"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.