In his perplexity he turned to Ellen. She had always shown her liking for him. She would tell him the truth, unless loyalty to her mistress forbade. One afternoon, when he had ridden up to the house among the maples only to be told that its lady was out and away somewhere, he spoke what was in his thought.
“What is it, Ellen?”
The old woman looked at him kindly with her shrewd, far-seeing eyes, but was noncommittal.
“Sure, there’s nothin’, sir. Herself is away somewhere for a walk. She’s fair set on roamin’ these days.”
He brushed evasion aside.
“Tell me, Ellen, if you can tell me without betraying confidence; Is Miss Moran engaged to this Mr. Meredith of whom I hear?”
The homely Irish face softened to sympathy for an instant, then went back to its reserve.
“She is that, sir.”
There were other questions burning his lips, but he forced them back. One does not ask a servant whether her mistress loves the man she means to marry.
“Thank you, Ellen,” he said simply, as he turned away. He was in the saddle, when the woman who had stood watching him stepped to his side.