’ll be very good and not worrit-worrit if I’m out of your sight for half a minute, I’ll read to you for a little. What is it you want?”
She seated herself comfortably in a rocking chair by the fire, and took the child on her knee.
