“Thank you, Hetty, perhaps I’d—” Ella began, when suddenly the sound of horse’s feet approaching, reminded her of her original errand at the lodge. “There’s the groom—the groom from the Manor,” she said, flying off, forgetful alike of smutty marks and “mammy’s” big apron in her eagerness, and heedless of Hetty’s assurances that she could open the gate, anxiety as to which the little maiden supposed to be the cause of the young lady’s excitement.
Ella’s ears had not misled her. A horse was waiting at the gate, but scarcely had she called out to its rider—
“You’ve been at the Manor; what message is there?” when a glance upwards told her that she had made some great mistake. It was no groom who sat there, gazing at her in speechless astonishment—it was a gentleman; so much she perceived instantaneously; but this first flash of surprise was as nothing compared with the shock of astonishment which succeeded it when in another half second her eyes told her brain what at first it refused to accept—the rider was her partner—her partner par excellence that is to say, of two nights before at Mrs Belvoir’s dance.
But if Ella was surprised, what was the effect on the new-comer of the sudden apparition of the mysterious little personage who had made so much impression on him? Was it she—“Miss Wyndham,” or was it only a case of extraordinary resemblance? Yet if not Miss Wyndham, who then? He knew the Roses at the lodge, as well as he knew himself—Mrs Rose was the only daughter of one of his own tenants, and though a comely young woman, in no way exceptionally pretty—this girl could be no sister or cousin of hers, he felt sure. Yet again his hasty glance had shown him that she was not in the ordinary attire of a lady; she was half covered by a huge and not over-clean apron, her hair was pushed off her forehead, her face was scorched-looking and a grimy streak crossed it on one side. “Miss Wyndham,” if Miss Wyndham it were, must be playing a part in a comedy, or else—could it be that the girl he had been so struck with was not a lady; that in some clever way she had inveigled herself in among the smart people at the Manor, and that this was the meaning of her strange, half mysterious, half reticent manner? A curious and by no means agreeable thrill passed through the young man as this last idea drove its predecessors out of his mind with the rapidity of lightning. Hetty meanwhile had run out and was fumbling at the gate. The sight of the child brought Philip back to matters-of-fact.
“I will open myself, Hetty,” he said, for the elder girl stood as if transfixed making no effort to help the little one. And in a moment he had dismounted and was leading his horse through the gateway.
They both stared at each other for half a second. Ella was the first to speak, though her cheeks glowed more and more as she did so. Happily she had forgotten all about the sooty mark on her cheek.
“I beg your pardon for mistaking you,” she said. “I thought you were the groom from—”
“I cannot beg your pardon,” interrupted Philip, “for I am absolutely in the dark as to whether I have mistaken you or not. Are you—” but here he hesitated, though the tone of her voice and the manner of her speech had almost satisfied him that his recognition had been correct—“are you Miss Wyndham, and if so—what in the world—”
It was by this time all Ella could do to repress her laughter.
“What in the world am I doing here?” she said, finishing his sentence for him. “Did you not ask if you would find me scouring pots and pans if you came to see me? Well—I have been doing something of the kind—witness my apron, and my hands,” staring ruefully at some black streaks on her fingers.