"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."