“You must have white ones,” said Lady Cheynes. “Ah well—perhaps we can get some at Weevilscoombe. I can send a man in to the shoemaker’s there. Or if not—” and the old lady hesitated. “Never mind—we’ll manage somehow. Now, my dear, run up stairs and show Hester all that you want packed up. You must be quick, for we shall leave immediately after luncheon.”
Scarcely knowing if she were standing on her head or her heels, off flew Ella. Up stairs in her room she found Hester, who now that the young lady was in such luck thought it well to sober her down a little by looking rather grim.
“Oh, Hester,” cried Ella, flying at the old servant, seizing her by the shoulders and whirling her round, “did you ever know anything so lovely? Have you packed up the frock? Do tell me about it—how did you know about it? Was it to be a surprise and oh! Hester, what will my sisters say when they see me there? I’m so awfully afraid they’ll be vexed, even though they won’t show it to her ladyship.”
Hester stopped short in the packing she was already in the midst of.
“Now, Miss Ella,” she said, “that just shows how little you know your sisters. Vexed indeed—they’ll be just as pleased as pleased, Miss St Quentin especially. If only you knew—No, miss, you can’t see the frock—it’s all pinned up neatly, and you must let Jones undo it herself,” and Hester laid a protecting hand on the white puffy-looking packet she was reserving for the top of the trunk.
“You cross old thing,” said Ella. “However I’ll forgive you. I’m too happy to mind. All the same if my sisters did want me to go, why didn’t they ask papa—he gave in the moment godmother tackled him?”
Hester grunted, but said nothing.
“That reminds me,” Ella went on, “I must run in to see papa for a moment, to thank him. You’ve got all my things in now, Hester. I haven’t time to change this frock, though I should have liked to,” glancing at her thick grey homespun with contempt; “and besides, my Sunday frock—fancy me having come back to Sunday frocks like a good little girl!—is rather the uglier of the two. It is so clumsily made; I’d have liked to take my dark green cashmere that I brought from auntie’s.”
“And catch your death of cold. You forget, Miss Ella, it’s a deal colder here than at Bath, and in a town too it’s always warmer.”
“Oh, well, I don’t care. I shall come back first thing to-morrow morning; so it won’t matter. Oh, Hester, I am so happy—here, catch, these are my gloves. Yes, I’m sure I’ve all now.”