“Oh,” said Ella, “that will be very pleasant.”
“Delightful,” replied Philip absently.
This time Ella made no observation.
Suddenly Philip turned to her again.
“Ella,” he said, “do forgive me for harping on the subject, but don’t you think all this might be put right? If you could show a little more confidence in Madelene, a little more affection in your manner, she would, I feel certain, be quick to respond. I can’t—” and here he hesitated, “I can’t just yet tell you all I should like you to know—I wish I could—but some day you will understand better.”
Ella felt choking. “Understand”—did she not understand? But pride and some better feeling than pride, for after all she had no real grounds of complaint against Sir Philip, came to the rescue.
“I will try to be gentler and pleasanter at Coombesthorpe, if you think it would do any good,” she said bravely. “And changes come—it may not be for very long. I should like you and my godmother to know I had done my best, for—for the time we must be all together there.”
The tears trembled on her eyelashes, but she turned away to hide them: she did not see the expression on Philip’s face as he heard her words. She only heard his answer.
“Thank you, dear Ella,” he said. “I know you will do what you say, and you have made me very happy by speaking so, for I have been terribly afraid of making things worse instead of better, by my interfering. No—it may not be for long as you say. But you are so young, Ella,” and there was a half regretful intonation in his voice, “you will see things differently afterwards, and you will like to look back and feel that you have done your best.”
Ella glanced up at him. There was a look in his eyes which made her cheeks flush.