As Celia undressed slowly, going over the scene that had taken place in
the hall below, recalling the changes in the Marquess's expressive face,
his strange manner, with its suggestion of anger and impatience, she
sought in vain for an explanation. Had he actually been annoyed and
irritated by her admission that she had noticed a resemblance in the
portrait of his dead brother to someone whom she had met? He had said,
emphatically, that it was only a fancied resemblance, and she accepted
his decision. It certainly could be only a freak of imagination on her
part, seeing that the Marquess's brother had not married--indeed, it was
ridiculous to suppose that there was any connection between the noble
family of the Sutcombes and the unknown man in the poverty-stricken room
at Brown's Buildings. Woman-like, her mind dwelt more on him than on the
Marquess's impatience and annoyance. There was something strange,
mysterious, in the fact that, not only was she haunted by the memory of
the young man, but that here, at Thexford Hall, she should fancy a
portrait of one of the family resembled him.
It did not need much to recall him to her mind; for it may be said that
in no idle moment of hers was her mind free of him. Now she asked
herself, for the hundredth time, not only what had become of him, but
what was her duty to him. She had not tried to find him, had not
endeavoured to communicate with him. At the moment it occurred to her
that she might have inserted a carefully-guarded advertisement in the
Personal column of one or more of the newspapers, and she felt ashamed
that the thought had not struck her before. She almost, but not quite,
decided to insert such an advertisement at once; but, as she pondered,
she questioned the wisdom of such an action. Her mind swung, like a
pendulum, from one side to the other, and at last she fell asleep, still
undecided, but still thinking of him.
The next morning she went out with Roddy for her usual before-breakfast
run. It seemed that the Marquess also was an early riser; for she saw
his figure, pacing one of the walks, his eyes fixed on the ground. She
was going in his direction, and Roddy, catching sight of him, bounded
towards him. The Marquess saw her, raised his hat, and turned. It seemed
to Celia that he wished to avoid her, and she went on her way--the dog
returning to her--and re-entered the house. She did not know whether to
expect a visit in the library from the Marquess; and every now and then,
when she heard his footstep or his voice, she paused in her work with
something like apprehension. But he did not come. In the afternoon he
went out in the motor, and presently Mrs. Dexter came into the library.
"The Marquess tells me he saw you last night, my dear," she said. "I
hope you liked him."
"Yes," said Celia; "he was very kind."
"Oh, his lordship is kindness itself," said Mrs. Dexter; "and he seems
quite interested in you; he is anxious that you should not overwork
yourself, and he told me that I was to look after you and see that you
went out and took plenty of exercise every day. He's like that; no one
could be more kind and considerate to those in his service. And now, my
dear, it's a beautiful afternoon and you must go for a run, or I shall
get into trouble with his lordship."
"Anything rather than that," said Celia, with a laugh. "Indeed, I'm just
going out. Won't you come, too, Mrs. Dexter?"
"Oh, my dear, it's quite impossible," said the housekeeper, "Lord and
Lady Heyton are coming this afternoon.... No, you can't help me, thank
you very much; everything is ready. I've given her ladyship the best
south room, and I hope she will be pleased. I hear that she is a very
beautiful young lady. She's a clergyman's daughter, and it was a
love-match. It is a good thing that Lord Heyton is married and settled;
a good thing for everybody," she added, with, perhaps, unintentional
significance.
Remembering her promise to Lady Gridborough, Celia decided to go to see
Susie; and, with Roddy scampering about her, she walked briskly in the
direction of the cottage. As Celia came up to it, Susie was at the gate
with the child in her arms, and the pale-faced girl-mother turned as if
to avoid her; but Celia, with shyness in her soft, clear voice, said:
"Oh, mayn't I see the baby? Mayn't I come in?"
"Yes; you may come in, if you wish, if you want to, miss," said Susie,
in her low voice, and after a moment's hesitation.
Celia followed her into the little sitting-room. It was a tiny place,
but it was scrupulously clean and neat. Susie placed a chair for the
visitor, and stood, with her baby pressed close to her, her eyes
downcast. Her girlish face, pretty, notwithstanding the lines and
hollows graved by sorrow, was like a mask in its impassivity. It was as
if she were saying, "You have come, but I did not ask you to do so; I do
not want you. I have all I want here, lying on my bosom."
"Let me have him for a moment," begged Celia, who, young as she was,
comprehended the girl's feelings. "How sweet he looks!" she exclaimed,
as she took the child and kissed it.
The mother's face twitched as she noted the kiss, and her eyes softened
a little.
"He is very good," she said, as if she were speaking to herself rather
than to Celia. "He is never any trouble; he is very healthy."
"He looks like a strong little cherub," said Celia, touching, with a
forefinger as light as a feather, the dimple on the child's chin; "and,
of course, he isn't any trouble. And you wouldn't think he was, if he
were, would you? What is his name?"
Susie turned away to set a vase straight.
"He hasn't any name," she said, not suddenly, but in a dull, toneless
voice. "He hasn't been christened yet."
"Oh, but you must have him christened," said Celia, speaking lightly, to
conceal the embarrassment of the subject. "Haven't you decided on a name
for him yet?"
Susie shook her head. "What does it matter?" she asked, in a whisper.
Celia fought the growing embarrassment womanfully.
"Oh, I think it matters a great deal," she responded, in the same light
tone. "If I had a beautiful boy like this, I should like him to have a
nice name--a manly name. But, of course, you've thought of one?"
Susie shook her head again.
"No? Will you think me very--well, cheeky--if I suggest some? Now, let
me see! He is fair, isn't he? Some names are appropriate to fair men,
while others are more suitable to dark ones, don't you think so?"
She laughed; but there was no smile in Susie's eyes, as she turned and
looked, moodily, at the baby, one of whose chubby hands was clasping
Celia's finger.
"Let's think of some names," said Celia. "James! I don't like that, do
you? Richard; no, that's a dark name. Percy; how would that do?"
It was almost impossible for the pale face to grow paler, and yet, for a
moment, as the blue eyes fixed themselves on Celia, Susie's pallor
increased. Her arms went out as if she were about to take the child; but
Celia looking up, smiled beseechingly.
"Oh, let me have him a little longer," she pleaded. "You have him all
the time, you know. Let me see, what was the last name--Percy! Do you
like it?"
With an effort, Susie said, slowly, and in almost a whisper:
"My--my father's name was Gerald:--will--will that do?"
"Oh, the very thing!" cried Celia, earnestly. "Gerald. Of course, you
will call him after his grandfather. Do decide on that, Mrs.--Morton,"
she added, with a sudden nervousness.
"I'll call him Gerald, if you like," Susie said, phlegmatically. "Her
ladyship was saying that he ought to be christened."
"Of course," said Celia; "and I'd like to be his godmother, if you'll
let me?"
Susie swung round, her lips parted, her brows bent, and her eyes fixed
on Celia's upturned face.
"You!" she said, as if she were panting. "You'll be a godmother to--him?
And you know what he is--what I am? Her ladyship has told you?"
"Yes," said Celia, in a low voice.
"And you come here to me: you offer to--to do this! Don't you know that
I was driven from my place, the place in which I was born, that every
woman I've met, excepting her ladyship, would like to throw a stone at
me? Why are you different from the others?"
"I don't know," said Celia, simply. "Perhaps it's because Lady
Gridborough told me the whole story. But I'm--you see, I'm young, like
yourself; and though I've mixed in the world, perhaps I haven't learnt
to feel hardly as some of the folks you speak of do. I was going to say
that I pity you, Susie; but I won't say that. I like you, I like to see
you when you're looking at the child."
Susie turned away, her bosom heaving; there were no tears in her eyes,
she had already wept them dry.
"And you mustn't look at me as if I were a stranger, as if I had come to
see you out of impertinent curiosity only; I want to come to see you
very often. I'm in love with Gerald--it is to be Gerald, isn't
it?--already. And it will be such a pleasure to me to run in and see him
as often as I can; indeed, I must look after him; I shall be his second
mother, you see; and between us, we'll train him up in the way he should
go, and make a good man of him."
She was smiling now; but there were tears in her eyes, though Susie's
were still dry.
"I can't resist you," said Susie, at last. "I know it's wrong that you
should be mixed up with one like me. Your friends----"
"Haven't any friends," said Celia, lightly. "I mean, friends that would
interfere with me; and if I had, I should not let them do so. I'm alone
in the world, like yourself, Susie; and I'm my own mistress. Come, say
'Yes.'"
"I must. It's not in me to resist you, miss," said Susie, with a little
gesture of yielding. "But, mind me! the people hereabouts, the grand
folk up at the Hall, will take offence----"
"Let them!" said Celia. "But I don't think they will. They are all very
kind, even the Marquess."
Susie looked up swiftly.
"Is--is he here, at the Hall?" she asked.
"Yes," said Celia. "He came last night. I saw him; he is very kind,
though a very sad, melancholy man. You shall have the baby now. It's
cruel of me to have kept him so long. But I must hurry back; for I have
so much work to do. I shall come again as soon as I can; and I'll speak
to Lady Gridborough about the christening, and arrange everything."
Susie went out to the gate with her, and was saying the last good-bye,
when the stillness was broken by the humming of a motor-car. In a cloud
of dust, an automobile came up the road; it was upon them almost in an
instant.
"That's the big car from the Hall," said Celia. "Why, it must have come
from the station, and that must be----"
As she spoke the car came abreast of them. In it were seated a fair,
good-looking man, with prominent eyes and loose lips, and beside him an
extremely pretty woman, clad daintily in a fashionable and expensive
travelling costume.
"----Yes, that must be Lord and Lady Heyton," finished Celia; and her
attention was so engrossed by the occupants of the car that she did not
see the sudden pallor which had fallen on the face of the girl beside
her, nor the swift gesture with which she drew the shawl over the
child's face and pressed it to her bosom, as if to hide it. She uttered
no cry, but a look of something like terror transformed her face; and,
with a quick movement, she turned and fled into the cottage. Celia
opened the garden gate and went on her way, half-suffocated by the dust
of the rapidly disappearing car.
As Celia entered the Hall, she was met by the odour of an Egyptian
cigarette. There was something unpleasantly pungent about it, and,
coming out of the fresh air, she, unconsciously, resented the too
obtrusive perfume; it recalled to her the atmosphere of a cheap Soho
restaurant, and shady foreigners with shifty glances. Such an atmosphere
was singularly inappropriate in that great hall, with its air of
refinement and dignity. She was making her way to the stairs, when the
man she had seen in the car came out of one of the rooms. The
objectionable cigarette was between his lips, his hands were thrust in
his pockets, there was a kind of swagger in his walk. He looked like a
gentleman, but one of the wrong kind, the sort of man one meets in the
lowest stratum of the Fast Set. Celia noted all this, without appearing
to look at him; it is a way women have, that swift, sideways glance
under their lashes, the glance that takes in so much while seeming quite
casual and uninterested.
Lord Heyton stared at her, curiously and boldly; her youth and her
beauty brought a smile to his face, the smile which is very near to an
insult, and he removed his cigarette and opened his lips, as if to speak
to her. But, as if unconscious of his presence, Celia went up the stairs
quickly and looking straight before her. She had seen the smile, and
knew, without looking back, that he was standing in the hall and staring
up at her.
Instinctively, she felt that Lord Heyton was a man to be avoided.