CHAPTER II
Ella Goes to School
And then a worse thing happened, for one day Ella’s father told her that she must go away to school. She did not like this in the least, and begged to be allowed to stay at home and do lessons in the morning, as she had done when her mother was alive.
“All is for your own good, my dear,” said her father. “There is nobody to teach you now, and you will be all the better for the society of other little girls of your own age.” And so her boxes were packed and a chaise came to the door, and Ella drove away.
Ella remained at school for two whole years, and during all that time she did not see her home. Then one day her father came with the carriage to bring her back again.
When they had left the town well behind, he took Ella’s little hand in his big one and said:
“You must have been very lonely in the house after your mother died. Were you not lonely, child?”
“Yes, indeed,” answered Ella, and the tears came into her eyes when she thought of the dear mother whom she would never see again in this world. “But you see,” she went on, “I have been thinking over things while I have been at school, and I have made up my mind to try not to be lonely any more. There are so many things that mother used to do which I can do instead. One of these days I shall have to take her place, so I may as well begin now, mayn’t I?”
“Of course,” said her father, “and you are a very good little girl to think of it; but there has been a change while you have been away, and I want to tell you about it.”
“A change?” cried Ella, opening her eyes wide.
“Yes,” the Baron went on, speaking rather fast, as though he had to say something unpleasant and wanted to get it over. “Somebody has come to live with us while you have been away—somebody who will, I hope, take a mother’s place to you. A lady has—ahem—done me the honour to accept my hand. That is to say, child, I am married again, and my wife has two daughters who will also live with us for the future. You must try to like them for my sake.”
This piece of news was so much of a surprise to Ella that for a time she could not say a word. A stranger in her mother’s house, sitting in her mother’s chair, doing the things her mother used to do! The very thought made a big lump come into her throat.
“What are their names,” she said at last, “the girls’ names, I mean?”
“One is called Charlotte,” answered her father, “and the other Euphronia.”
“I like the name of Charlotte,” said Ella miserably. “Are they big girls or little ones?”
“Well, you see,” said her father, “correctly speaking, they are not girls at all. That is to say, child, they have—ahem—arrived at years of discretion. You must not expect them to play ball or anything like that, or run about the garden with you. They are— what shall we say?— a little sober in temperament; but excellent creatures, nevertheless— excellent creatures. You will get on very well together, I’m sure, with a little give and take on both sides.”
“Just a minute, father,” pleaded Ella. “Do tell me some more about my new sisters. I cannot understand all the big words you use. Do you mean that they are grown up?”
Her father nodded. “In point of fact, adult,” he said, and his tone was so gloomy that Ella had to smile.
“Never mind,” she said. “Some grown-ups are very nice, especially if they know stories or can play pretend-games, as mother used to do. Can Charlotte and Euphronia play pretend-games, do you know?”
“Let me see,” said her father. “Charlotte plays the spinet very nicely, I believe—her mother tells me so. I have not heard her much myself, because I do not care for music, and I always shut the library door when she begins to play. Euphronia—let me see now—what is it Euphronia does? Oh, of course, Euphronia sings. I gather from her mother that she is no mean performer, though I am no judge of these things. But here we are at the house, child, so do not ask any more questions. In a few minutes you shall meet your stepmother and your sisters in person.”