And then the quicksilver of her eighteen years refused to let her ponder any more.
“I’m going to be happy—for a week at least, come what may,” she said aloud as she sprang out of bed. “And as I’m his guest it’s Sir Philip’s business to make me enjoy myself, and it would be very surly of me not to.”
Certainly it looked as if the host’s task was not to be a very arduous one—never, in Madelene’s sight at least—had the girl been so sweet and bright and happy.
“Dear child, she seems in love with all the world,” said her godmother when she and Madelene were alone that morning for a few minutes before Miss St Quentin took her departure. “How I wish poor Ellen could see her! It must make you feel happy, dear Maddie, to see her so bright and blooming.” But Madelene did not respond as heartily as she really wished she could do.
“She is so different at home, Aunt Anna,” she said. “She seems as if she could not trust us, me especially. It seems unnatural in one so young and impressionable,” and she sighed.
“It will all come right,” said the old lady cheerily; “you are too gloomy, Maddie.”
She did not understand the new direction of Madelene’s anxieties; had she overheard a word or two that passed between the cousins as Philip stood at the carriage door saying good-bye, she might have been enlightened.
“Philip,” Miss St Quentin whispered, “I must say one word to you at the risk of offending you. I hope I am doing right in leaving Ella—Phil dear, don’t be angry with me—remember she is very, very young and—you know you can be so very charming.”
The blood mounted to the young man’s forehead.
“Madelene,” he said, “I really sometimes cannot understand you. Do you want me to be actually unkind to your half-sister? Do you think that would mend matters?”