Celia was awakened the next morning by the singing of the birds. For a
few minutes she was confused by her strangely luxurious surroundings;
but she soon realized her good fortune, and she leapt out of bed, ran to
the window, and peeped out on the wonderful view. She might have stood
openly at the window, for no building, no human being were in sight. It
seemed to her that she was the only person in that vast solitude of
umbrageous park and wide-stretching heath.
Immediately beneath her lay the velvet lawns of the splendid gardens;
they were irresistible; she had her bath and dressed quickly, and, to
the amazement of the housemaids who were at work in the hall, went out
bare-headed. She felt as if every moment in which she was not enjoying
this wonderful new experience of hers were a lost one; and she wandered
about, stopping occasionally to examine the noble façade of the house, a
quaint sundial, an antique fountain of bronze, some particularly
tasteful arrangement of the flowers.
There was an Italian garden, with marble benches, fawns and dryads,
which was exactly like those depicted in _Country Life_: and here it
was, and she was free of it! Oh, marvellous! Presently a huge deerhound,
graceful as the forest from which he sprang, came bounding to her; he
stopped and eyed her critically for a moment, then he came forward in
stately fashion and laid his beautiful head in the hands she
outstretched to him. She went down on her knees and hugged him; and he
submitted to the embrace, with his great, loving eyes fixed on hers
approvingly. When the big bell in one of the towers rang for breakfast
the dog followed her into the little room behind the library and flung
himself down at her side, as if he belonged to her.
While she was eating her breakfast Mrs. Dexter looked in, inquired how
Celia had slept, cast an examining eye over the bountifully furnished
table, with its gleaming silver and dainty china, and asked if Celia had
everything she needed.
"Oh, yes," said Celia, with a laugh. "I have never seen such a breakfast
in my life; there are so many things that I don't know which to choose."
Mrs. Dexter smiled, with an air of satisfaction. "I see you have got
Roddy," she said.
At the sound of his name the big dog rose and went to the housekeeper,
then returned to Celia.
"Yes; isn't he a beautiful dog?" said Celia. "We made friends outside. I
am flattering myself that he has taken a fancy to me; I hope he has."
"It certainly looks like it," assented Mrs. Dexter. "He will be company
for you on your walks."
"Oh, may I have him?" cried Celia, delightedly. "I've fallen
passionately in love with him."
Mrs. Dexter assured her that Roddy, as well as everything in and about
the place, was at Celia's service, and, explaining that she was very
busy, hurried away. Immediately after breakfast Celia began her
delightful work, and for the next two or three days stuck to it so
persistently that Mrs. Dexter remonstrated.
"Oh, but you don't know how much I love it," pleaded Celia. "The moment
I leave the library I want to get back to it. You see, I'm mad on books,
and this work of mine is a labour of love; the very touch of some of
these old volumes thrills me. And there are so many of them; sometimes I
feel that I shall never get through my task, if I live to be ninety."
"You'll soon look like ninety, my dear, if you don't take more
exercise," observed Mrs. Dexter, wisely. "I am sure his lordship would
be grieved if he knew you were working so hard. Now, come, take Roddy
and go for a long walk; or perhaps you would rather drive?"
Celia declared that she preferred a walk, and a little later she started
out, somewhat reluctantly, with Roddy close at her heels. It was a
delicious morning; the feeling of the coming summer was in the air, the
larks were singing joyously above the moorland, as if they, too, were
revelling in the bright sunlight, the clean, keen air, the scent of the
gorse with which it was perfumed. Celia could scarcely refrain from
singing; she walked quickly, and sometimes, to Roddy's delight, she ran
races with him. She came to the end of the moor at last, and swung down
to the high road, followed it for some time and presently came to two
cross-roads. She was hesitating which to take, when a small phaeton,
drawn by an Exmoor pony, came rolling towards her.
In the phaeton was an old lady with white hair and a pleasant
countenance; she had very sharp eyes and a smile that was a trifle
cynical. At sight of the young girl, with the brilliant eyes and the
healthily flushed cheeks, she stopped the pony and looked at Celia
curiously. Celia felt as if she must speak to everyone that morning, so
she went up to the tiny carriage and asked how far it was, by the road,
to Thexford Hall.
"Oh, I see," said the old lady. "I was wondering who you were. You are
the young lady who has come to the Hall as librarian. Let me see, what
is your name?"
Celia told her.
"And a very pretty one, too," said the old lady, with a short nod. "I'm
called Gridborough. You've walked six miles, and must be tired," she
continued. "You ought to have a rest. Get in and I'll drive you to my
house; you can have some lunch with me."
As they entered a long drive, bordered by tall elms, Celia saw a small
cottage set back a little way from the road. A young woman, with a pale
face and sad-looking blue eyes, was standing at the gate with a baby in
her arms. As the phaeton drove up, a faint colour came to her white
face; she dropped a little curtsy and was turning away, but stopped when
the old lady called to her. The young woman approached, with an air of
timidity, of passive obedience, which was as pathetic as her eyes.
"Well, how is the baby, Susie?" asked her ladyship.
"He is quite well, now, my lady," replied the girl, in a low, toneless
voice.
"That's right. I thought he'd soon pull round; it's the wonderful air.
Let me look at him." She took the baby from the young woman's arms,
which yielded him slowly and reluctantly. "Oh, yes, he is looking
famously."
"What a pretty baby!" Celia exclaimed, bending over the child with all a
young girl's rapture. "It's a darling."
The young mother's pale face flushed, and the faded blue eyes grew
radiant for a moment, as she raised them gratefully to Celia's face; but
the flush, the radiance, vanished almost instantly, and the face became
patient and sad again.
"You must try to get some of the baby's roses in your own cheeks,
Susie," said her ladyship, peering at the girl.
"Yes, my lady," came the passive response. She took the child into her
own arms, pressing it to her with a little convulsive movement, then, as
the carriage drove off, dropped a curtsy.
"That's a sad business," said Lady Gridborough, speaking rather to
herself than to her companion. "It's the old story: selfish man, weak
woman."
"She is a stranger here?" asked Celia.
"Yes; she was born in a little village where I live sometimes. I brought
her here--was obliged to. They were harrowing the poor child to death,
the toads! She was dying by inches, she and the child, too, and so I
carried her away from her own place and stuck her into this cottage."
"That was very good of you," said Celia, warmly.
"Oh, well, whenever I see Susie, I think of my own girlhood and its
temptations, and say to myself, like the man whose name I can't
remember, 'but for the grace of God, there goes Constance Gridborough.'
Here we are!"
They had covered the long drive, and reached a house almost as grand as
the hall. As at the Hall, there was a superfluity of servants, and one
would have thought the little Exmoor was an elephant by the way in which
a couple of grooms sprang forward to his diminutive head. The old lady,
leaning on a stick and the arm of a footman, led Celia into the house.
While lunch was in progress the old lady talked in the same friendly and
familiar way, as if she had known Celia for years.
"I suppose you're a college girl? Wiggins, help Miss Grant to some
chicken. You must make a good lunch, for I am sure you must be hungry.
Father and mother living?"
"No," said Celia, quietly.
"That's sad," commented her ladyship. "And so you're thrown on your own
resources. Well, they look as if they'd stand by you. I'm glad you've
come to the Hall, now I find that you're not a blue-stocking and don't
wear spectacles. Yes, I'm glad, for I've rather taken a fancy to you. I
like healthy young things, and you look as if you were a part of the
morning. Sounds like poetry out of one of your wretched books."
"And now," said Celia, after a while, "I must be going, Lady
Gridborough. I have been away quite a long time."
"You must come again," said the old lady.
"Do you think," said Celia, hesitatingly, as she slipped on her jacket,
"that the young woman, Susie, as you call her, would let me go to see
her sometimes? I should like to."
"Yes, my dear," said her ladyship, with a nod which showed she was
pleased. "Go and see her, by all means. You're a girl of about her own
age, and she may open her heart to you. A sad business--a sad business,"
she murmured. "And what makes it more sad for me is that I knew the
young man."
She paused and appeared as if she were hesitating, then she said:
"Look here, my dear, it's scarcely a story for your ears; but I've no
doubt it will come to them sooner or later, and so I may as well tell
you. This place, where I have another house, where Susie Morton lived is
called Bridgeford. She was in service with me, and a young gentleman who
lodged in the village--he was studying engineering--made her
acquaintance. I suspected nothing. Indeed, he was supposed to be in love
with the daughter of the rector, Miriam Ainsley. I thought it was going
to be a match, but they were both poor, and the girl suddenly married a
young nobleman, a man I disliked very much, a wastrel and a
ne'er-do-well. But there were stories about this other young man who was
supposed to be in love with her, and perhaps they came to her ears, and
drove her to the other man, though it was a case of out of the
frying-pan into the fire. The young engineer left the place suddenly,
and disappeared, and everybody attributed poor Susie's downfall to him."
There was silence for a moment, then she went on musingly:
"Strange how even the most timid of our sex can display firmness and
determination when they have made up their minds to do so. Though Susie
has been implored to disclose his name, she has refused to do so. Those
childish little lips of hers close tightly whenever one approaches the
subject, and she has absolutely refused to say one word that would lead
to a clue."
"Perhaps--perhaps the young man was not guilty after all," said Celia.
Lady Gridborough shook her head.
"I'm afraid he was, my dear," she said, with a sigh and a shrug. "She
was very pretty, is so still, and I took a fancy to her and let her help
me when I was pottering about the garden. I used to like to have him
near me, and so they were thrown together. The old story. And yet I
found it hard to believe that Derrick Dene was a scoundrel, and a
heartless one to boot. There! That's enough of it. But as I say, you
would have heard of it sooner or later. Put it out of your head, my
dear; it's not the kind of story to dwell upon; though I suppose
nowadays young girls read and hear about these sort of things every day.
Now mind! you're to come to see me whenever you feel inclined."
Celia promised warmly, and the childless woman stood in the doorway and
sighed as she watched the girlish figure going lightly down the drive.
Celia was feeling very happy; she would try to make a friend of Susie,
and forget the story of her ruin and the name of Derrick Dene.