But Ermine was at that moment busily reading a letter of her own, and either did not, or wished to seem as if she did not, hear the question. Be that as it may, Madelene got no answer. Ella, secretly enjoying her elder sister’s discomfiture, happened just then to catch sight of her face. It looked more than anxious; pale and weary and almost worn. Something in its expression touched Ella’s impressionable feelings.
“Poor Madelene,” she thought, with a rush of a kind of generous pity which she would have found it difficult to explain to herself. “I am sure she means to do right. And after all—if she does want Sir Philip to—to care for Ermine, why shouldn’t she? Ermine is her very own sister. Only—I wish it had all been settled and Ermine married to him before I came here.”
The softened feeling—as most feelings did with Ella—expressed itself.
“Madelene,” she said half timidly. “I am of course quite willing to do as you like—I mean as you think best—about going out at all or not. I know—I quite understood at the time that my godmother’s taking me to the Manor dance was an exception—a sort of extra thing altogether. And I am sure she couldn’t be vexed if you said it was best for me not to go out any more just yet, and if Ermine went instead. I do believe Ermine,” with a grateful glance in her second sister’s direction, “I do believe Ermine planned it to please me, and asked godmother to invite me instead of her.” Madelene looked relieved at this—some diplomacy had been exerted by Ermine the day before at Cheynesacre, she felt sure, and she was glad to think it had been thus simple—but Ermine, though she reddened a little, replied rather abruptly.
“No, Ella. I did not really. The inviting you was Aunt Anna’s own idea.”
“I will tell papa about it, Ella, and see what he thinks,” Madelene said. “But thank you, dear, for what you say. I shall be so glad for you to believe that interfering with any pleasure for you is my very last wish.”