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.

“Here now,” she said, carelessly picking up the first picture book that came to hand, “I’ll read you some of these nursery rhymes – ‘Little Boy Blue.’”

“No,” said Ella crossly, “I don’t like singy stories. Read me real ones. ‘Laddin’s’ very nice.” But Harvey’s eyes had caught sight of another of the bright-coloured books.

“Oh, no,” she exclaimed, with a little malicious laugh, “we’ll have ‘Cinderella,’ Miss Ella. ‘Cinderella, Miss Ella,’ there’s a rhyme for you! It’s like your name, and she’s like you too. She had two big sisters, and her mamma was – ” Here she coughed and stopped short.

“Her mamma was dead. I know the story,” put in Ella, “my mamma isn’t dead, so it isn’t like me. You’re talking nonsense, Harvey,” and she pushed the book aside and began to wriggle about impatiently.

“I’m not talking nonsense,” said Harvey sharply. “Just listen now, Miss Ella. Cinderella had two big sisters, and they were very cross to her – at least not always perhaps, but pretty often, and they’d come and scold for nothing at all.”

“Like Maddie this morning,” said Ella; “but it wasn’t me she scolded. It was you. The story isn’t like me; you’re very silly, Harvey.”

Harvey began to lose her temper; she was not going to be called “silly” even by a baby.

“Just you take care what you say, Miss Ella,” she said roughly, “you don’t know anything about it. The story doesn’t say the big sisters were bad to her when she was a little girl like you. But some day you’ll grow up and be a young lady, and then you’ll see. How would you like to have all the dirty work to do and old shabby clothes to wear, while Miss Maddie and Miss Ermie went flaunting about in silks and satins and feathers?”

And as she spoke she opened the book at one of the pictures, where the sisters were arraying themselves for the ball, while sweet Cinderella crouched forlorn in a corner.

Ella stared at the book with an attention she had never before bestowed upon it, her face very solemn indeed. Suddenly her expression changed.

“No,” she said, “it’s not like me and Maddie and Ermie. Her sisters are very ugly, and they’ve horrid black curls. Maddie and Ermie aren’t ugly, and they haven’t nasty cross faces. No; they’d never be so naughty,” and she looked up in triumph, though there was a little quaver of anxiety in her voice still.

“Oh, very well,” said Harvey, “if you’re so fond of your sisters as all that, however unkind they are to poor Harvey – ”

“I didn’t say you– I think Maddie was very naughty to scold you, dear Harvey. I only said they wouldn’t be so c’uel to me if I was big – not like these piggy sisters in the book,” said Ella, using the strongest language in her repertory.

“Oh, well, you’re not big yet. Perhaps you’ll wish for poor Harvey all the same some day, though you don’t care for her now. Of course poor Harvey’s only a servant, and Miss Maddie and Miss Ermie are grand, rich young ladies.”

“And I shall be a grand, rich young lady too,” said Ella.

Harvey only laughed.

Ella grew very excited.

“Harvey, say I shall be. You must say it,” she repeated, shaking the maid’s arm.

“Miss Ella, for shame. What a little fury you are. How can I say what you’ll be? You should be a grand, rich young lady if I was your sister, but I can’t speak for others.”

“What do you mean?” cried Ella. “Mamma will let me be a grand young lady. Maddie and Ermie aren’t over mamma. Harvey, do you hear?”

“Hush,” said the nurse, suddenly changing her tone, “your mamma’s very ill, Miss Ella, and if you make such a noise they’ll all think you very naughty. I was only joking – of course you’ll be a beautiful young lady too, some day.”

But Ella was not to be so easily smoothed down.

“You weren’t joking,” she said resentfully. “I’ll ask Maddie if it’s true,” and she began to scramble down. “I’ll take the book and tell her you said it was like me and them.”

Harvey caught hold of her.

“If you do, Miss Ella,” she said, “you’ll get such a scolding as you’ve never had in your life. And I’ll be sent away – you’ll see – and it’ll be all your fault.” Ella stopped short.

“Then why did you say it to me?” she asked, for she was a clever and quick-witted child.

“Oh, well – I shouldn’t have said it. When you’re older you’ll understand better, darling. You see Harvey loves you so – she’d like you to be the eldest and have everything like a little princess. The third’s never the same – and Harvey doesn’t like to think of her Miss Ella coming in for the old clothes and the leavings, and the worst of it all, so to say.”

Ella had calmed down now, but she sat listening intently with a startled, uneasy look, painful to see on her pretty little face.

“But mamma won’t let me have the shabby old clothes, mamma loves me too, Harvey,” she persisted.

“Yes, yes – but poor mamma’s very ill. But never mind, darling. While Harvey’s here no one shall put upon you, and then there’s your Auntie Phillis. She loves my Miss Ella, that she does.”

“Auntie’s not here,” said the child.

“No, but may be she’ll come some day soon,” said Harvey mysteriously, “only don’t you say I said so. You don’t want to get poor Harvey scolded again, do you, darling?”

“No,” said Ella, but that was all, and when Harvey kissed her, though she submitted quietly, she did not in any way return the caress.

Then she got down from her nurse’s knee and collected her picture books together, and put them away.

“Sha’n’t I read anything to you? There’s lots of other pretty stories,” Harvey asked.

“No,” said Ella again, “I don’t like no stories.”

And once or twice during that day, even Harvey was startled, and a little conscience-stricken at the expression on the child’s face.

That same morning in a pretty sitting-room on the ground floor of the house, Madelene St Quentin and her sister Ermine were reading, or rather preparing some lessons together, when the door opened and an elderly lady in walking dress came in. Madelene started to her feet.

“Oh, Aunt Anna,” she exclaimed, “I am so glad you have come. I have felt so fidgety all the morning, I couldn’t settle to anything. It is so good of you to have come over again so early.”

“I promised you I would, my dear,” the new-comer replied. “I knew you would be anxious to see me after your father being with us last night.”

“You had a long talk with mamma first, and then you and papa had time to consider it all?” said Madelene, “oh, I do hope – ”

Lady Cheynes interrupted her.

“I will tell you all about it,” she said, “but first tell me – how is poor Ellen this morning? Had she a good night?”

Madelene shook her head.

“Not very, I’m afraid. It is so provoking – with all our care to save her anxiety – last night when Ella was taken to say good-night to her, mamma found out in an instant that the child had a cold, and she has been worrying about it ever since. I spoke as severely as I could to Harvey this morning. Of course it is all her fault.”

Lady Cheynes in her turn shook her head.

“Of course it is her fault. But I am afraid it is no use for you to say anything, my dear Maddie. It is a vicious circle. Ellen’s faith in Harvey must not be destroyed, for it could only be done at a terrible risk to your poor mother – and yet the more Harvey is left to herself the more and more she presumes upon it.”

“I am not quite sure of that, Aunt Anna,” said Madelene. “There must be good in Harvey, I hope – Ella is very fond of her.”

Lady Cheynes tapped the umbrella she held in her hand, impatiently on the floor. She was a small, handsome old lady, scarcely indeed old in point of years, but looking so, thanks to her white hair and the style of dress she affected. She was never seen except in black, but black of the richest, though as she had not changed the fashion of her garments since her widowhood some thirty years ago, she had something quaint and old-world-like about her, decidedly pleasing however when combined with freshness of material and exquisite neatness of finish. She had bright dark eyes, and delicate features. A very attractive old lady, but somewhat awe-inspiring nevertheless.

“Rubbish, Maddie,” she said sharply. “I don’t mean,” she hastened to add, “that there is no good in the woman. If so, she would be a fiend. But as for the child being fond of her – that says nothing; people talk a good deal of nonsense about children’s innate discernment. There is nothing so easy as to humbug a child – up to a certain point, that’s to say. Harvey can easily wheedle Ella into fancying herself fond of her, when it suits the woman’s purpose. But at bottom I doubt if the child does care for her.”

“Ella has a generous nature,” said Madelene.

“Yes,” Ermine agreed, speaking for the first time; “she always flies up in defence of any one she thinks ill-used.”

Lady Cheynes glanced across the room at the last speaker.