E-text prepared by David Clarke, Mary Meehan,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net/)

THE WOMAN'S WAY

BY CHARLES GARVICE

AUTHOR OF "JUST A GIRL" "TWO MAIDS AND A MAN" ETC.

HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO

Printed in 1914

Copyright in Great Britain and the Colonies
and in the United States of America
by Charles Garvice, 1913

CONTENTS

[CHAPTER I]
[CHAPTER II]
[CHAPTER III]
[CHAPTER IV]
[CHAPTER V]
[CHAPTER VI]
[CHAPTER VII]
[CHAPTER VIII]
[CHAPTER IX]
[CHAPTER X]
[CHAPTER XI]
[CHAPTER XII]
[CHAPTER XIII]
[CHAPTER XIV]
[CHAPTER XV]
[CHAPTER XVI]
[CHAPTER XVII]
[CHAPTER XVIII]
[CHAPTER XIX]
[CHAPTER XX]
[CHAPTER XXI]
[CHAPTER XXII]
[CHAPTER XXIII]
[CHAPTER XXIV]
[CHAPTER XXV]
[CHAPTER XXVI]
[CHAPTER XXVII]
[CHAPTER XXVIII]
[CHAPTER XXIX]
[CHAPTER XXX]
[CHAPTER XXXI]
[CHAPTER XXXII]

CHAPTER I

Celia climbed up the steps to her room slowly; not because she was very tired, but because her room was nearly at the top of Brown's Buildings and she had learnt that, at any rate, it was well to begin slowly. It was only the milk boy and the paper boy who ran up the stairs, and they generally whistled or sang as they ran, heedless of feminine reproofs or masculine curses. There was no lift at Brown's; its steps were as stony and as steep as those of which Dante complained; the rail on which Celia's hand rested occasionally was of iron; and Brown's whitewashed corridors, devoid of ornament, were so severe as to resemble those of a prison; indeed, more than one of the inhabitants of the Buildings spoke of them, with grim facetiousness, as The Jail. Without having to pause to gain her breath, for at twenty-two, when you are well and strong, even sixty steep steps do not matter very much, Celia unlocked a door, bearing the number "105," and entered her room.

It was not large; to descend to detail, it measured exactly ten feet by fifteen feet; but scantily furnished as it was, it contrasted pleasantly with the prison-like corridor on which it opened. Like that of the Baby Bear, everything in the apartment was small; a tiny table, a diminutive armchair, a miniature bookcase; the one exception was a wardrobe, which was not in reality a wardrobe; it served a double purpose; for when the doors were opened, they disclosed a bed, standing on its head, which came down at night and offered Celia repose. The room had a cheerful air; there was a small fire in the tiny grate, and the light of the flickering coal was reflected on one or two cheap, but artistically good, engravings, and on the deep maroon curtains—"Our celebrated art serge, 1s. 6d. a yard, double width"—which draped the windows looking down on Elsham Street, which runs parallel with its great, roaring, bustling brother, Victoria Street.

There were few prettier rooms in Brown's than Celia's; but then, compared with the other inhabitants of The Jail, she was quite well-to-do, not to say rich; for she earned a pound a week; and a pound a week is regarded as representing affluence by those who are earning only fifteen shillings; and that sum, I fancy, represented the top income of most of Celia's neighbours.

You can do a great deal with a pound a week. Let us consider for a moment: rent, which includes all rates and taxes, five shillings a week; gas, purchased on the beautiful and simple penny-in-the-slot system, say, one shilling and threepence, and firing one shilling and sixpence—at Brown's you only have a fire when it is really cold, and it is wonderful how far you can make a halfpenny bundle of wood go when you know the trick of it. Now we come to the not unimportant item of food. It is quite easy; breakfast, consisting of an egg, which the grocer, with pleasing optimism, insists upon calling "fresh," one penny; bread and butter, per week, one shilling and sixpence; tea, milk, and sugar, per week, one and fourpence. Lunch, a really good, substantial meal, of savoury sausage or succulent fish and mashed potato, and a bun. If you are a lady the bun is indispensable; for if there is one faith implanted firmly in the feminine breast, it is that which accepts the penny bun as a form of nutrition not to be equalled. Thrones totter and fall, dynasties stagger and pass away, but the devotion of Woman to the Penny Bun stands firm amidst the cataclysms of nature and nations. This substantial lunch costs sixpence. On Sundays, you dine sumptuously at home on a chop, or eggs and bacon, cooked over your gas-ring, and eaten with the leisure which such luxury deserves. Tea, which if you are in Celia's case, you take at home, consists of the remains of the loaf and the milk left from breakfast, enhanced by a sausage "Made in Germany," or, say, for a change, half a haddock, twopence. Of course, this meal is supper and tea combined.

If you tot all this up, you will find it has now reached the not inconsiderable sum of fifteen shillings and tenpence. This is how the rich person like Celia lives. There still remains a balance of four shillings and twopence to be expended on clothing, bus fares, insurance and amusement. Quite an adequate—indeed, an ample sum. At any rate, it seemed so to Celia, who, at present, was well set up with clothes, and found sufficient amusement in the novelty of her life and her surroundings; for, only a few months back, she had been living in comfort and middle-class luxury, with a larger sum for pocket-money than had now to suffice for the necessaries of existence.

The kettle was boiling, she set the tea; and while she was arranging in a vase—"Given away with every half-pound of our choice Congo!"—the penny bunch of violets which she had been unable to resist, her lips were moving to the strains of the hackneyed but ever beautiful intermezzo in "Cavalleria Rusticana," which floated up from the room immediately underneath hers; but as she drew her chair up to the fire, the music of the violin ceased, and presently she heard footsteps ascending the stairs slowly. There came a knock at the door, and she opened it to an old man with a frame so attenuated that it appeared to be absolutely fleshless. His hair was white and almost touching his shoulders, and his face so colourless and immobile that it looked as if it were composed of wax; but the dark eyes under the white, shaggy brows were full of life, and piercing.

"Oh, good evening, Mr. Clendon!" said Celia, in the tone a woman uses when she is really pleased, and not affecting to be pleased, at the advent of a visitor. "Come in."

"Thank you, Miss Grant," said the old man, in a peculiar voice that was quite low and yet strangely vibrant, like the note of a muted violin. "I have come to ask you if you could oblige me with a couple of pieces of sugar. I have run out, and somehow—one has one's foolish weaknesses—I dislike my tea without sugar."

"Why of course," said Celia, with a touch of eagerness. "But—but won't you come in and have your tea with me?"

The old man shook his head; but his eyes, taking in the comfort of the tiny, fire-lit room, the aspect of home, grew wistful; besides, there was a note of entreaty in the invitation; and "Thank you," he said, simply.

With a nod of satisfaction Celia insisted upon his taking the easy chair, gave him a cup of tea—"Three lumps, please," he said—and seated herself opposite him and smiled on him with the sweetness that is as indefinable as it is irresistible. Mr. Clendon, who played in the orchestra at the Hilarity Theatre of Varieties, just below Brown's Buildings, being a gentleman as well as a broken-down fiddler, was conscious of, and appreciated, the subtle manner. He sat quite silent for a time, then, as his eyes wandered to the violets, he said:

"They smell of the country."

Celia nodded. "Yes; that is why I bought them. It doesn't often run to the luxury of flowers; but I could not resist them."

"You are fond of the country?" he said.

"Oh, yes!" she responded, turning her eyes to the fire. "I have lived there all my life, until—until quite recently—until I came here." She was silent for a moment or so. This old man was the only person she knew in Brown's Buildings; they had made acquaintance on the stairs, and they had now and again borrowed little things—sugar, salt, a candle—from each other. She liked him, and—she was a woman and only twenty-two—she craved for some companionship, someone on whom she could bestow the gentle word and the smile which all good women and true long to give. At this moment she wanted to tell him something of her past life; but she hesitated; for when one is poor and alone in the world, one shrinks keenly from speaking of the happiness that is past. But the longing was too much for her. "I used to live in Berkshire."

She paused, and stifled a sigh.

"My father bought a house there; we had plenty of money—I mean, at that time." She coloured and was silent again for a moment. "My father was a business man and very lucky—for a time. Then luck changed. When he died, nearly six months ago, we found that he was ruined; he left very little, only a few pounds."

The old man nodded again.

"I understand," he said, with neither awkward sympathy nor intrusive curiosity.

"I was an only child, and suddenly found myself alone in the world. Oh, of course, there were relatives and friends, and some of them were kind, oh, very kind"—once more Mr. Clendon nodded, as if he understood—"but—but I felt that I would rather make my own way. I dare say it was foolish; there have been times when I have been tempted to—to accept help—throw up the sponge," she smiled; "but—well, Mr. Clendon, most of us dislike charity, I suppose."

"Some of us," he admitted, dryly. "You found it hard work at first? Sometimes, when I hear stories like yours, Miss Grant, when I pass young girls, thin, white-faced, poorly-clothed, going to their work, with the look of old men on their faces—I mean old men, not women, mind!—I ask myself whether there is not some special place, with a special kind of punishment, appointed for selfish fathers, who have consigned their daughters to life-long toil and misery. I beg your pardon!"

"No, I don't think my father was selfish," said Celia, more to herself than to her listener. "Not consciously so; he was sanguine, too sanguine; he lived in the moment——"

"I know," said Mr. Clendon. "Some men are born like that, and can't help themselves. Well, what did you do?"

"Oh, it was what I tried to do," said Celia, with a laugh. "I tried to do all sorts of things. But no one seemed inclined to give me a chance of doing anything; and, as I say, I was on the point of giving in, when I met in the street, and quite by chance, an old acquaintance of my father. He is a literary man, an antiquarian, and he is writing a big book; he has been writing it, and I think will continue to write it, all his life. He wanted, or said he wanted, a secretary, someone to look up facts and data at the British Museum; and he offered me the work. I—well, I just jumped at it. Fortunately for me, I have had what most persons call a good education. I know French and one or two other foreign languages, and although I have 'little Latin and less Greek,' I manage to do what Mr. Bishop wants. He gives me a pound a week; and that's a very good salary, isn't it? You see, so many persons can do what I am doing."

"Yes, I suppose so," Mr. Clendon assented; he glanced at the slight, girlish figure in its black dress, at the beautiful face, with its clear and sweetly-grave eyes, the soft, dark hair, the mobile lips with a little droop at the ends which told its story so plainly to the world-worn old man who noted it. "And you work in the Reading Room all day?"

"Yes," said Celia, cheerfully, and with something like pride. "It is a splendid place, isn't it? Sometimes I can scarcely work, I'm so interested in the people there. There are so many types; and yet there is a kind of sameness in them all. One seems to lose one's identity the moment one enters, to become merged in the general—general——"

"Stuffiness," he said. "I know; I have been there. Do you manage to keep your health? I have noticed that you are rather pale."

"Oh, I am quite well and strong," she said, with a laugh. "I always walk there and back, unless it rains very hard; and I take long walks, sometimes in the early morning; sometimes at night, when it is fine. I think London is wonderful in the moonlight. You know the view from Westminster Bridge?"

"Yes," he said. "And you are always alone?"

"Why, yes," she assented. "I know no one in London, excepting yourself; for Mr. Bishop lives in the country, in Sussex, and we work by correspondence. Oh, yes; I am lonely sometimes," she added, as if he had asked a question. "But then, I am very busy. I am very much interested in what I am doing, and besides—well, when one is poor, after 'seeing better days'"—she laughed apologetically—"it is, perhaps, better—one can bear it better—to be alone."

He gave another nod which indicated his complete comprehension.

"And there is so much to interest one in the people one sees and lives amongst. Now here, in Brown's Buildings, in The Jail, one finds quite a large amount of amusement in—well, in noticing one's neighbours and fitting a history to them. There is the young girl who lives on your floor; the girl who, you told me, is in the chorus of the 'Baby Queen'; I am sure she is dreaming of, and looking forward to, the time when she will be—principal lady, don't you call it?—and there is the lady who lives opposite her; the old lady who always wears a black silk dress, a satin cloak, and a crape bonnet. I am sure she has been 'somebody' in her time. I met her one day on the stairs, carrying a milk-can. I should have been cowardly enough to put it under my jacket or behind me; but she held it out in front of her and stared at me with haughty defiance. And there is my opposite neighbour"—she jerked her head, with a pretty, graceful motion, towards the door fronting her own—"that handsome, good-looking young fellow who comes up the steps two at a time and bangs his door after him, as if he were entering a mansion."

"I know the young man you mean," said Mr. Clendon. "Have you fitted a history to him?"

"Well, no; he puzzles me rather. I am sure he is a gentleman, and, of course, he must be poor, or he would not be here. Sometimes I think he is a clerk looking for a situation; but he has not the appearance of a clerk, has he? He looks more like an—an engineer; but then, his hands are always clean. He is well groomed, though his clothes are old."

She paused a moment.

"Do you know, Mr. Clendon, I fancy that he has been in trouble lately; I mean, that something is worrying him. Yesterday, I heard him sigh as he unlocked his door. He used to sing and whistle; but, for the last few days, he has been quite quiet, and as I came in last evening I heard him walking up and down his room, as men do when they have something on their minds. Do you know his name?"

"No," said Mr. Clendon, shaking his head; "he is a comparatively new-comer. I could find out for you, if you like."

"Oh, no, no!" she said, quickly, and with a touch of colour. "I am not at all curious. I mean," she explained, "that knowing his name would not increase my interest in him; quite the reverse. You know what I mean? But I fancy I am interested in him because I think he may be in trouble. You see, when one has suffered oneself——"

"Yes, that is the way with you women," said the old man. "In fact, I suppose that, until you have suffered, you do not become women." He glanced at the sheets of paper which lay on the little writing-desk and added, "I am afraid I am keeping you from your work. It was very kind of you to ask me to stay to tea—and to tell me what you have told me. I wish I could help you——. But, no, I don't; for, if I could be of any assistance to you, you would not let me; you are too proud, Miss Grant. I like you all the better for the fact."

"Oh, but you have helped me, more than you know," Celia said, quickly. "You don't know what a delight it is to me to hear the violin you play so beautifully; but, of course, you are an artist."

"Thank you," he said, his voice almost inaudible, and yet with that peculiar vibrance in it. "I was afraid I worried you."

"No, no," said Celia; "I am always sorry when you leave off. You play me to sleep sometimes and—and keep me from brooding. Not that I have any cause to brood," she added, quickly; "for I count myself lucky."

"Yes," he said; "you are lucky; for you have youth, beauty—I beg your pardon," he apologized with a little bow and a gesture which were strangely courtly. "And best of all, you have hope; without that, one is indeed unfortunate."

He rose, and Celia accompanied him to the door; it was only a few steps distant; but the old man moved towards it as if he had been accustomed to traversing apartments of a larger size. As Celia opened the door, the one opposite hers opened at the same moment, and a lady came out. Judging by her figure, for her face was thickly veiled, she was young; she was plainly but richly dressed, and wore a coat and muff of sable. Her appearance was so strangely different from that of the residents and visitors of the Buildings that Celia could not help staring at her with surprise. As if she were conscious of, and resented, Celia's intent regard, the lady turned her head away, and, keeping as near the wall as possible, descended the stairs quickly.

Celia and Mr. Clendon neither exchanged glances nor made any remark. With a gesture of farewell and thanks, he went down. Half-unconsciously, she stood looking at the door which the lady had closed after her; then Celia shut hers and went back to clearing away the tea.

When Mr. Clendon had asked her if she had fitted a history to the young man who had interested her so much, she had replied in the negative; but now, involuntarily, she began to do so. Of course, he was in trouble; probably in debt; this beautifully-dressed woman was his sister, or, perhaps, his sweetheart; she had come to help him, to comfort him. Something in the idea was pleasant and welcome to Celia; he was such a good-looking young fellow; that voice of his, which used to sing but had become silent lately, had a good, true ring in it; yes, it was nice to think that his sister—or his sweetheart—had come to bring him comfort.

She sat down to her notes; but she could not concentrate herself upon her work. The imaginary history of the young man obtruded upon her; she decided that she would go out for a walk, and take up her work again when she returned. She was getting her coat and hat when Mr. Clendon began to play; she changed her mind about the walk and went to the door to open it an inch or so, that she might hear more distinctly the soft strains of the Beethoven Sonata which came floating up to her. As she opened the door, she heard a strange sound rising above the notes of the music; it was that, perhaps, most terrible of all sounds, the unbidden, irresistible groan, rising from a man's tortured heart; and it came from the young man's room.

Startled, chilled, by the sound, she wondered that she could hear it so plainly; then she saw that the door opposite was slightly ajar; evidently the visitor had failed to close it. Celia waited, with the familiar horror, the tense expectation, for a repetition of the groan. It came. Obeying an impulse, a womanly impulse, to fly to the call of such poignant distress, Celia crossed the corridor softly and opened the door.

By the light of a single candle, she saw the young man seated at a table; his head was resting, face downward, on one arm; his whole attitude was eloquent of despair; but it was not this abandonment of grief which caused her to thrill with quick terror; it was because the hand held clenched in its grasp a revolver.

Most women have a horror of firearms; Celia stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the shining, deadly weapon, as if it were a poisonous snake. She wanted to cry out, to rush at the beastly thing and snatch it from the hand that gripped it; but she felt incapable of speech or movement; she could only stare with distended eyes at the revolver and the head lying on the arm.

So quick, so noiseless had been her entrance, that the man had not heard her; but presently, after a few moments which seemed years to her, he became conscious of her presence. He raised his head slowly and looked at her with vacant eyes, as if he were half-dazed and were asking himself if she were a vision. The movement released Celia from her spell; a pang of pity smote her at the sight of the white, drawn face, the hopeless despair in the young fellow's eyes; her womanly compassion, that maternal instinct which the youngest of girl-children possesses, gave her courage. She leant forward, loosened the stiff, cold fingers and took the revolver from them. He submitted, as if he were still only half-conscious of her presence, and her action; and he glanced at his empty hand, at the revolver in hers, and then at her face. Guided once more by impulse, Celia closed the door, then went back and seated herself in a chair on the other side of the table; and so, face to face, they regarded each other in silence.

The man broke it.

"How—how did you know?" he asked. He spoke almost in a whisper, as a man speaks who is recovering from an anæsthetic.

"I heard you—groan," said Celia, also almost in a whisper.

"You did?" he said, more clearly, and with disgust. "I must have groaned pretty loudly." His self-contempt was evident.

There was a pause, then he said: "You are the girl who lives opposite?" A flicker of irritation and impatience shone in his eyes. "Why do you interfere? It is no business of yours!"

"Yes, it is," she said, and there was something like a note of anger in her voice; for it seemed to her that he was extremely ungrateful. "It is the duty of anyone to prevent a man making—a—a fool of himself. You ought to be ashamed."

Unwittingly, she had used the right tone. He leant back in the chair and stared at her with a mixture of resentment and amusement.

"You have plenty of confidence, anyhow, young lady," he said.

"And you have none," retorted Celia, with a dash of colour. "Fancy a man of your age trying to—to kill himself!"

"My age!" He laughed mirthlessly, ironically. "You talk to me, look at me, as if I were a boy."

"You are not much more," said Celia; "and a foolish one into the bargain."

He pushed impatiently the short lock of hair from his forehead, which was dank with sweat.

"Be that as it may," he said, "you have interfered most unwarrantably in a matter which does not concern you. All the same, I suppose you expect me to say that I am obliged to you. Well, I'm not; I don't like being interfered with, especially—by a woman. You come into my room——" He tried to rise with an air of dignity, but he sank back, as if he were weak, and with his arms extended along those of the chair regarded her with a grim smile of whimsicality. "Well, I suppose I ought to say I am obliged to you. Consider that I have said it and—pray, don't let me keep you."

Celia rose, the revolver still in her hand.

"Good night," she said.

"Here!" he called out to her, wearily; "give me back that thing; put it down."

"Certainly not," said Celia, with decision. "You are not fit to be trusted with it."

"Oh, am I not?" he said, sarcastically.

"You know you are not. What were you doing with it, what were you going to do with it, when I came in?" she demanded.

"What an unnecessary question," he retorted. "I was going to shoot myself, of course."

"Exactly. That is why I am taking it away from you."

"You are very clever," he said, with an attempt at sarcasm. "I can go out and buy another. No, I can't"—he laughed rather quaveringly—"I haven't the coin. Put that revolver down, young lady, and leave me alone."

"I shall do nothing of the kind," said Celia, her eyes bright, her lips drawn straight. "I mean, that I am going to take the revolver. And I am not sure that I ought to leave you alone. If I do, will you promise me——"

"That I won't try to kill myself in some other way? I will promise you nothing of the sort; you don't know what you are asking. But, as I said before, I don't want to detain you. In fact, if you knew—what I am——" his voice faltered for a moment—"you would clear out without any urging on my part."

There was a pause, then: "What are you?" asked Celia, in a low voice.

"I am a forger," he replied, after another pause.

The colour left Celia's face, her lips quivered for a moment, but her eyes did not turn from him; and his eyes, after an attempt on his part to keep them steady, drooped before her intent gaze.

There was a silence which could be felt; then Celia said, very slowly, very quietly:

"I don't believe you."

CHAPTER II

The colour rose to the young man's pallid face; he leant back and, with narrowed eyes, regarded her, for the first time, with curiosity and interest. It may be said that, up to that moment, he had not realized her personality; she was just a something, a nuisance in the shape of a girl, which had come between him and a shameful death. Of course, he had seen Celia in the corridor now and again, had noticed vaguely that his opposite neighbour was young and graceful and pretty—no man, especially one of his age, could fail to notice such palpable facts—but he had been too absorbed in his own affairs to take any interest in her. Now, surprised by her courage, he regarded her curiously, and he saw that she was not only pretty, but quite beautiful. He took in the clear oval of her face, the soft waves of dark hair which garlanded the low forehead, puckered now by lines of decision, the blue-grey eyes almost violet in the intensity of her gaze, the lips which, he felt, could smile with infinite tenderness, though now set tightly.

Yes; this young woman who had come at the sound of his groan of despair, who now sat opposite him, gripping the revolver which she had forced from his hand, was very beautiful, and, obviously, very brave; he saw, too, that she was a lady, that she was different from most of the girls who lived in the Buildings. In that flash of scrutiny, he took in even the details of her dress, and knew that, plain as it was, it had come from a good house, probably from Paris itself; there were no cheap rings on the well-formed, but not too small, hands; he realized that he was confronting the embodiment of the three qualities most desirable—youth, beauty, strength; and he was conscious of a reluctant thrill of admiration. His eyes sank, and, involuntarily, he sighed. For he was thinking of another woman.

"Did you hear what I said?" asked Celia, in a low voice, one a trifle more gentle, though it was still firm. "I said that I don't believe you."

"Yes; I heard," he responded, with a listless smile of irony; "but I am afraid twelve good men in a box—the jury, you know—would not be so incredulous. May I ask why you refuse to accept my plea of guilty? Not that it matters!"

Celia's brows drew together, and she looked as if she were somewhat embarrassed and puzzled by the question; at last, after a pause, she replied, woman-like,

"You don't look like one."

"Quite so," he said, with deeper irony. "That is essentially a feminine reason. Of course, your idea of a forger is the theatrical one; the gentleman with a Mephistophelian face, a sardonic sneer, evening dress, with a big cloak, and a cigarette in the corner of his mouth; the villain who looks every inch the part and says 'Curse you!' whenever it is possible to do so. My dear young lady, your ignorance of the world spoils your compliment. The worst man, the biggest criminal I ever saw in the dock, looked as innocent as a baby."

"All the same, I don't believe you," Celia declared, doggedly.

"I am sorry to say the court is not with you," he said, with a smile that did not hide his bitterness. "The cheque was cashed by the prisoner—myself, my lord.—You see, I accept you as judge.—When he was asked to give an account of it, he refused to do so; I am speaking in the past tense, but I am merely forecasting the course of the trial. A man who cashes a forged cheque and declines to say where he got it, how it came into his possession, is quickly disposed of by a British jury, than which there is no body of men more acute and intelligent."

"Why do you refuse to tell the truth and clear yourself?" asked Celia, in a low voice, her lips parted now, with a perplexity, a vivid interest.

He rose, strode up and down the room for a moment or two, then came back to the table, and, with his hands pressing hard on it, looked down at her upturned, anxious face.

"Your belief, your persistent, unreasoning belief in me, upsets me," he said, with a smile, and evidently still making an effort to retain his assumption of cynical indifference and levity. "I am strongly tempted by it to tell you 'my story,' as the bores on the stage say; but I can't. However, I will admit that you are right. I did not forge the accursed thing—I beg your pardon! No, I didn't sign the cheque; but the case, so far as I am concerned, is just as black as if I were guilty. Hold on a minute! I know what you are going to say; that I am sacrificing myself——"

"You have no right to do so," Celia broke in, in a voice that trembled, not only with pity, but with indignation. "Oh, don't you see! I am only a girl, and I know so little of the world; but I know, I am as sure as I am that—that I am standing here, you have no right, no one has any right, to make such a sacrifice, and certainly no one would be justified in accepting it." She pushed the hair from her forehead with a gesture of impatience. "Oh, you must be mad! You—you look so clever, you take it all so calmly; you are not excited, bewildered—don't you see yourself that, in consenting to ruin yourself, to go to—to prison, an innocent man——? Oh, you have not realized——"

"Have I not?" he broke in, grimly, and with a significant glance at the revolver. "Oh, yes; I realize it clearly enough; it was because I did that I decided to—slip out of it. I am sorry that you prevented me. It was good of you; it was brave of you; you meant well. And you have succeeded. It is a case of the interposing angel; but you have placed me in a terrible fix. I don't know what I am going to do."

His hands fell to his side with a gesture of helplessness and despair, and he turned his head away from the searching gaze of the clear eyes regarding him so intently.

"Tell the truth," said Celia, in an urgent whisper. "Why should you screen the guilty? Why should you suffer in his place? Oh, I don't want to hear the story, it does not concern me. But if you told it to me, it would make no difference, it would not alter my opinion that you intend to do a very wicked things—and a very foolish one."

"Foolish! That hits me rather hard," he commented, with a wry smile.

"Well, it is foolish," said Celia, emphatically. "Why, look how young you are!"

"Why, how young do you think I am?" he interrupted, looking down at her with a grave smile. "As I said just now, you seem to regard me as if I were a boy. I think I am as old as you—older. How old are you—you look like a girl?"

"I am twenty-two—but what has that to do with it? How can you turn aside, trifle——"

"And I am twenty-five," he said, with an involuntary sigh. "So you see I am your senior. But they say a woman is always ten years older than a man of the same age. I suppose that is why you always have us under your thumbs. No, I'm not trifling. Don't you see that I am fighting for time, that I am trying not to think, that I am putting the thing from me as far as I can, even for a few minutes. Immediately you go, I shall have to face it all again, and—alone. You have been very good to me; you don't think I am ungrateful, because I—I play the fool?"

"Don't play it any longer, then," said Celia, earnestly. "Make up your mind to do the right thing. Why should you ruin yourself? But I have said that before. You know I am right; you say you are grateful because I have stopped you from——" She shuddered, and her hand closed still more tightly on the revolver. "Promise me——"

He looked at her wistfully; but he shook his head.

"I can't do that," he said, in a low voice. "Here, I see I shall have to put the case to you." He sank into the chair and leant his head on his hand, and, still with his eyes covered, he continued, in little more than a whisper: "Supposing there was someone you cared for more than anything else in the world, more than life, more than honour. Is there someone?"

Celia did not blush, and without a sign of embarrassment, shook her head.

"I beg your pardon for asking. I am sorry there is not; because, you see, you would understand more readily. Well, there is someone I care for like that, and I am doing this to save her—I mean him," he corrected quickly, "from all that I should suffer if I stood up and faced the music, as you want me to do."

"Whoever she is, she is not worth it," said Celia, her voice thrilling with indignation and scorn.

"I said 'him,'" he corrected, almost inaudibly.

"You said 'her,' first," retorted Celia. "Of course, it's a woman—and a wicked, a selfish one. No woman who had a spark of goodness in her would accept such a sacrifice."

"You wrong her," he said. "There are always exceptions, circumstances, to govern every case. In this case, she does not know. I tell you that, if I take your advice, I should blast the life of the woman I—I love."

"Then you are screening a man for her sake?" said Celia.

"That's it," he admitted; "and you would do the same, if you stood in my place. Oh, you would say you would not; perhaps you think at this moment you would not; but you would. You're just the sort of girl to do it." He laughed again, bitterly. "Why, one has only to look at you——"

For the first time, Celia coloured, and her eyes dropped. As if ashamed of having caused her embarrassment, he bit his lip, and muttered, "I have been offensive, I am afraid. But you see how it is? And now you know the truth, have guessed something of it, you will see that I have either to face the music, plead guilty to the charge and go to prison, or get out of it by the only way."

It was she who hid her face now. He saw that she was trembling; he knew that she was struggling with her tears; he went round to her and laid his hand on her shoulder, very gently, almost reverently. "Don't cry," he said. "I'm not worth it. I am sorry you should be so distressed. I wish—for your sake, now—that you had not come in. Hadn't you better go now?"

Celia rose; her cheeks were wet, her lips were quivering.

"What—what will you do?" she asked, fighting with a sob.

He met her eyes moodily. Celia held her breath; then, with a sudden tightening of the lips, a flash of the eyes, he said, grimly, as if every word cost him an effort,

"I will face it."

With a gasp of relief, and yet with infinite pity and sorrow in her eyes, she flung out both hands to him.

He took them in his, which were burning now, and gripped them tightly.

"My God! what a woman you are," he said, with a sudden uplifting of the brows. "Someone else will find that out some day."

Celia drew her hands away and moved to the door. As he opened it for her, his glance fell on the revolver she had laid on the table.

"You have forgotten," he said, with a mirthless smile. "Hadn't you better take it with you?"

She looked straight into his eyes, not in doubt, but with infinite trust and confidence.

"No," she said; and with the word, she passed out.

CHAPTER III

Celia went back to her room and sank into a chair. She had been upheld during the scene by the excitement and the strain; she had been strong and purposeful a few minutes ago; but now the reaction had set in and she felt weak and exhausted. It was difficult to realize that the thing was real; it was the first time in her life that anything dramatic, tragical, had touched her. She had read of such incidents in novels, and even then, presented in the guise of fiction, with all its licence, such a self-sacrifice, so absolutely illogical and immoral, had seemed incredible to her; and yet here was a case, under her very eyes.

When she was able to think clearly, one or two points in the affair stood out from the rest. If the forgery was detected, and the young man under suspicion, how was it that he was still free, still unarrested? Perhaps they had not yet been able to trace him; but, no doubt, they were on his track, they might discover him and capture him any moment. She shuddered, and crouched over the fire as if she had been struck by a sudden chill. The pity of it, oh, the pity of it! He was so young—he still seemed to her little more than a boy—and he was so good to look upon, so frank, so honest; and what a noble, generous nature he must have to sacrifice his future, his career, for the woman he loved; why, he had been going to face death itself!

Not a word had been said by either Celia or he of the graceful, richly-dressed woman she had seen leaving his room. Of course, she was the woman who had wrecked his life. Celia began to piece the story together; they had loved each other—at any rate, he had loved her—probably for years; he had loved her with all his heart, and she with, perhaps, a small half; she had thrown him over to marry a wealthy man—and yet, that theory seemed scarcely consistent; for a wealthy man would not need to commit forgery. It was a mystery and a puzzle; but the grim fact remained that the young man was going to take upon himself the terrible stigma of a convict for the sake of a woman—perhaps utterly unworthy of him.

She stared at the fire, and it gave her back a picture of the young man dressed in the hideous prison garb, with the wavy hair cut close; with the prison look, that indescribable look of degradation and despair, stamped on his young, handsome face.

She sprang to her feet and moved about the room restlessly. He was sitting there, alone, waiting for the touch of the detective's hand on his shoulder, waiting for his doom. It was her fault; she had held him back from the release of death, had made him promise to live, to drag through a life of shame and humiliation, an outcast, a pariah, a creature from whom such women as herself would shrink as from something loathsome.

The thought was intolerable. Surely he could escape; they had not got upon his track yet. Oh, why had he not gone, while there was time?

Then she remembered that he had said that he had not enough money even to buy another revolver; of course, he could not hope to get away without money. A blush rose to her face; she sprang to her desk; with a trembling hand she unlocked it and took out a five-pound note—it was the only one she possessed, and she had been keeping it for the day, that might so easily come, when she should lose her work and have to fall back upon her resources. Often enough she had regarded this five-pound note as a barrier against the dread wolf that prowled about so many of the doors of The Jail, against absolute destitution. But, without a moment's hesitation, she folded it and put it in an envelope; but now she did hesitate; she stood, biting her lip softly, her brows knit. At last she wrote on a sheet of notepaper:

"I was wrong; you ought not to wait here. There is time for escape. I would send you more than this; but it is all I have. Don't refuse it, or I shall feel as if I were to blame for anything that may happen to you. Oh, please go at once. Good-bye."

She was about to sign her name, but did not do so; it was better that they should remain strangers to each other.

She went out softly, crossed the corridor on tip-toe, pushed the envelope under his door, then knocked very gently and darted back to her own room. Listening, with a heart that beat like a sledge-hammer falling on an anvil, she heard him open the door, heard it close again; she waited almost; breathlessly, and presently his step crossed the corridor, and a piece of paper slid to her feet. She picked it up and read:

"To refuse your generous gift, to disobey your command—for to me it is an absolute command—would be ungrateful; would be worse. I feel as if you had taken my life into your hands and had the right to dispose of it. I am going. If I escape——Oh, I can't write any more; but I know you will understand. You are the most wonderful girl, the bravest, the most generous, in the whole world Good-bye."

Celia sank into the chair and, with the scrawl tightly clenched in her hand, burst into tears. She sat and waited and listened; a quarter of an hour dragged by; footsteps, some dragging and stealthy, some light and free, passed up and down the stairs, and every step made her heart leap with apprehension. Had he gone? Oh, why had he not gone? There was danger in every moment. Presently she heard a faint, almost inaudible knock at her door; she rose quickly and opened it a little way; no one was standing outside, the corridor was empty; but she heard someone descending the stairs below her. She took a few steps out and looked down.

It was he. At the bend of the stairs, he paused and looked up; the light of the murky, wire-globed gas-jet fell on him and she saw the pallor of his face; saw something else, something that remained with her while life lasted—a look, that expression in his eyes, for which many a woman has been willing to give body and soul. He gazed up at her in silence for a moment; then, with a gesture of the hand which conveyed farewell and gratitude, he moved on and disappeared.

Celia stood there until his footsteps had ceased to sound, and she heard the outer door close softly, then she went back to her room and covered her face with her hands; perhaps she was praying; if so, it was unconsciously; but she still listened for the detectives, the police-officers who might be coming. The strain was almost unendurable, and it was with a strange, inexplicable relief that her suspense was brought to an end by the sound of someone approaching the opposite door and knocking. She rose, trembling, and listened, as she had listened so many times that eventful night. The knock was repeated three times; she heard the visitor—a detective, she didn't doubt—try the handle of the opposite door. Then, to her horror, she heard him move across the corridor and knock at her door. The horror was so great that she felt as if every limb were benumbed and paralyzed; her mouth felt so dry as to be incapable of speech. The knock came again, and, with a great effort, she managed to say:

"Who is there?"

"Pardon me. I wish to speak to you," came the response in a man's voice.

What should she do? The detective would be made suspicious by her agitation, would question her, in all probability would drag from her some information which would enable him to track and arrest the fugitive. And yet she could not refuse to speak to him. Clenching her hands and setting her teeth hard, she forced herself to an appearance of self-composure and opened the door; an elderly man, scrupulously dressed, after the fashion of a solicitor or well-to-do City man, confronted her. He raised his hat and, in a grave and apologetic manner, said:

"I beg your pardon. I am sorry to intrude upon you, trouble you. Can you tell me, madam——? Do you know your opposite neighbour; a young man who lives at No. 106 there?"

Every woman is an actress; every woman will show fight for the thing she is protecting, whether it be a man or a dog. Celia's nerves were highly wrought; she was herself again, for that moment, at any rate; for she was on the defensive, and when a good woman is on the defensive, she is full of innocent guile.

"No," she replied. "I have seen him, of course; seen him going in and out of his room——"

"Thank you," he said. "I am much obliged to you, and I apologize again for my intrusion."

He was turning away; but suddenly he paused and, with a most deferential air, said:

"May I ask you one question? The gentleman I wish to see, particularly wish to see, is not at home. I have knocked several times and have got no answer. May I ask if you happen to know whether he is likely to return; I mean, do you think he has gone away?"

Celia did not hesitate for a moment; it seemed to her as if she were inspired by an abnormal acuteness; instantly, she said:

"I believe he has gone away. The room is to let."

She had spoken the truth, and it was evident, by the old gentleman's face, that he accepted her statement, for he regarded her with an expression of profound disappointment, combined with one of anxiety.

"Oh!" he said, thoughtfully. "Indeed. Thank you very much." He turned away, but again he paused. "You would be doing me a very great favour, madam," he said, "if Mr. ——" He checked himself and looked at her with sudden keenness. "Do you happen to know his name?"

"No," replied Celia. "It is not unusual," she explained. "I mean, that very few of us in the Buildings know each other's names. It is a large place, and the tenants come and go——"

"Quite so," he said, blandly. "I lived in the Temple for several years, and did not know the name of the man on the floor below me, because the name was not painted on the doorpost. London is a city of strangers. Yes, yes. But may I trespass upon your kindness to the extent of asking you to give a simple message to my young friend, if he should return?"

"Yes, I will do so," said Celia.

"Thank you, thank you. If you will, please, say just the four words, 'It is all right.'"

Celia inclined her head; she could not speak; the blood surged to her face, then left it white; her eyes closed, she felt as if she were going to faint; the revulsion from terror to relief had been almost too great for her.

The old gentleman saw the effect his words had upon her; he looked at her curiously, his eyes piercing in their keenness.

"Tut! tut! What is the matter? Are you ill?" he asked, compassionately.

"No," Celia managed to enunciate. "I am tired. It is very hot—I was resting when—when you came, I am not very well."

"Oh, I am sorry, very sorry that I should have disturbed you," he said. "Pray forgive me. Is there anything I can do? Are you alone—I mean, is there anyone to take care of you?"

Celia was touched by the kindly, paternal note in his voice; the tears—they were those of joy and relief—rose to her eyes.

"No, I am alone," she said. "But I am all right; it was only a momentary faintness. I will deliver your message."

He bowed, murmured his thanks and, with another glance of pity and concern for her loneliness and weakness, he turned away—this time for good.

Celia leant against the table, her hands closed tightly. "It is all right," rang in her ears, thrilled in her heart.

"Oh, thank God, thank God!"

But the cry of thanksgiving changed to one of dismay.

The words evidently meant that the young man's innocence had been proved or the charge had been withdrawn; but, whichever it meant, the message had come too late. Oh, what had she done! She had saved his life, but she had made him a fugitive, had condemned him to the cruellest of fates, that of a doomed man flying from justice. Instinctively, mechanically, she flew for her hat and jacket; then she realized, with bitterness, the hopelessness of any such quest as that which, for an instant, she had thought of undertaking. If she had known his name, anything about him, the search would have been difficult; with her complete ignorance it was an impossible one. She flung aside her outdoor things with a gesture of despair.

CHAPTER IV

The young man whose life Celia had saved crossed the courtyard of the building, and walked quickly into Victoria Street. Though he was a fugitive, there was nothing furtive in his gait, and he looked straight before him with a preoccupied air. As a matter of fact, he was not thinking at that moment of his own escape, but of the face which had looked down on him over the rail of the corridor. If Celia had been moved by the expression in his eyes, as he looked up at her, he was still more impressed by the tender, womanly pity in hers; and he was so lost in the thought of all that she had done for him, of her courage and compassion, that there was no room in his mind for any anxiety on his own account.

But presently the sight of a policeman recalled Derrick Dene to the peril of the situation. He fingered the five-pound note in his pocket and stood at the corner of a street hesitating; then, with a little gesture of determination, he walked on again quickly in the direction of Sloane Square, reached it, and turning into one of the streets leading from it he entered one of the tall buildings of expensive flats. Declining the porter's offer of the lift, he went quickly up the stairs, which, unlike those of Brown's Buildings, were carpeted and well-lit, and rang the bell of a flat on the second floor.

"Lord Heyton in?" he inquired of the servant. "Yes, I know he is," he added quickly, as he caught the scent of a cigarette. "Is he alone? All right, don't trouble to announce me." He walked quickly across the passage, entered a room and, closing the door behind him, turned the key in the lock.

A young man was sprawling in a low chair before the fire. He was a good-looking young man, very fair, with rather thin hair, parted in the middle; his eyes were blue and somewhat prominent, his mouth weak and sensual; he was in evening-dress, and presented a definite type of the young man about town.

As he turned his head at the click of the lock and saw his visitor, his face flushed hotly, his under-lip drooped, his eyes opened widely, and he clutched at the arms of the chair. Fear was written all over him in large letters. There was silence for a moment or two; then, with a catch of his breath, he rose and involuntarily muttered the other man's name. He also held out his hand; but Dene, ignoring it, seated himself on the table and, pointing to the chair, said, curtly, but without anger:

"Sit down, Heyton. Sit down. Yes; I've come. You didn't expect to see me. You thought you had got rid of me? Well, I'm going right enough; but I wanted a word or two with you first."

Lord Heyton dropped back into the chair and, covertly wiping the sweat from his face, which was white now, glanced from Dene to the fire, then back again; but his eyes could get no higher than Dene's waistcoat.

"I—I suppose you've come to kick up a row, to bully me?" he said, sullenly.

"Not at all," retorted Dene, coolly. "If I had wanted to kick up a row, to bully you—in other words, to round on you and show you up, I should have come before, the moment I knew how you had—sold me. Yes, that's the word; sold me."

"I—I was hard driven," said Heyton, almost inaudibly. "I tell you that, if I hadn't been able to put my hand on the money, I should have been ruined. A man in my position can't stand being declared a defaulter. I—I thought it would be all right; that my father would have stumped up; but he left England for some beastly place abroad; where, I don't know even know, and there was no getting at him. And there wasn't a penny to be got out of those cursed lawyers——"

"Oh, you needn't trouble to explain," said Dene, grimly. "I understand it all—Miriam has been to see me."

The young man in the chair started, his face flushed, and he looked savagely, yet fearfully, at Dene.

"Miriam been to see you!" he repeated, huskily. "Why—what——!"

"When you told her that I was a forger, that I'd passed a false cheque, you didn't think that she would go to me. You thought she would accept your statement, as she has accepted your other lies about me, and just drop me. Oh, yes; I know how you managed to get her away from me. Poor girl! Unawares she let out a great deal in the few minutes she was with me to-day. You blackened my character pretty considerably; and, by George! you must have done it very well, or you would not have got her to believe you. I've met some bad 'uns in my time, Heyton; but, upon my word, I think you're the very worst of the lot. You're black rotten, through and through. And yet you've got a decent girl not only to believe in you, but to marry you—a liar, a coward, and a scoundrel."

The other man rose, his hands clenched. Dene jerked his head towards the chair.

"Sit down," he said, as he sought in his pockets for a cigarette, found it, and began to smoke. "I'm glad to see that I've touched you on the raw. I didn't think there was a tender spot on you. Oh, sit down, man, and put your fists in your pockets; you haven't the pluck to strike me. I wish you had"—his eyes flashed ominously—"for I might be tempted to give you the thrashing you deserve and I'm longing to give you. And yet—no, I shouldn't; for I wouldn't defile my hands by touching you."

There was a pause, then, with a gesture, as if he had mastered himself, Dene went on:

"Well, I have bullied you, after all, haven't I? And, upon my soul, I didn't mean to; for I knew it would be only waste of breath. Nothing can really touch you; and you'll forget every nasty thing I've said as soon as you've got rid of me safely. No; what I came to say was this: I'm not going to show you up. I'm going to take this thing upon me; you know why well enough."

Heyton shot a glance at him, a glance full of hate and jealousy.

"Yes, it's for Miriam's sake," said Dene, quietly, without any sign of emotion. "She and I were pals; nothing had ever come between us until you turned up. She would have married me but for you. Oh, I'm not blaming her; poor girl, there's a weak streak in her; she comes of a bad lot. Of course, the Earl of Heyton, the son of a marquess, was a better match than Derrick Dene, a nobody, with his fortune to make, his bare living to get; but, on my soul, I think she would have stood by me, and would have resisted the temptation, if you had not told lies about me and persuaded her that I was an utter blackguard. And, by the way, you did it rather well. I was quite astonished how she let things out just now when she came to me. You did it very well. And I thought you were an utter fool!"

The other man glanced wickedly under his brows and set his teeth, but he said nothing; he was afraid to utter a word lest he should rouse his victim from his state of calm and quiet.

"It was clever of you to saddle poor little Susie Morton's trouble on me, while you were really the man—the scoundrel, I should say; it was clever of you to rake up all my little sky-larkings and turn them into something worse. Well, they say that 'all is fair in love and war.' You won, you took her away from me—and it's about Miriam that I've come to talk to you."

Heyton moistened his lips and, with his eyes fixed on his patent leather boots, he said, thickly:

"Did you tell her that—the truth?"

Dene laughed shortly. "No; I didn't. Nine men out of ten would think I was a fool for not doing so; certainly you would. But most men wouldn't understand, and most assuredly you wouldn't, why I didn't. No; I didn't tell her that I was innocent and that you were guilty; that you had forged a cheque and got me, like a fool, to present it. I didn't even tell her that it was you, you blackguard, who had ruined poor little Susie. You look surprised."

Heyton swiftly withdrew his eyes, in which astonishment, amazement, and something nearly approaching contempt, had shown, and Dene laughed with bitter scorn.

"You can't understand that a man who has once loved a woman loves her for always——"

He paused; for, at that moment, it was not the face of his old love, the woman who had jilted him for a better match, that rose before him, but that of the girl at Brown's Buildings who had stepped in between him and death, talked him back to reason, given him her last five-pound note.

"—And that even if he has ceased to love her, he'll stand a lot to save her from trouble; that he'll make any kind of sacrifice to keep disgrace and shame from her. That's how I feel towards Miriam. I thought of you being dragged off by a couple of bobbies to quod, and of how she would suffer; and I remembered—which was a precious lucky thing for you—that there was no one to suffer on my account. I thanked God—for the first time—I'd no one belonging to me. That thought made it easier for me to do what I am doing."

He tossed the end of the cigarette into the fire.

"I am going to make a bolt for it; and I looked in just to say a few words to you, Heyton. I'm standing between you and a complete bust-up. I'm doing it for Miriam's sake, not yours; and I want you to bear this in mind: that if ever I hear of your treating her badly—oh, you needn't look so virtuously indignant; I know your sort; you'd treat her badly enough presently, if you hadn't a check on you. And I'm going to be that check. Let me hear even a whisper of your acting on the cross with her, and I'll come back, if it's from the other end of the world, to denounce you. I've proofs enough. Oh, I'm not such a fool as you think; and, if you don't treat Miriam fairly, I'll show you up, and probably give you, into the bargain, the thrashing that's owing to you."

"You needn't talk about Miriam like that," said her husband, sullenly, and with an affectation of righteous resentment. "I'm fond of her; I shouldn't have done—well, what I have done, if I hadn't been. You needn't insult me."

"My good man, I couldn't," said Dene. "One word more and, you'll be relieved to hear, I'm off. For some reason or other the police, the detectives, have been slow, or have failed to track me."

As he spoke, Heyton turned his head and looked at him curiously, with a furtive, cunning expression; but he said nothing; indeed, his lips closed tightly, as if in repression of speech.

"I shall leave England to-night," continued Dene; "and I may succeed in giving them the slip. I know one or two out-of-the-way places—but I needn't trouble you with my plans. All I want to say is that if I'm caught I shall continue to hold my tongue. And you hold yours, as much as you can; for, though you think you're pretty clever, you'd make a silly kind of ass in a witness-box."

He got off the table, buttoned his coat, and took up his cap. The other man rose and stood, fidgeting with a silver cigarette-box on the table and looking from Dene's pale, haggard face to the floor.

"You're—you're behaving like a brick—you're doing me a good turn, Dene——" he muttered, hoarsely.

"Oh, for God's sake, don't do that!" broke in Dene, with contemptuous impatience. "Clear your mind of that idea. I'm playing the giddy-goat not for your sake, my man; but—but for your wife's, for Miriam's."

"You're crossing to-night?" asked Heyton, hesitatingly, fearfully. "If there's anything I can do to—to prove my gratitude——"

"You couldn't prove what doesn't exist," said Dene, with a laugh. "You're incapable of gratitude. You hate me like poison, and, if it wasn't for the risk to yourself, you'd like to throw up that window, call for the police, and give me away." He paused a moment, and looked the bent, cowardly figure up and down, from toe to crown. "You don't mean to say that you were going to offer me money? Not really?" He laughed, and at the laugh Heyton's face crimsoned with shame and rage. "That would be too funny. I'm off. Remember what I've said. Treat Miriam well, and you've seen and heard the last of me; let me hear a word—But I've told you that already; and you're not likely to forget it. A coward like you will think of his skin before anything else."

Heyton's teeth closed on his under-lip and he glanced at the window; Dene saw the glance and understood it; with a gesture of infinite scorn he sauntered slowly to the door, Heyton following him with clenched hands, the veins swelling in his forehead, his face livid.

As the door closed behind Dene, Heyton sprang towards the bell; his finger touched it, but he did not press it, and, with an oath, he sank into his chair and mopped his face.

Five minutes later, the woman whom Celia had seen in the corridor entered the room. She was a pretty, graceful woman, little more than a girl; but the beauty of the face was marred by a weak mouth and chin. She was exquisitely dressed, her fingers were covered with rings, and diamonds glittered on her snowy neck. Her face was pale, and her eyes were swollen with weeping; and it was with something like a sob that she said, as she stood at the table and looked down at the sullen, ghastly face of her husband:—

"Someone has been here—just gone; I heard a footstep; I know it. Derrick has been here."

He would have lied to her if he had thought she would have believed the lie.

"Yes," he said. "He has just gone. He—he came to say good-bye."

"Good-bye!" she repeated, her brows knitting with perplexity and trouble. "Is he going? Where? Why? Didn't you tell him that Mr. Brand, the lawyer, had—had paid the money and settled everything? Oh, if I had only known it when I went to Derrick; if the letter had only come before, so that I could have told him there was no need for him to fear any—any trouble! But you told him, Percy?"

"Yes, of course I told him," he said, staring at his boots; "but he had made up his mind to go abroad; and—and, 'pon my soul, I think it's the best thing he could do."

She looked down on him with a face still showing trouble and doubt.

"But—but, Percy, he hadn't any money; he admitted as much to me. And I couldn't give him any."

"That's all right," he said, clearing his throat. "I—I saw to that. I couldn't give him much, unfortunately; but I scraped together all I'd got. It will leave us pretty short of coin for a bit, Miriam."

She went to him quickly, put her arm round his shoulder, and, bending, kissed him. "You did! That was good of you; it was like you, Percy—after all that he has done, and the trouble he might have got you into. I'm glad you gave him all you'd got; and I don't mind running short."

Her cheeks were wet and wetted his; he drew his hand across his face with barely-concealed impatience and annoyance.

"That's all right," he said. "Of course, I had to do the best I could for him, poor devil! for the sake of—of old times. I didn't forget that you were once fond of him—well, rather taken with him; that you were old friends. Look here, Miriam, we don't want to harp upon this affair; it's a beastly bad business, and the sooner we forget it the better. For Heaven's sake, let's drop it here and now. I shan't refer to it, shan't mention Derrick Dene's name again; and don't you. Just push that tray over, will you? I've had a deuced unpleasant scene with him, I can tell you; and it's upset me deucedly. But there!" he added, with a jerk of the head, as he mixed a stiff soda and whisky, "there's an end of him, so far as we're concerned. What?"

CHAPTER V

Celia lay awake half the night, and was up and dressed early in the morning, waiting for the cry of "Pipers! Daily Pipers!" and when the newsboy came bounding up the steps she almost sprang out on him in her eagerness and anxiety.

"Give me—which of the papers has the best police news?" she asked, trying to speak casually.

"Oh, the Wire, o' course," replied the boy, promptly; "they don't let nothing escape them, you bet, miss!"

She bought the halfpenny paper and eagerly scanned its columns, forgetting that there could be no report of the case until the appearance before the magistrate; but the absence of any mention of an arrest, following the message which the old gentleman had given her, confirmed her relief and encouraged her. Notwithstanding, she found it almost impossible to eat; but she drank a cup of tea, gathered her papers together, and went down to the Museum. For the first time she found her work difficult; for she could not dismiss the young man and his tragic fate from her mind. Staring at the blank paper, she went over all the details of the strange scene, and, standing out from them all, was the expression in his face, in his eyes, as he had paused at the bend of the stairs and looked at her.

Something in that expression haunted her as she had never been haunted by anything in her life before, and she was weighed down by the sense of a burden, the burden of a man's life, destiny; she could not forget that she had sent him away, that if she had waited and he had remained, he would have learned that he had no longer reason to fear, that "it was all right."

She was disturbed in her reverie by the arrival of a young man, who seated himself in the next chair at her desk; she turned to her book and papers and began to work; but now a fresh difficulty arose in the conduct of the young man beside her; the attendant had brought him a pile of books, and the young fellow was turning them over, in a restless way, thrusting his hands through his hair, fidgeting with his feet and muttering impatiently and despairingly.

Celia glanced at him involuntarily. She saw that he was young and boyish-looking; there was a look of perplexity and worry in his blue eyes, and muttering a word of apology he rose and went quickly to the inner circle, the rotunda, where the patient and long-suffering superintendent stands to be badgered by questions from the readers needing the assistance of his wonderfully-stored brain. In a minute or two the young man came back, accompanied by an attendant bearing another pile of books.

"I don't know whether you'll find what you want," he said; "but it's all I know of it." He looked at Celia as he spoke, and added, "Oh, perhaps this young lady can help you; she does antiquarian work."

The young man coloured and raised his eyes appealingly to Celia.

"Oh, I couldn't trouble you," he said, humbly.

"What is it?" she asked. "I shall be glad to help you, if I can."

He took up some slips of paper on which were "pulled" impressions of blocks, and Celia saw that they were pictures of ruined castles, abbeys, and similar buildings.

"This is the trouble," said the young man. "The man I work for—he's the proprietor of the Youth's Only Companion—is a rum sort of chap, and fancies he has ideas. One of them was to buy up a lot of old blocks in Germany; these are they, and he's given me the job of writing them up, fitting them with descriptive letterpress—history, anecdote, that kind of thing, you know."

"That should not be very difficult," Celia remarked.

"Oh, no!" he assented; "but"—he grinned, and his whole face lit up with boyish humour—"the beastly things have no names to them! See? I've tried to hunt them up in all the old county histories, and books of that kind; but I've succeeded in getting only two or three, and there's a couple of dozen of the wretched things. I've driven the superintendent pretty nearly mad, and—But look here, I don't want to drive you mad, too. You mustn't let me bother you about it; you've got your own work to do."

"That's all right," said Celia, bending over the slips with the literary frown on her young face. "Oh, I can recognize some of them; that's Pevensey Castle; and that's Knowle House, before it was rebuilt; and, surely, this one is meant for Battle Abbey."

"I say, how clever you are!" he exclaimed, gazing at her with admiration.

"Oh, no, I'm not," said Celia, with a smile; "I just happen to remember them because I've come across them in the course of my own work. Let us go over the others."

She turned to his pile of books and, still with knit brows, tried to find the counterpart of the other pulls; and the young fellow watched her, his eyes growing thoughtful and something more, as they dwelt upon her face.

"You mustn't worry any more," he begged her, presently. "You're losing all your own time; I feel ashamed; I'm most awfully grateful to you."

"Not at all," said Celia. "I'm afraid I've been of very little help to you; and I don't see that I can do any more——"

"No, no," he said, quickly; "don't take any more trouble. It wouldn't matter so much if I had plenty of time; but I haven't. You see"—he coloured—"one doesn't get too well paid for this kind of work, and can't afford——"

He coloured still more deeply, and his voice dropped below the regulation whisper in which one is permitted to speak in the Reading Room. Celia glanced at him, and saw that he was poorly dressed, that his shirt-cuffs were frayed, and that he had the peculiar look which is stamped on the countenances of so many of the frequenters of the Reading Room.

"Just tell me what you would do if you were in my fix," he said.

Celia hesitated for a moment, then a smile broke over her face which transfigured it and made it seem to the young fellow absolutely lovely.

"I should invent histories for them," she said. "It would be so much easier—and, perhaps, ever so much more interesting."

"Oh, that's stunning!" he exclaimed, in a whisper. "Of course, that's the way. I say, what a brick you are! Would you mind telling me your name?"

"Grant—Celia Grant," she told him, without hesitation.

"Mine's Rex—Reggie Rex," he said. "I've often noticed you and wondered what kind of work you did—But I beg your pardon; I mustn't disturb you any longer."

They both fell to work, and Celia heard his fountain-pen racing over the paper; once or twice he chuckled, as if he were enjoying a joke; but very soon Celia forgot him; and when, at last, she looked up from her work, she found his place empty; but on going out for her lunch she saw him standing by one of the pillars of the portico. He blushed at sight of her, moved forward, hesitated, then approached her.

"You're going to an A.B.C. for your lunch?" he said, with a mixture of a man's timidity and a boy's audacity. "May I—will you let me come with you? I feel as if I hadn't thanked you enough; I couldn't do it in that stuffy old hole, where you can't speak above your breath."

He took Celia's silence for consent, and they went together to the big shop in Oxford Street, and seated themselves at a table. They both ordered a cup of tea and a roll and butter; Celia would have liked to have added the omnipotent bun, but refrained; for, somehow, she knew that he could not afford one.

"Do you like the life, in there?" he asked, jerking his head in the direction of the Museum. "Dreadful grind, isn't it? But, somehow, it gets hold of you; there's a kind of fascination in literature." He spoke the magic word with the air of quite an old, old man of letters. "I ought to have been a grocer. My father's got a shop in Middleswick; he calls it The Emporium. I think that's why I couldn't stick it. Pity, isn't it? for it's a rattling good business. Another thing; I couldn't stand the apron. Guv'nor insisted on the apron; 'begin from the beginning' sort of thing, you know. And then I felt the call of literature. Fond of reading, and all that. You know?"

Celia nodded. That tender heart of hers was quite ready with its comprehension and sympathy.

"I hope you will succeed; but if you don't—Ah, well; you can go back," she said, half-enviously.

"No; one doesn't go back," he said, with a gravity that sat curiously on his boyish face. "Once you've got the fever, you've got it for life. Tiger tasting blood, you know. I'd rather be a literary man than—than the German Emperor. Of course, I'm hoping to do better things; but even the stuff I do makes me—oh, well, kind of happy. Every time I get a proof something runs through me, something grateful and comforting—like the cocoa. I mean to get on to fiction presently." He blushed like a girl, and looked at her timidly, with the appealing look of a dog in his eyes. "I've tried my hand already at a short story or two." He paused. "I say"—hesitatingly, his eyes still more dog-like—"you are so awfully kind, I wonder whether you'd mind looking at one of my things. Oh, of course, it's too much to ask! You're busy—you work hard, I know; I've watched you."

"Why, I shall be very pleased to read something you have written," said Celia, smiling encouragement.

"You will! Oh, that's stunning of you! I'll send you a short story to-night, if you'll give me your address. But perhaps you'd rather not," he added, quickly.

"Why not?" said Celia. She gave it to him.

"I'll send it," he whispered; but as he spoke, his hand went towards his breast-pocket.

Celia tried not to smile; for she saw what was coming.

"To tell you the truth," he said, with a burst of candour, "I've got one with me. I'll give it to you now. But for Heaven's sake don't look at it here! I should see by your face what you thought of it, and you're likely to think precious little of it; you'll think it tommy-rot; though, of course, you won't say so. Look here!" he went on, as he drew out the precious manuscript slowly, "don't tell me that it 'shows promise'; I can bear anything but that. That's fatal; it's what all the beastly editors say when they don't mean to have anything to do with you."

"Very well," said Celia. "I will tell you exactly what I think of it."

"Honest Injun?" he queried, his blue eyes twinkling.

"Honest Injun," repeated Celia. "And I think I shall be able to say something very nice; for I am sure you are clever."

He blushed, and his eyes danced.

"You've said something very nice already," he said, gratefully; "and when you say it like that—well, upon my word, it makes me feel that I am clever. And that's half the battle, Miss Grant. A man is just what he feels himself to be; that's why nothing succeeds like success; to feel that other people know you can do your job. Oh, well!"

Celia nodded. "I must go back," she said. "I was not able to begin my work so early as usual this morning."

"Not feeling well?" he said, anxiously, and with a glance at her face which, he had noticed, was paler than usual. "I suppose you've got the Reading-Room headache. Everybody gets it; it's the general stuffiness of the place. They can't help it—the officials, I mean; they've tried all sorts of dodges for ventilation; it's better than it used to be; but it's still crammed full of headache."

"No; I've been worried this morning," said Celia, more to herself than to him.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" he said, in a voice full of a boy's ready sympathy. "Look here! Is it anything I can help you with? I mean——" He grew red, and stammered. "Oh, of course, you'll laugh; and it's like my cheek, but—you helped me, you know—and we're brothers and sisters in misfortune, working on the same treadmill—I'd do anything for you—it would be a pleasure——"

Celia sighed as she smiled, and wondered idly how he would respond if she said, "Well, find a man for me, a man whose name I don't know, to whose whereabouts I have not the slightest clue." She shook her head.

"It is very good of you," she said; "but you could not help me; no one could."

"I am sorry," he murmured. "I should have loved to have done something for you; perhaps I may some day—lion and the mouse, you know. It's a rum world. You'll find my address on the manuscript," he added, shyly, as she rose.

He did not follow her; but later in the afternoon Celia caught sight of him seated at the farther end of the Reading Room. He was looking in her direction, but, as his eyes met hers, he dropped them and bent over his work. It was evident that he had changed his place lest she should think he was intruding on her.

As she entered the courtyard of Brown's Buildings, Celia bought an evening paper. If she had mistaken the significance of the old gentleman's message and the man who haunted her thoughts had been arrested, the case might be reported. She scanned the police news anxiously; but there was no report, and she was laying the paper down when her eye caught a familiar name in a paragraph. She read the few lines in a kind of stupor, with a sense of unreality; and when she had finished reading she stood with the paper gripped in her hand, and staring stupidly before her.

The paragraph ran thus:—

"We regret to announce the death of Mr. William Bishop, the well-known antiquarian, which occurred suddenly at his country residence early this morning."

Slowly through her stupor broke the realization that she had been thrust back into the ranks of the unemployed, that only a few shillings stood between her and utter destitution.

CHAPTER VI

Strangely enough, Dene's spirits seemed lightened by the scene with Heyton; perhaps he had found that peculiar satisfaction which comes to all of us when we have relieved our minds by telling a man who has behaved badly and injured us what we think of him. But this hypothesis does not altogether account for the uplifting of Dene's mind. He had been going to commit suicide, because he was assured that everybody would regard him as one of the meanest of creatures, a forger and passer of a "stumer" cheque; but suddenly, at the tragical moment, an angel, in the guise of a young girl, had appeared, snatched the revolver from his hand, and saved him by just telling him that she believed him innocent.

It seemed to him that this guardian angel of his was hovering about him still; that it was incumbent upon him to carry out his pact with her, and to escape the fate that had threatened him, and, indeed, threatened him still. So centred were his thoughts on this girl, whose very name he did not know, so buoyed up was he by her wonderful goodness to him, that he had to remind himself he was still in danger. Perhaps, after all, that fact was not without its compensations; for Youth, when it goes with strength, and a clear brain, loves adventure, and enjoys pitting itself against any kind of foe. Here was he, an innocent man, flying from Injustice; he was to find out, perhaps for the first time in his life, what his wits were worth.

As he walked quickly, but not too hurriedly, through the shady streets towards the river, he considered the situation. If they were keen on the pursuit, the police would no doubt already have set a watch at the various ports; and it would be useless for him to attempt to reach the Continent; besides, he had not sufficient money to carry him far enough from England; for, in addition to the five-pound note, which had assumed already the character of a talisman, there were only a few shillings in his pocket.

It occurred to him that he would go down to the docks and see if he could obtain a berth on one of the small trading vessels; he had the quickness of hand and foot which comes of football and cricket, and he had done some sailing in a friend's yacht; enough, at any rate, to make him useful on board a ship. He took the train to Mark Lane Station, and suddenly reminded by the inward monitor that he had eaten nothing for some hours, turned into one of the numerous old-fashioned coffee-shops near the quay.

The place was crowded with ship hands and dock labourers, and reeked with that indescribable odour which is peculiar to the locality. Without receiving an order, a one-eyed waiter slammed a cup of thick coffee and two hunks of bread and butter before Dene; and Dene, eating and drinking the rough fare with an enjoyment which amused him, looked round him with the keenness of a man who is watching for an opportunity to seize upon the extended hand of Chance.

At the same table were seated two men whom he found it rather difficult to place; they did not look like dock labourers or sailors; and there was a mixture of the artist, the actor, the cheap-jack about them which stirred his curiosity; he found himself listening to them involuntarily.

"About time we were moving, isn't it?" said one. "The whole caboose will be down there by now; and it will be a devil of a job getting it on board in the dark. Why the old man didn't go by the regular line I can't think."

"'Thrift, Horatio, thrift,'" responded his companion; "he'll save a lot of money by hiring this old tramp; and he won't care how we have to pig it, so long as the blessed animals are all right. I had a look at her just now, and if ever there was a jumping, rolling, sea-sick old tub, she's one."

"A nice prospect," grunted the first man; "and we're short-handed, too; catch the old man taking a single man more than he wants."

Dene pricked up his ears. Was the hand of Chance being extended already? He waited for more, but the men ceased talking, and presently rose and walked out, with a gait which was as curious as everything else about them. Obeying an impulse, Dene rose and followed them. They joined the crowd going down towards the docks, and, keeping them in sight, he merged into a group of excited persons who were moving about in a scene which struck Dene with amazement.

On the quay, beside which a steamer was moored, towered a couple of huge elephants, surrounded by camels, horses, and mules, while on trollies stood cages of wild beasts, lions, tigers, jackals; one of the elephants was trumpeting, the camels were groaning, the carnivora roaring; mixed with their din were the voices of a motley crew, men and women, having the same appearance in dress and manner as that of the two men he had followed. Dene saw that it was a travelling menagerie and circus, and he looked on it with an amusement which predominated over his self-interest. Presently there darted into the conglomerate mass an extraordinary object—it might have been one of the monkeys escaped from its cage and miraculously raised into imitation of a man's stature. The diminutive figure was enveloped in a fur coat, much too large for it, and crowned by a ridiculous sombrero hat. An extinct cigar was held in the clenched teeth, and as the thing waved its hand Dene caught the glitter of innumerable rings.

At the appearance of this strange creature a momentary silence fell on the crowd. Without a word, he darted to and fro, always waving the beringed hand and biting harder on his cigar. But though he did not speak, and there seemed to be no meaning in the waving of his hands, the movements of the crowd began to take to themselves something of purpose and order, and the animals fell into line and began to pass along the broad gangway as if they were under the command of Noah and going into the Ark. The little man in the fur coat was evidently the controlling spirit; he seemed to be everywhere at once, and the gesticulating paws were like those of a conductor conducting a band; wherever a difficulty cropped up, the fur coat and the sombrero hat were beside it, and the glittering paws smoothing it away.

The more docile of the beasts were on board. The cages had been hoisted by the crane, and the horses were following; one of them grew restive, and slipped from the grasp of the man in charge of it. It would have made a bolt for it, but Dene, who happened to be standing quite close, caught hold of the bridle. As he did so, the hands waved before his face; somehow or other, Dene understood that the gesture meant "Go on!" and he led the horse over the gangway on to the ship.

The grotesque figure had followed him, and, with another gesture, ordered Dene to lead the horse to the rough stables which had been set up on deck. He did so, and was at once seized upon by one of the men, who badly needed assistance; and for half an hour Dene was kept hard at work. There was a fearful din; but presently he heard the warning whistle, and was making his way for the gangway when he was stopped by the fur coat and waved back again.

"No time to go ashore, my man," said the dwarf, speaking for the first time in Dene's hearing.

Dene paused for just one moment, then, with a shrug of the shoulders, he turned and went back to the horses. He heard the snorting and panting of the tug, felt the vessel move, heard some cheers from the deck, and knew the tug was towing the vessel from the quay.

For the next hour Dene was convinced that he was the most-needed man on earth; for everybody wanted him. He helped to get the horses into their stables; he bore a hand in putting the cages into position; he carried hay to the elephants and shins of beef to the lions; and while he was doing these and innumerable other tasks, someone was perpetually shouting in his ear, "'Ere, matey, lend a hand, will you?" But at last the confusion simmered down, and, wiping his face, Dene went with the other men below, where a meal had been hastily prepared for them.

The insufficient light of a waving lamp fell upon a group of men and women he had seen on the quay. They were of the usual types which go to make up a circus company, and they all seemed merry and bright, and utterly indifferent to the noise and the discomfort. There were some nice-looking girls amongst them, and they were laughing and talking excitedly, their eyes flashing merrily as they crowded round the trestles which bore the steaming coffee, the chunks of bread, and the slabs of meat.

With a not-unnatural shyness, Dene stood aside for a moment or two; but feeling that, at any rate, he had earned his supper, he drew near the board. As he did so, one of the men he had seen in the coffee-house caught sight of him, scanned him curiously, and said:—

"New hand, eh? What's your line?"

This was a somewhat awkward question, and Dene temporized.

"Well, I don't quite know," he said. "I've been lending a hand generally."

The man looked at him with an increased interest, as if struck by the tone of Dene's voice.

"Oh!" he said, thoughtfully. "Engaged at the last moment? Well, you'd better go and see the guv'nor."

"Gentleman in the fur coat?" asked Dene.

"The same," said the man, with a grin. "You haven't met him yet? Engaged through an agent, I suppose? Well, you've got a novel experience awaiting you. Better look him up at once; he's in his cabin at the present moment."

"Thanks. I will," said Dene.

"My name's Sidcup," said the man, in a friendly way. "What's yours?"

This was another staggerer.

"Oh, mine's—Sydney Green," said Dene.

Mr. Sidcup smiled and winked. "Good name," he said. "Short; descriptive; good professional name."

Dene coloured, but passed off his embarrassment with a laugh.

"You'll find you've not joined a bad lot, Mr. Green," said Sidcup, with a jerk of his head towards the collected company. "It's a good show, and some of us"—he passed his hand over his smooth chin, and pulled down his waistcoat complacently—"are not without talent."

"I'm sure of that," said Dene, with an air of conviction. "I'll go and see—what is the proprietor's name?"

"Bloxford. Bloxford's Mammoth Circus; the largest on Earth; see Press notices. But, of course, you know," replied Mr. Sidcup, with some surprise. "The old man's all right, as you'll find. Curious customer; but knows his business. He's not much to look at; but he's a devil to work, and he's a born manager. What I mean is, that he sees what a man's worth, in the—er—twinkling of an eye. And here's a tip for you: never argue with him; don't contradict him; just let him have his say and keep your mouth shut. If he says the moon's made of green cheese—ask him for a biscuit to eat with it. I've been with him for five years, and I understand him."

"Thank you very much," said Dene. "I'll take your tip. I'm not fond of arguing myself."

When he had disposed of his supper, he made his way to Mr. Bloxford's cabin and knocked at the door. He was bidden to enter in a sharp, falsetto voice, like that of a phonograph when it is on the high note. The manager was still enveloped in his fur coat, but his hat had been thrown aside, revealing a head apparently completely hairless. A lighted cigar was now between his teeth, and a bottle of champagne stood on the table. Mr. Bloxford looked up from a paper that he was reading, and eyed Dene with that suppressed impatience which is peculiar to all managers of theatres and circuses.

"Well, what do you want?" he demanded. "Tub isn't sinking already, is she?"

"I've come to ask you to take me on, to let me join your company, Mr. Bloxford," said Dene, going straight to the point.

The manager stared at him. "Take you on! Why, aren't you one of the hands? Then what the blank are you doing here?"

"No, I'm not engaged at present," replied Dene; and he explained how he had been caught up in the turmoil and had remained on board. While he was speaking, Mr. Bloxford had been eyeing the tall, well-made figure, the pleasant, handsome face, and, being a man of the world—and a circus manager to boot—he had no difficulty in seeing that the young man, standing so modestly, and yet so easily, before him, was a gentleman.

"I suppose you know that you're a stowaway, that I could have you chucked overboard, or put into irons or something," he said, furiously, his eyes snapping.

Dene smiled merely.

"Well, now you're here, I'll have to take you on, I guess," said Mr. Bloxford. "You seem to be handy with horses."

"I'm fond of them," said Dene.

"That's all right," rejoined Mr. Bloxford. "I suppose there's nothing you can do in the professional way? You'd make a good acrobat, or—well, you'd shape into several things." He looked the figure up and down again, just as he would have examined an animal offered for his inspection. "But we'll see about that later on. Thirty bob a week. How will that suit you?"

"It will suit me very well; and I'll try to earn it," said Derrick.

Mr. Bloxford stared at him. "Here, don't startle me; I've got a weak heart," he observed, with a grin. "You say it as if you meant it. Here, what's your name?"

"Sydney Green," replied Dene, with a promptitude acquired by his recent experience.

"Right!" said the manager. "Have a drink?"

He poured out a liberal quantity of champagne for Dene, and, filling his own glass, raised it, eyeing Dene keenly over the edge of it.

"Here's to us! I rather like the look of you; but just listen to me, young fellow. I don't care who and what a man is when he joins my company, he's under my orders. See? And look here, I don't ask any questions; I take a man for what he says he is. You say your name's Green. Dark Green, I expect, eh? Well, it's no business of mine. You know where we're bound for, I suppose? Well, we're bound for South America. We're going to do it thoroughly; if ever we get there, which seems doubtful, for this infernal old tramp is more rotten than I thought. But she's cheap, anyhow; and economy is my motto. Thirty shillings a week." He wrote down Dene's new name and the amount of his wages. Then, suddenly, his manner changed; with an impatient gesture he waved his beringed hand, and Dene felt himself swept outside.

He stood in the gangway and looked straight before him for a minute or two. His brain was whirling somewhat, but he realized that he had escaped. His hand went to his breast pocket, where reposed the five-pound note his guardian angel had given him. It was still intact. He felt that it was proving itself a talisman. God bless her!

CHAPTER VII

A week later Celia was crouching over her fireless grate. The Wolf was no longer outside the door, but beside her, his red eyes watching her balefully, his cruel teeth showing between his mowing jaws. The hunger, for which the overfed rich man longs in vain, was gnawing at her; she was penniless and well-nigh starving; no longer did she regard the little chorus girl in the floor below her with tender pity and sympathy, but with envy; she knew now how rich she had been with her pound a week.

For days she had tramped the streets, in the intervals of reading the advertisements in the free library, in search of some employment, any employment, which a woman could take up; and her last few pence had been spent in one of those advertisements which tell their own tale of despair. She was willing to do anything; she would have taken a situation as a housemaid; would have gone out charing; for life is precious to all of us, and scruples of refinement disappear when there is no bread in the cupboard. But her applications, for even the lowliest place, were turned down; she had no experience, no character; the persons she interviewed saw, at a glance, that she was a lady, and that was fatal: a lady willing to sink to the position of a housemaid—well, there is something suspicious in it.

As she sat, with her hands tightly clasped, the cold of the early, so-called, summer day chilling her to the marrow, she was cheerfully employed in picturing her death; the discovery of the body, the coroner's inquest, the leader which would be written in the Wire, the properly indignant, stereotyped leader, dwelling with righteous indignation on the "terrible poverty in our midst." She raised her head and looked round the room. No, there was nothing left to sell or pawn—for her dire necessity had driven her to the pawnshop, that last refuge of the destitute, that dire rubicon which, having passed it, a girl like Celia feels is the last barrier between her and self-respect.

A letter lay on the table; it was one from the Museum lad, Reggie Rex, thanking her, with all the fervency of youth, for the words she had written in praise of his story; the hope, the encouragement she had implanted in his breast. She envied him, as she envied everyone who had enough to purchase a loaf, a glass of milk. Then the incident in which he had figured passed from her mind. The strains of Mr. Clendon's violin stole up to her; but that brought no peace, no joy; to enjoy good music when one is starving is an impossibility; the sounds irritated her, and she was glad when they ceased.

Presently she heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and a knock came at her door. She rose, painfully, wearily, and moved with difficulty; for the floor seemed to rock under her, the room to swing round. It was Mr. Clendon.

"I'm sorry to trouble you——" he began; then he saw her face, and, closing the door behind him, took her hand in his. "You are ill," he said.

To attempt concealment she felt would be impossible; worse, ridiculous.

"Not ill; but very hungry," she said, forcing a smile.

He led her to the chair, and she sank into it, turning her face away from him. He glanced round the room quickly, took in its emptiness, the black, cheerless grate, her attitude of utter dejection; then, without a word, he went downstairs. To Celia, hours seemed to elapse after his departure, but it was only a few minutes before he came up again, with bread and other things; but it was the bread only that Celia saw. With all her might and main, she strove to eat slowly, indifferently, the food he pressed upon her; and as she ate, the tears of shame and of relief coursed down her wan cheeks. He had brought fuel also; and, while she was eating, he seemed to devote all his attention to the making of the fire; when it was burning brightly, and she was leaning back, with her hands covering her face, he said, gently, reproachfully:

"Why didn't you come to me—why didn't you tell me?"

"I was ashamed," she said. "I knew you, too, were poor." She tried to laugh, but the laugh was choked in her throat.

"Not too poor to help a friend," he said. "I think you have been very wicked." He tried to speak sternly; but the "My poor child!" that broke from him declared his sympathy. "You have lost your situation?"

"Yes; he died. And I can't find anything else," said Celia, trying to speak calmly. "I've tried—oh, everything. I've spent all my money advertising and answering advertisements. Look! That's my last." With a laugh, she pushed a paper towards him. He glanced at the advertisement and slipped the paper into his pocket. "It's modest, humble enough, isn't it?" she said. "You see, I'm ready to do anything, secretary, companion, housekeeper—oh, anything; even for no salary, just for bed and board."

"I know," he said, with a nod. "It's very rarely that such an advertisement is of any use. Everybody specializes nowadays."

Celia rose and went to the window, that he might not see her face.

"I am stony-broke," she said. "I haven't a penny; and I'm friendless—no, not friendless. How can I thank you, Mr. Clendon! The sight of you—to say nothing of the food—has—has put fresh life into me. Tell me, what do you think I had better do? I'm not proud—why, I'm willing to be a domestic servant, to go to one of the factories to fill match-boxes; but I've no experience. And there are thousands in my plight, thousands of girls who are worse off—well, no, I suppose they couldn't be worse off; and yet—I haven't paid this week's rent; and you know what that means."

"I know," he said, in a low voice.

He was sitting over the fire, looking into the burning coals, with a curious expression on his pallid, wrinkled face; an expression of hesitation, doubt, reluctance; for the moment it seemed as if he had forgotten her, as if he were communing with his own thoughts, working at a problem.

"I have a little money," he said. "I'll go down and pay the rent."

"No, no!" she protested; but he waved his hand, the thin, shapely hand of the man of good birth.

"You'll get something presently; it is always when things are at the worst that they turn. I blame you for not coming to me; it was unkind. But I understand. You are proud; charity comes hard to people like you and me——" He checked himself and rose, buttoning his coat as he did so with the air of a man who has come to a decision. "Yes; I'll pay the rent, and I'll send them up with some coals. Oh, don't be afraid; you shall pay me when things come right. Don't you see, my good girl, that I am glad to be able to help you—that it gratifies my pride? There, sit down and warm yourself, and try to eat some more food. I wish it were better worth eating: but we shall see."

He laid his hand on her shoulder as he passed her on his way to the door, and Celia, blinded by tears, took the hand and carried it to her lips.

Mr. Clendon went down to his own room, almost as barely furnished as Celia's had become; and he stood for a moment or two looking round it with a sigh; then he took up his worn hat and stick, and went out. With bent head, and eyes fixed on the pavement, he made his way to Grosvenor Square; and, mounting the steps of one of the largest of the houses, rang the bell. A dignified hall-porter opened the door leisurely, and eyed the thin, poorly-clad figure and pallid face with stern disfavour.

"Is Lord Sutcombe at home?" asked Mr. Clendon, quietly, and not without a certain dignity.

"His lordship the Marquess is within; suttenly; but——" The man hesitated, with unconcealed suspicion.

"Will you tell his lordship, please, that a gentleman wishes to see him?" said Mr. Clendon.

The porter looked beyond the bowed figure, as if he expected to see someone else, the "gentleman" referred to; then, as he failed to see anyone, he said, severely:

"'Ave you an appointment? 'Is lordship don't see promiskus visitors."

Mr. Clendon seemed to consider for a moment; as if he had expected this difficulty. He wrote the single letter "W" on a piece of paper he found in his pocket, and handed it to the man.

"Please give this to his lordship," he said, still with that quiet air of dignity and composure which had impressed the porter, against his will.

The man eyed the piece of paper doubtfully, and the applicant for admission still more so; then, signing to the bench in the hall, by way of permitting rather than inviting the old man to take a seat, he went slowly up the broad stairs, lined with pictures and statuary, and carpeted with thick Axminster. Mr. Clendon seated himself, leant both hands on his stick and looked around him, not curiously, but with a thoughtful, and yet impassive, expression. Presently the man came down, with evident surprise on his well-fed countenance.

"Please follow me," he said; and Mr. Clendon followed him up the stairs, and was ushered into a small room on the first floor. It was a library, handsomely furnished and luxuriously appointed; a huge fire was burning in the bronze grate, and, as its warmth went out to meet him, Mr. Clendon thought of the fireless grate over which the young girl had crouched. By the table, with one hand pressed hardly against it, stood a middle-aged man, with a pale, careworn face; his hair was flecked with grey; his thin lips drawn and drooping at the corners, as if their possessor was heavily burdened by the cares of the world. That he was agitated was obvious; for the lids flickered over his almost colourless eyes, and the hand he held against his side was clenched tightly.

At sight of the old man he uttered a cry, the kind of cry with which one might greet a ghost.

"Wilfred! You! You! Alive! I—we—thought you were dead."

"I am sorry," said Mr. Clendon. "Yes; I knew that you thought me dead. It was just as well; I wished you to do so. Don't be alarmed; there is nothing to be alarmed at. Permit me to sit down; I have walked some distance."

The Marquess of Sutcombe, with an air of desperation, motioned to a chair, and fell to pacing up and down the room. "I swear that I thought you were dead, Wilfred! When you disappeared, father—all of us—did our best to find you; we searched for you everywhere. We were in the greatest distress, perplexity; for we did not know why you had gone—I don't know even now—I can't, no, I can't believe that it is you! Why did you—disappear?"

"There is no need why I should tell you, Talbot," said Mr. Clendon, calmly. "It is my secret; it must remain so."

"But—but, consider my position!" exclaimed the Marquess, with agitation. "You must do so! Here am I, bearing the title and—and the rest of it, under the impression that my elder brother has died. Wilfred, you must explain. We all believed the report of your death——"

"I know," said Mr. Clendon, quietly, but not apologetically. "I took care that the evidence should satisfy you. Once more, there is no cause for alarm——"

"No cause for alarm! You talk—absurdly! You forget that the fact of your sitting there proves that I am a—a usurper; that I have no right to the title, the estate; that everything belongs to you. By Heaven, Wilfred, I can scarcely believe that you have done this thing, that you could have found it possible to do me—and Percy—such a wrong! Put yourself in my place. How would you like to discover that you were living under false pretences, that you had no right to—everything you hold. Yes; put yourself in my place!"

"That is exactly what I have refused, and still refuse, to do," said Mr. Clendon, quietly. "I see that you think I have come to disclose my identity, to displace you. You are mistaken. To do so after I, of my own free will, have effaced myself all these years, and allowed you to step into my place, would be unjust, would be impossible for—well, one of us, Sutcombe."

"And—and there's Percy, my son," went on the Marquess, as if he ignored, or had not heard, the other man's assurance. "It's hard on me, but it's harder on him; for I—well, I am well-nigh weary of everything, of life itself. My wife died—you may have heard of it—there was nothing left but Percy, and—yes, perhaps you know it—he's a bad lot. He has given me a great deal of trouble, will give me more. He has married beneath him. I had hoped, much as I disapprove of the match, that it might steady him; but I fear——All the same, bad as he is, it's hard on him——"

The Marquess wiped the sweat from his brow and stifled a groan.

"You distress yourself without cause, Talbot. I am sorry to hear that you are not happy, that your son is not—satisfactory. I have not come to add to your unhappiness. Believe that."

"Then why have you disturbed me?" demanded the Marquess, desperately.

"I will tell you," said Mr. Clendon. "Will you not come and sit down? Be calm, and listen to me quietly. Accept my assurance that I have no intention whatever, and never shall have, of taking my proper place, of depriving you of all I resigned. If I ever had any desire to do so, that desire would have died since I entered this house. Are you any happier, Talbot, for the burden which I laid down, resigned to you? I am poor, as you see,"—he glanced at his old, worn clothes—"but——"

The Marquess broke in impatiently.

"Oh, I see that. You look—look as if you'd had bad times; you look old enough to be my father. You look—are dressed—in rags. Do you think that doesn't worry me, and add to my misery? Do you think that, ever since you entered and I recognized you, I haven't been saying to myself, 'This is my elder brother; this old, haggard-looking man, clad like a beggar, is the Marquess of Sutcombe and you are an impostor'?"

"Grant the case as you put it. I am poor, but not unhappy. I will venture to say that I am far happier than you, Talbot," said Mr. Clendon, his dark eyes scanning the careworn face of the Marquess. "I have my niche in the world; I earn my living, such as it is; I am free from care; I have enough laid by to save me from a pauper's grave, while you——"

"Oh, I'm unhappy enough, I'll admit," said the Marquess, with a deep sigh. "I hold your place, and all that it means in the way of money and power; but I'm alone in the world, worse than alone; for Percy, my only son, I tell you—by Heaven, there is not a morning I wake that I do not dread to hear that he has done something to disgrace the name he bears. Wilfred, if you've a mind to take it all back——"

He stretched out his hands with a gesture of renunciation, almost an eager, anticipatory relief.

Mr. Clendon shook his head. "No," he said, resolutely, "you must continue to bear the burden I have imposed upon you, Talbot; and I beg you to believe me, fully and undoubtingly, that I shall never relieve you of your responsibilities, which you have borne so well. Oh, of course, I have watched. I know how admirably you have filled your place, and where I should have failed. Fate, Providence knew better than I what was best for me, for all of us, when it drove me out of the world."

"Tell me, why can't you tell me, why you disappeared?" demanded the Marquess. "Surely you owe it to me!"

"No, I have buried the past," said Mr. Clendon. "Let it lie. But I will tell you why I have forced myself to come to you—yes, forced myself, Talbot, for I knew that it was better that I should remain as one dead."

"Yes, tell me," said the Marquess, with feverish eagerness. "If there is anything I can do, if you have decided to stick to your resolution, if there is nothing I can say that will persuade you to come forward——"

"There is nothing," Mr. Clendon assured him calmly.

The Marquess sighed heavily. "Then you must let me—how shall I put it?—provide for you, take care of your future. You must want money. Oh, it's absurd; it drives me mad! To think that nearly every penny I possess is yours. But tell me what I'm to do, Wilfred."

"Nothing for me—that is directly," said Mr. Clendon. "Don't say any more about myself. I am touched by your generosity—yes, generosity, Talbot; for I feel that you have every reason, every right, to turn upon me and upbraid me for presenting myself after all this time, for harrowing you with the knowledge of my existence. You can do nothing for me in the way of money. I have all I need. I have grown so used to the poverty of my surroundings that, if I were raised out of them I should feel like the prisoner released from the Bastille, and weep for my cell and the prison rations. But you can do something for someone in whom I am interested."

The Marquess looked up, with something like a gleam of apprehension.

"Someone belonging to you? Your son—daughter?"

Mr. Clendon was silent for a moment, then he said: "No, I have no son or daughter. I am childless. The person of whom I speak is a young girl, no relation of mine, scarcely a friend, save for the fact that I have been of service to her, and that she regards me as the only friend she has. We live in the same block of buildings—have met as ships pass in the night. She is a poor girl who has been working as a kind of secretary, but her employer has died suddenly, and she is now penniless and helpless."

The Marquess started to his feet and paced the room again.

"I feel as if I were in a dream, a nightmare," he said. "Here are you, suddenly springing to life, poor, almost destitute, and you come to me, not asking for all that is yours by right, not even for money for yourself, but for someone, for some girl who is not even of your kith and kin, has no claim on you. I always thought you mad, Wilfred, in the old days when we were boys together. I still think you're mad. How could I think otherwise?"

"We are all mad, more or less, Talbot," rejoined Mr. Clendon, with the flicker of a grim smile on his thin lips. "But this young girl—I have taken her misery to heart. If you had seen her as I have seen her—but you haven't, and I have to try to impress her case on you, enlist your sympathies, as well as I can. She is a lady, not by birth, perhaps, but by instinct and training. She has been well educated. That's been against her, of course. It always is with persons in her position; anyway, it makes her lot a still harder one."

"Well, well!" broke in the Marquess. "You want me to give her money. Of course, you can have what you want, any sum; you have but to ask—Ask! it is all yours; you have but to demand!—No, no, I don't mean to be angry, brutal; but, surely, you can understand what I am feeling. How much do you want?"

"Nothing," said Mr. Clendon, with another flickering smile. "My dear Talbot, you don't understand. But I don't blame you; how should you? All the same, we poor people have our little pride; the girl of whom I speak—well, I found her starving in her miserable little room, because she was too proud to descend a flight of steps to mine, to ask for the bread for which she was dying."

The Marquess stared. "Is it possible that such cases can exist?"

"Oh, yes, my dear Talbot," responded Mr. Clendon, with grim irony. "There are more persons die of starvation in London every day than the Boards of Guardians wot of. The doctor calls them 'heart-failure' in his certificate; and he is quite accurate. But let me tell you what I want you to do. This girl has been a secretary; she has been advertising for some similar post; any post, indeed."

He took out the paper and pointed to the advertisement. The Marquess took the paper, passing his hand over his eyes, as if he were dazed, and read the few lines which had cost Celia her last penny.

"Got it?" asked Mr. Clendon. "Well, now, I want you to write an answer to it, Talbot, and offer her a situation."

Lord Sutcombe dropped into his chair, his head sunk in his hands.

"What kind of situation?" he asked, looking up. "Of course, I'll do it—I feel, confused. Little wonder!—What kind of situation? I suppose you have planned it all? I am trying to follow you, to interest myself; but I can only think of you!"

"Yes; I have formed some kind of plan," said Mr. Clendon, in his low, vibrant voice. "There is the library at Thexford. It is a great library, a fine collection; it has been neglected for years; I suppose you have not looked after it?"

"No," said the Marquess, shaking his head. "I seldom go to Thexford. I have been in the Cabinet, as you may know; am still interested in politics—it has been something to do—and, in consequence, I have to live in London most of the time. I have not been to Thexford for two years; the house is kept up, of course; I have often intended going there; but there are the other places."

"Pity!" said Mr. Clendon, looking straight before him, as if he were calling up a memory. "It is a beautiful place; perhaps the most beautiful you've got——"

"You've got," muttered Lord Sutcombe, bitterly.

Mr. Clendon ignored the interruption.

"It is time the library was taken in hand, set to rights, and catalogued, and the rest of it. She will do it very well. Give her a good salary—but not too large a one, or she will suspect; and I do not wish her to know how she obtained the post. You need not see her; she can obtain testimonials from the executors of her late employer. She will give you no trouble; she will do her duty; for she is a lady, and a pure, high-minded girl. Will you do this for me, Talbot?"

"You know that you've no need to ask," said the Marquess. "Do you mean to tell me this is all I can do, that you will permit me to do?"

"That is all," said Mr. Clendon, quietly. "I am much obliged to you. Yes; I am sincerely, unaffectedly grateful. Do you think I don't realize how badly I've treated you, Talbot, not only in allowing you to believe I was dead, but in turning up again? Well, do this for me, help this young girl, and try to persuade yourself that we can cry quits."

"Quits! It is absurd! You are going? By Heaven, I feel that I ought not to let you go. That, in justice to myself, my own sense of right and honour, I ought to detain you, proclaim that——"

"It would be of no use," said Mr. Clendon. "You could not detain me, the disclosure could not serve me. Remember that I am—that I have no child; and that it is only a question of time, a short time, before all you hold will be really, legally yours. Have patience. Let me go my way—it is the only one for me——"

"But you will tell me where you live, where I can find you?" interrupted Lord Sutcombe.

Mr. Clendon smiled, gravely. "I think not, Talbot. To tell you the truth, I am so enamoured of this life of mine, of its solitude and independence, that I cannot run the risk of having it broken in upon. Good-bye. Don't bear me ill-will. And don't be afraid. I am going back to the grave again."

The Marquess stretched out his hand, as if to detain him; but, with a gesture, full of dignity and command, as well as imploration, the bent figure passed out.

CHAPTER VIII

Four days after Mr. Clendon had rescued her from the Wolf, Celia, who had been listening daily for his footsteps, heard them on the stairs. She ran down, and caught the old man by the hand.

"Oh, come in!" she said, excitedly. "I have something to tell you."

He looked at her flushed face, her eyes all alight now; but without a smile, and with his usual impassiveness, he went to her room.

"The most wonderful thing has happened!" she exclaimed. "Oh, but first, let me try to thank you! The people who brought the things would not tell me who had sent them, but they insisted that everything was paid for, and, of course, I knew the milk and the bread, and the groceries and the rest of it, came from you."

"That is nothing," he said, with the simplicity of good breeding. "Tell me of this wonderful news."

"It's the most extraordinary, the most miraculous news," she said, with a long breath. "You remember that advertisement I showed you? Well, there came an answer to it—an answer! Here it is." She handed him one of several letters she had snatched up from the table. "It is from a very great man, you see; but, of course, it is one of his secretaries who writes. It is from a real live marquess!—Lord Sutcombe. Of course, you have heard of him?"

Mr. Clendon nodded affirmatively.

"He is well known."

"Though I had no hope of getting the situation, I sent some letters of poor Mr. Bishop's as testimonials, and this morning—oh, it is almost incredible—I received this letter, informing me that my testimonials were satisfactory, and that I had obtained the post. And what do you think it is? Oh, the most delightful of all work—the very thing I would have chosen! It is to arrange, and catalogue, and generally take care of a large library. And the salary—this is the most wonderful part of the whole fairy tale—is to be £150 a year. Think of it! One—hundred—and-fifty—pounds a year!"

"It is a very good salary," said Mr. Clendon. "I congratulate you."

She laid her hand on the wrinkled one which rested on his stick.

"But don't you think it is quite extraordinary? Surely one does not usually get such a post as this so easily as I have done! There is a kind of magic in it. You"—she looked at him keenly, searchingly—"Mr. Clendon, have you had any hand in this?"

He looked up at her and shrugged his shoulders.

"Do you think it is likely that I consort with marquesses or have any influence with them?" he asked, with a smile.

"Anyway, it is you who have brought me this great good luck," she said, as gratefully as if he had admitted the truth. "You have been my mascot. A very dear, generous mascot. But you will let me pay you back? But I am almost ashamed to speak of payment, when no money could repay."

"Certainly you shall pay me, my dear young lady," he said, quietly. "I am poor, and you are proud. But you will wait until you draw the first instalment of your salary."

"No need," she exclaimed, triumphantly. "See here!" She held up a cheque. "The Marquess—what a kind, good sort of man he must be!—has sent me a cheque to pay my fare and other expenses."

Mr. Clendon took the cheque.

"I see it is an open one. The bank will pay you when you present it," he remarked, in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Yes, I am going presently. In the last letter he says that I can go down to the place—Thexford Hall, it is called—as soon as I please; and, of course, I shall start to-morrow. It is in Devonshire, and all my life I've longed to see Devonshire. And now I'm to be paid for going there! Mr. Clendon, I have been living in a dream since this letter came. I've read it fifty—oh, a hundred times! Sometimes I've held it tightly in both hands, afraid that it should turn to a withered leaf, as the paper did in the fairy story, or that I should wake up from my dream and find my hands empty. Do you know Thexford Hall?"

"It is a large place, I believe—quite a famous one," he said. "I hope you will be happy there."

"I should be quite happy if it were not so far from Brown's Buildings, and—and one who has been so good to me," said Celia, her eyes suddenly moist. "But I may come up and see you some day, on my first holiday? Yes, and it's not only you, but—Well, strange as it may sound, I have grown fond of the Buildings. You see, it was my first home; I mean my own home. And I've got to like the people, though I know so little of them. Oh, Mr. Clendon——"

She paused a moment, and the colour stole to her face and she looked hard at the fire. She went on hesitatingly, almost shyly:

"You remember the young man who lived opposite? He has gone; but I think—I mean, it is just possible that he may come back."

She was silent for a moment or two, as she asked herself whether she should tell this good friend of hers all that had happened on that fateful night; but she felt that she could not do so. The secret did not belong to her.

"He may come back," she continued, in a low voice. "And if he should, and you see him, will you give him a message that was left with me for him. It is just, 'It is all right.'"

"Certainly," said Mr. Clendon, without the least sign of curiosity, though his piercing eyes had been watching her face. "Will you write to me, and tell me how you get on at—what is the name of the place?—ah, yes, Thexford?"

"Why, of course I will. I will write and tell you everything," said Celia, promptly, gratefully.

"And if it should not suit you, and you are not happy there, you will tell me frankly?"

"Oh, yes; for you will still be my mascot, will you not? But I am sure to be happy. I love books. I shall be in Devonshire, and I shall be earning all this money. Mr. Clendon, I am the very luckiest girl in the world."

"And the best, I am sure," he said, gently. "Now, I will go down to the bank with you, if you will let me, and see that you get this money all right."

This was the last straw. She could not keep back her tears. She hurried into her coat and hat, and they went out together. As they descended the stairs, they happened to pass the little chorus girl and the grim old lady, and Celia could not help nodding and smiling at them. The chorus girl smiled back, and even the grim old lady's frown relaxed as she bowed in stately fashion.

"I'm so happy, that I could shake hands with everybody," said Celia. "I feel as if I must make friends with everyone I meet."

Then suddenly the happiness fled from her face, her eyes grew dark and sad; for at that instant she thought of the young man, the fugitive flying from justice. Where was he? What was he doing? Oh, if he would only come back and get the message!

The polite and amiable cashier at the bank handed over ten bright sovereigns, and with these in the purse clasped in her hand Celia returned to the Buildings, to engage in a fight with Mr. Clendon over the sum which he declared was all that was due to him. But it was settled at last, though scarcely to Celia's satisfaction.

"I'd come to see you off to-morrow," he said, as he held her hand at parting, "but I have an early rehearsal. Good-bye, and God bless you," he added, in a very low voice.

When he had gone Celia mopped her eyes and finished her packing, and the next morning a taxi bore her from the Buildings. She looked out of the window as long as the huge and grimy place remained in sight, and she sighed when it had disappeared. In a sense she still belonged to The Jail; for there had been no time to dispose of her furniture, and she was so rich that she felt justified in keeping on the room for a while. The rent was only a few shillings a week, and she could well afford to pay it, at any rate until she had decided to sell the furniture. At the bottom of her heart was the desire to keep it, for the sake of its association: perhaps they would let her have it at Thexford Hall?

The journey, which no doubt most of the passengers considered a long one, was to Celia a delightful experience, for she had been immured in London long enough to enjoy the change. Her heart beat fast and her breath came quickly, with suppressed excitement and a touch of anxiety, as the train drew up to the small station of Thexford. On the platform stood a tall footman, and as she alighted he came up, touched his hat, and spoke her name. The station-master and the porter were in attendance also, and all three received her as if she were a person of consequence. The footman led the way to a landaulette car, touched his hat again as he closed the door on her, and the car glided off, carrying Celia still nearer to the unknown.

They ran through a beautiful, undulating country, dotted here and there with farms. Then the way grew wilder. They passed across a stretch of moorland, turned into an avenue guarded by huge iron gates, and, mounting quickly, stopped before an old red brick mansion, the size and grandeur of which filled Celia with awe. The great door opened, and a footman, behind him a middle-aged lady in a black silk dress, stood ready to receive Celia.

"I am the housekeeper—Mrs. Dexter," said the lady, pleasantly. "I am afraid you have had a wearisome journey, Miss Grant. Let me take you to your room at once."

They crossed a large hall, lit by the afternoon sun, which, streaming through a window of stained glass, poured flashes of vari-coloured light on the antique furniture, the men in armour, the trophies and pictures on the wall. Mrs. Dexter led the way up a broad flight of stairs to a room on the first floor, a room so large and beautiful that Celia had difficulty in repressing an exclamation.

"Is this for me?" she could not help asking.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Dexter, "unless you wish to change it. There are plenty of rooms vacant, unfortunately."

"Does no one live here?" asked Celia, with astonishment.

"Only myself and the other servants," replied Mrs. Dexter. "The Marquess is enormously rich, probably one of the richest noblemen in England. Of course, some of the rooms, the state-rooms, are kept shrouded; but they could be prepared almost at an hour's notice—though we might not get that," she added, with a smile. "I hope you will not feel dull and lonely. You have come from London, where everything is so bright and gay."

Celia thought of the Jail and smiled.

"We are rather isolated here," continued Mrs. Dexter. "There is the village, of course; but we have very few neighbours. The nearest house of any consequence, Lensmore Grange, is nearly two miles away. Didn't you know that you would be alone here? Oh, I hope you won't mind, for I had so looked forward to having someone in the house."

"No, no," said Celia, quickly, and she smiled again, reassuringly. "I think I rather like it; and if I didn't, I should remain, for I am quite poor, and this situation means so much to me."

This little speech completed Celia's conquest of the good-natured housekeeper.

"We must try to make it as cheerful as we can for you, my dear—I mean, Miss Grant," she corrected herself.

Celia shook her head.

"No, no," she said. "I think it is very kind of you to speak to me so nicely, to be so good to me, before you know I'm worth it. I am sure that we shall—like each other, and that I shall be very happy here."

"I hope so. I'll do all I can," said Mrs. Dexter, evidently moved by Celia's warm response. "Now I'll send you up some tea, and if you're not tired I will show you the house when you have rested."

In a very short time a maid, neatly dressed in black alpaca, with cap with white strings, brought up the tea. Celia noticed that the salver and the service were of silver. It was a very luxurious tea; the maid was respectful, but pleasantly sympathetic. Said she:

"Shall I put away your things after tea, miss, or now at once? I am to wait on you."

"Oh, that's very nice," said Celia. "You will not have much trouble, at any rate, with my things," she added, with a laugh. "For I have very few."

"Yes, miss," said the maid. "Fashions change so soon, don't they?"

It was beautifully done, and Celia laughed again, appreciatively. The place had seemed to her a kind of Paradise, and certainly it was inhabited, judging by the specimens she had seen, by persons of angelic amiability. She was so excited that she could scarcely drink her tea, and when Mrs. Dexter reappeared, she sprang up all eagerness. For half an an hour she went from room to room, almost speechless with admiration and a delighted awe. It was her first experience of a house of the size and grandeur of Thexford Hall, and almost at every step she took she was trying to realize that she was actually going to live there. And to be paid £150 per annum for doing so!

"Now I'll show you the library," said Mrs. Dexter. "Naturally, that will interest you more than anything else, though our state-rooms are considered to be very fine. Indeed, the drawing-room, with the Inigo chimneypieces, is said to be unique. This is the library."

She opened a thick mahogany door, and as Celia crossed the threshold an exclamation of ecstatic delight escaped her lips. And not without cause; for the Thexford library is a famous one. Celia was not unduly impressed by the number of the books, though the collection is by no means a small one, for she had spent weeks and months at the British Museum Reading Room; but the subdued splendour of the room, its vaulted roof, its ebony bookcases, enriched by Wedgwood plaques, the great fireplace, with its marble mantelpiece rising to the very ceiling, kept her for a minute or two dumb with amazement.

"No doubt you will spend a great deal of your time here," said Mrs. Dexter. "I have had the fire lit; we burn wood only in the larger rooms." She nodded towards the great logs glowing between the brazen dogs and giving the room not only warmth but an air of comfort and homeliness. "I hope you will find everything you want; but if not, you have only to ask for it. His lordship sent me special instructions that I was to provide you with everything you required."

"As if anyone could want anything more than there is here," said Celia, with a smile and upraised brows. "The Marquess must be a very kind man; he has been so good and thoughtful."

"He is," said Mrs. Dexter. "But people of his rank always are kind to those in their service. At least, that is my experience. You have not seen his lordship?"

"No," replied Celia. "I should like to do so. I should like to try to thank him for his kindness to me."

Mrs. Dexter smiled.

"I don't think he would like that, my dear. Great people don't like being thanked. At least, that's my experience," she repeated. "I will show you his lordship's portrait, if you like," she said, as they passed into the hall. "It is growing dark here; that painted window keeps out the light."

She switched on the electric light, and directed Celia's attention to the row of family portraits.

"I'll tell you who they all are some day," she said. "That is the present Marquess, at the end there."

Celia went to it and looked at it with interest.

"He has a nice face," she said.

"Yes, it is a good-looking family, as you see," said Mrs. Dexter, with a smile.

Celia's eyes wandered from the portrait of the Marquess to the one hanging next to it. It was the picture of a young man dressed in riding kit. He was a handsome lad, with a dare-devil look in his dark eyes, a hint of wildness, of recklessness and defiance, in the carriage of his head, the curve of his lips.

"That is a very beautiful picture," said Celia.

"Yes; it is one of the best in the gallery," said Mrs. Dexter. "It is the portrait of the Marquess's brother—his elder brother. He was very wild, and caused the family much trouble. He is dead, of course, or he would have been the marquess instead of his present lordship."

"He is very handsome," said Celia. "I suppose that is why one feels so sorry for him."

She moved away from the picture as she spoke; but presently, as if drawn by it, she returned to it.

"The picture interests you?" said Mrs. Dexter, with a smile. "That is always the way with us women, my dear. It is always the wild and wicked men who attract us."

"Oh, but that's a libel, surely," said Celia. "No; I think you are right. But how foolish of us, if it is true."

She turned away and went towards the great fireplace where the logs were now burning; but after a moment or two, as she stood with her foot on the fender, she looked again over her shoulder at the picture.

"It is very strange," she said, "but I have a curious feeling that I have seen someone very like—no, not very like, but bearing a faint likeness to that portrait."

"Yes, my dear? One often has that feeling when looking at a portrait. Can't you remember who it was?"

"No," said Celia, "I've been trying to think; but I can't remember ever meeting anyone resembling that face. I suppose it is only my fancy."

"I dare say," assented Mrs. Dexter. "You will dine at the usual hour, eight o'clock, I suppose? I am going to have your dinner served in the little room behind the library. You will not feel so lonely as you would in the big dining-room; but, of course, if you prefer——"

"What, sit there all by myself, in that great big room! I should die of fright. I should feel as if I had been wrecked on a desert island. Oh, the little room, please, by all means."

CHAPTER IX

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.

CHAPTER X

It was a pity that Derrick Dene was not a descriptive writer, instead of a struggling engineer, for had he been, he might have got some copy of quite a purple hue out of the "tramp" and its temporary denizens. We often hear of a literary production which is without a dull page, but it may be said with truth that Dene's life on board the Angelica was without a dull moment. And without an idle one; for he had accepted the position of general utility, and the man-of-all-work is expected to do everybody else's as well as his own. So it happened that while Sidcup, for instance, who was the principal acrobat and trapeze man, lolled through his day with a pipe in his mouth, and only lending an occasional hand, when necessity compelled him, Dene was in request everywhere.

Fortunately he was as strong as a modern Hercules, quick and alert in his movements, and, now that he was free from the terror which had overthrown him at Brown's Buildings, was of his wonted cheerfulness. Fortunately, also, he was a good sailor, and did not go under with the sea-sickness which soon prostrated nearly all the other members of the company. For they ran into bad weather, and once or twice, when the storm was at its worst, scenes occurred which would need the pen of a Joseph Conrad or a Morley Roberts to describe adequately; I will not attempt to do so.

The rickety old tub, straining in every plate, rolled and pitched and tossed all ways at once, like an hysterical cat, and the discomfort in which they had started rose, or rather sank, to absolute misery. Like most strong men, Derrick had the heart of a woman towards anyone in pain or trouble. There was no doctor; the so-called stewards were quite unable to cope with the well-nigh general suffering, and Derrick, in some marvellous way, found time to bear a hand. There is no doubt that, in any case, he would have been popular; but in the present circumstances he stepped at once into the position of first friend with the men, and became a hero and a little tin god in the regard of the women; and as to the children—for there were three or four in the company, young acrobats and riders—they watched for his coming, and clung to him and adored him with their pathetic eyes, as if their present and future safety and happiness were dependent on him. Often, in the middle of the night, he would be awakened by the wail of a child, and with eyes still half closed, and his mind only half awake, would make his way to it, give it a drink, and sometimes fall asleep with the poor little thing nestled up against him. To them he was no longer "Mr. Green," but "Syd," or "Dear Syddie," and they fought for a word and schemed for a smile from him.

Among the women were some who were quite young. Many of them were pretty, and not a few of them, naturally enough, fell in love with the good-looking young man who befriended them. Like the children, but with a different kind of ardour, they waited for his coming, and laid feminine snares for him. Two girls, to particularize, thought of little else than Sydney Green as they lay in their bunks, recovering from that horrible malady at which we all laugh, and all quail. One was a fair girl, named Alice Merton. She was one of the riders, and was extremely pretty, with blue eyes and a complexion like cream and roses. She was very slight and dainty, and looked fragile; but she was a very good equestrienne, and when on a horse displayed extraordinary nerve.

The other girl—her name was Isabel Devigne, a stage name, no doubt—was tall, dark-eyed, with the regular features and blue-black hair of a Spaniard. She also was a rider; she had been in the business—pardon! profession—since she could walk, and her experiences of life were many and peculiar. Perhaps because of their contrasting characteristics, she and Alice Merton had been drawn towards each other, and were fast friends. They occupied opposite bunks, walked and talked together, and were both in love with Sydney Green, who ministered to both, in his capacity of amateur ship doctor, with strict though unconscious impartiality.

Derrick was not of the susceptible genus, and, if he had been, he was too much driven by the incessant work to spare time for even the mildest flirtation. Besides, whenever he found time for thought, his mind always went back to a certain room in Brown's Buildings, far away in London, to a girl's face looking down at him from over the balustrade. He thought of her only; scarcely once had his mind wandered from her to Miriam, the girl he had loved, the girl for whom he had sacrificed himself. Sometimes, when he put his hand in his breast pocket, he could feel the five-pound note; and whenever he did so, back came the scene, and his heart grew warm.

The bad weather lasted for a week; then the storm abated, the sea grew calmer, and one morning the invalids began to crawl up to the deck.

Derrick, busy with the horses, some of which had suffered terribly, paused for a moment and looked at the wretched folk as they emerged from the companion-way. One of them was Alice Merton, and he was moved to such pity by the sight of her white face and evident weakness that he put down his curry-comb and brush and went to help her. Her face was flooded with colour as she raised her piteous blue eyes to him, and her hand shook as he drew it through his arm.

"You'll be as right as a trivet—I don't know what a trivet is, by the way—before very long," he assured her. "It's wonderful how you pull round, especially in such air as this. Here, I'll rig up a little nest against the warm side. That's what you want—warmth."

"You're very good to me," she faltered. "But you're good to everyone, and we all know how busy you are."

"That's all right," he said, cheerfully. "Nothing like plenty of work."

While he was making the nest, the tall, supple figure of Isabel Devigne came on deck; she too was weak, but she walked firmly and held her head erect. At sight of Derrick and his employment she also coloured, a rich, passionate red, and she drew a long breath, her white, even teeth clenched tightly. Informed by the direction of Alice's eyes, Derrick turned and saw the other girl.

"Plenty of room, Miss Devigne," he said, cheerfully. "You two snuggle up together; keep each other warm. Halloa! here we are. Let 'em all come," he added, as a cry of welcome and joy rose from the children, who appeared now and rushed at him as if for refuge and comfort.

The two girls watched him hungrily as he caught up the smallest of the group, gave her a playful shake, and chucked her softly into the nest. They shrilled their thanks and their love, and clamoured to him to remain; but Derrick wiped them off gently, as one wipes off a bunch of clinging bees, and promising to look them up as soon as he could, returned to the horses, which needed him quite as badly as did these humans.

"He's almost too good to be a man," murmured Alice, involuntarily, as her gaze followed him wistfully.

Isabel's dark eyes flashed, and her full and sensuous lips curved contemptuously.

"He's a man, every inch of him," she said. "He's the first man I've ever met in this god-forsaken world. You—like him, because he's been playing the nurse to all of us women; you're the sort that always wants some man to be fussing about you. I'm different. I like to see him when he's fighting it out with, and mastering, one of the horses, or holding his own with one of the men-swine who give him trouble sometimes."

"You and I are different," sighed Alice.

"I should hope so," retorted Isabel, scornfully; but the next moment, with a kind of rough tenderness, she drew the shawl closer round Alice's shoulders. "Yes, we're different; perhaps that's why I like you. And I do like you still, though sometimes, when you look up at him with the eyes of a sick calf, and make excuse to touch him——"

"Oh, don't, Isabel!" murmured Alice, in a low voice. "He—he never thinks of me."

"You idiot! He never thinks of any of us," breathed Isabel through her teeth. "That's why he gets such a hold of one; we're just a parcel of helpless, miserable wretches, who've got on his nerves and forced him to help us. Do you suppose, if this beastly old tramp went down this minute, that he'd shed a tear for any of us? Not he!" She paused a moment; then she said, with a kind of snarl, "He's got his girl. He's left her behind there, and his heart with her. Oh, don't cry! But, yes, do; your sort of woman can always find relief in tears. I can't."

An hour later, when Derrick returned to the group with a big can of soup, he found Alice asleep, with her head pillowed on the bosom of Isabel.

"Don't wake her," said Derrick.

Instantly Isabel, with a flash of the eyes, pushed the other's girl's head away from her.

"Here, wake up!" she said, roughly. "You want as much petting as a baby."

Derrick dealt out the soup, waited for a minute or two to see the children start on it, then went down below to feed the elephants. One of the huge beasts was troublesome, and as Derrick came up the man who was the cause of it gave the animal a jab on the trunk with a hay-fork. Derrick had already warned the fellow, one of the men-swine of whom Isabel had spoken; consequently Derrick wasted no further words, but dropped the truss of hay and gave the man a blow which sent him sprawling. He got up, seized the hay-fork, and with murder in his eyes lunged at Derrick; but Derrick, too quick for him, struck up the fork, snatched it from the man's grasp, and hit him on the head with it.

"Get out of my sight," said Derrick, without raising his voice. "Let me see you, or let me hear you, ill-treating one of the animals again, and I'll lay you up for the rest of the voyage. You may take that as a promise, and I've a knack of keeping my promises."

The man swore vilely, but suddenly stopped and slunk away, wiping the blood from his face, and Mr. Bloxford's voice, from behind Derrick, demanded shrilly:

"Who appointed you general chucker-out of the establishment?"

"I've no direct appointment," said Derrick, coolly, patting the elephant's soft trunk, which was wandering caressingly and gratefully over his body. "But, unfortunately for me, I'm so made that I can't stand by and see any animal ill-treated. It's a weakness of mine that has caused me no end of trouble."

"I guess so," said Mr. Bloxford, dryly. "That waster Jackman, for instance, won't forget that tap you've given him. He'll lay for you some day, mark my words. I've wanted to go for him many times myself; but"—he was going to say, "I'm not big enough," but he drew himself up to the top of his few inches and expanded his chest—"I haven't the time. Here! The business seems to come handy and easy to you. I'll appoint you chucker-out; in other words, I'll make you deputy-manager, Mr. Green. I've had my eye on you, and I'll tell you, in strict confidence, that it's very little that escapes this eye of mine." He twisted both glittering eyes till they looked like those of an acute monkey. "You seem as if you could hold your own, and it wants holding with this gang. Deputy-manager—two pounds a week. How will that suit you?"

"It suits me very well, thank you, Mr. Bloxford," said Dene, and away went his hand to the talisman in his pocket.

"Then fix it so," said Mr. Bloxford. "And mind and keep your eye on Jackman," he added, as he trotted off.

Derrick's new and exalted position relieved him of a great deal of the drudgery he had previously performed, but it kept him on the continual spring, and burdened him with fresh responsibilities; for it was necessary that he should be all over the ship at once, so to speak. All the details of the daily life on board passed under his supervision; all the multitudinous cares, disputes, arrangements, were referred to him; and, strangely enough, though most of the men in the company must have envied him, their envy was not accompanied by ill-feeling, for Derrick's value was admitted by all of them.

One of the first things he did was to rearrange the women's and children's quarters, and render them more comfortable, for which the benefited ones blessed him and loved him all the more intensely. Then he set to work to cleanse the ship, which during the spell of bad weather had become almost unendurable. The crew, and some of the company, grumbled at the increased work and Derrick's drastic regulations, but they all enjoyed the results of his despotism.

Derrick had less time than before to spend in friendly interchanges with those who had become attached to him, and the two girls, Isabel and Alice, watched him wistfully as he moved rapidly within their sight, and hungered for a word, a smile; and presently they taught the children, when they were with them, to waylay him, and had to be content with the scraps of kindness which fell from the children's table.

Fortunately for Derrick's régime, the weather continued fine, and three weeks later the Angelica, much battered and straining still most piteously in every plate, was steaming up the La Plata river to Buenos Ayres.

The disembarkation shall not be described. Several times during it Derrick wondered how Noah had managed the same business.

CHAPTER XI

The two days that followed their arrival seemed to Derrick to be a succession of hours born of delirium and nurtured by frenzy. Mr. Bloxford, still in his preposterous fur coat, was everywhere at once, and waving his hands as usual; Derrick, who had begun by shouting, soon became hoarse, and discovered why it was that Mr. Bloxford relied, on such occasions, entirely on gesture.

Derrick followed his example as well as he could, and by dint of expressive pantomime, and sometimes forcible persuasion with a fist which had acquired an astonishing readiness, got the motley crew of quadrupeds and bipeds on dry land, formed up his column, marched it to the spot outside the handsome city, and then sank on an upturned box, wiping his brows, and wondering, while he watched the experienced baggage hands deftly erect the monster tent, whether he should ever get his voice back.

It was summer in England, but it was like winter here, a bland and mild winter, with, fortunately for Bloxford's circus, no rain—at any rate, at present—and all through the day the scene had been lit up by a brilliant sun which, shining through a singularly clear atmosphere, seemed to destroy distance and to bestow sharp outlines on every object. There was something exhilarating in the air, and the bustle and excitement, and Derrick, having rested, went to his canvas quarters feeling his blood stir within him, and his past life stretching away behind him as if it had belonged to another man.

They opened to a big "house," comprising an audience of all classes, and it might be said all nationalities; for in the din that arose from the crowd Derrick caught scraps of Italian, Spanish, and French, the thick, soft tone of the Mexican, the brogue of the Irishman; it was a veritable Babel. As he passed behind the opening through which the performers entered, Isabel Devigne stepped out from the women's dressing-room, and Derrick could not suppress a start of surprise and admiration.

As a kind of compliment to the country, she was made up to represent a queen of the Incas, and was the personification of barbaric splendour. Her superb figure glittered and scintillated with silver and gold tinsel, which, in the garish light, would look like a plate of precious metal. A scarlet cloak partially draped her. The effect of her height was increased by a head-dress of waving plumes, and her dark brows and the natural scarlet of her lips were intensified by her make-up. Of course, she saw him start and the frank admiration in his eyes, and she smiled as she drew herself up with a proud consciousness of her beauty.

"Shall I do?" she asked, knowing well what the answer would be.

"You're simply splendacious," Derrick assured her. "That costume suits you down to the ground. You're magnificent."

She flushed beneath her paint, and her lids drooped.

"I'm glad you like it," she said. "Yes, I think I shall knock them."

"You'll knock them silly," said Derrick, confidently.

Then Alice stepped out from the dressing-room, a very different figure, in her conventional short skirt and silk-clad legs. She looked very slight and fragile, very fairy-like, against the gorgeous figure of Isabel, and she glanced down at herself deprecatingly, then raised her eyes appealingly to Derrick, who responded promptly.

"You look too beautiful to be real, both of you," he said. "If the rest are as good as you are, this show's going to be the biggest success on earth."

The band was now blaring away with all its might; the two clowns had rolled into the ring, the master was cracking his whip, the horses, awaiting their turn impatiently, were pawing and breathing loudly. Mr. Bloxford, still in his fur coat, with a big cigar in full blast, was seated in a coign of vantage from which he could see everything, his Simian eyes darting everywhere, his jewelled hand ready to wave on the various items of the programme. The huge audience received the opening turns with a kind of judicial silence; but as Isabel, on a big black horse, came sweeping into the ring, a shout of admiration greeted her, and as she completed a really clever performance a roar of applause filled the big tent. Sidcup, who was standing beside Derrick, nodded two or three times with an air of satisfaction.

"Show's going well," he said. "We're making a good start. I shall give 'em my double somersault act to-night; that ought to fetch 'em," he added, glancing down his perfectly-formed figure, clad in its skin-like tights.

"I'm sure it will," said Derrick, who had learned the value of a word of encouragement. "Give 'em the best you've got. They've taken to Miss Devigne immensely, haven't they? And no wonder."

Sidcup glanced at him sharply.

"You admire her? She's a great friend of yours, Mr. Green," he said, with a hint of significance in his tone.

"Oh, yes," assented Derrick, in a matter-of-fact way. "No one could help admiring her. She's one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. And her performance was wonderfully clever. Here she comes!"

The black horse, with its magnificent rider, came through the opening, and Derrick, as he caught the bridle, looked up and nodded his congratulations. Sidcup approached also, and began to praise her; but she merely glanced at him. Her eyes fixed themselves on Derrick, and she rested her hand on his shoulder for a moment as she slipped from her horse. Sidcup noticed her little action, and his face darkened. At this moment Mr. Bloxford's hand waved towards him; his turn had come, and he sprang into the ring with the acrobat's conventional bow and gesture. After trying his ropes carefully, he swarmed up to the trapeze; the music of the band slowed down, and became impressive. In almost breathless silence, Derrick and the audience watched the man as he went through his performance. It was an extremely clever and daring one, and he brought it to a close by turning a double somersault as he left one trapeze and caught the other, a feat which made all who watched it hold their breath.

The audience roared at him, Mr. Bloxford waved him on twice to bow his acknowledgments, and Derrick, as Sidcup came tripping out of the ring, met him and held out a hand.

"Simply stunning!" said Derrick. "Cleverest thing of the kind I ever saw. You must have the pluck of the devil. You made my heart turn over. Wonderful, wasn't it, Miss Devigne?"

She took her eyes from Derrick for an instant, and smiled at Sidcup, but her gaze returned to Derrick's face, and Sidcup's smile vanished as he passed them without a word.

Alice, too, got her share of the applause for her very pretty and refined act of horsemanship. The rest of the company, heartened by the previous successes, did their best, and an evidently well-pleased audience streamed out into the cool, clear air. Sent for by Mr. Bloxford, Derrick went to the manager's tent or office.

"Congratulations, sir!" he said.

"Here, help me count this," commanded Mr. Bloxford, nodding to the heap of notes and coin. "Yes, it's been a good start, and a jolly good thing for us that they were pleased. I've heard since I've been here that if they don't ketch on, if they don't cotton to the show, they're apt to cut up rough. A man at the hotel told me that the last circus was wrecked, clean wrecked. Something they didn't like got their monkey up."

"Oh, we're all right, anyhow," said Derrick. "Our people are all very pleased. They're going to have a kind of beano over the supper. You'll come along, Mr. Bloxford; they'll want you."

"All right," said Mr. Bloxford. "But it seems to me that you're the popular man of this crowd. Oh, I don't walk about in my sleep, young man. I can see as far as a blind horse. You've got through your bit like a little man; and no nonsense, neither—no side and no frills. And no fooling about with the women, eh?"

He shot a glance at Derrick who shrugged his shoulders, and Mr. Bloxford, after another glance, appeared to be satisfied with the shrug.

After they had counted the money as best they could, for some of it was strange to them, and had locked it in the safe, they joined the company. Their appearance was hailed with a cheer. Mr. Bloxford was conducted, with theatrical pomp, to the head of the trestle-board which served as a table, and Derrick, after some protest, was installed at the bottom. The simple, almost child-like, folk enjoyed themselves amazingly. Bloxford's and Derrick's health was drunk, and it was with unfeigned reluctance that Derrick at last broke up the party and ordered them off to the rest they had so well earned.

On the second night there was another packed audience; but there was a larger proportion of the rougher element, and Mr. Bloxford remarked on the fact somewhat anxiously to Derrick.

"There's always a lot of cowboys in the city," he said, "and there's a good many of them here to-night. They come in from the plains for a lark, and they generally see that they get it."

"Oh, they'll be all right," said Derrick. "They're bound to be pleased."

"Well, keep an eye on things," remarked Mr. Bloxford, who was evidently still rather uneasy. "It there's any disturbance, turn on the band. Make them play like blazes, the louder the better."

Derrick nodded, and hurried off to overlook things. He found that the women were rather nervous, for they had heard of the fate of the last circus; but they, too, were encouraged by his cool and easy manner and the few words of cheer which seemed to come so easily to him. The early turns went well, especially those of Isabel, Alice, and Sidcup. Sidcup's was followed by an exhibition of bareback riding by two men. One of them on this occasion was Jackman, who was taking the place of a rider who had strained his ankle on the previous night. Jackman had been drinking, not heavily, or Derrick would have noticed the fact, but just enough to make him unsteady and uncertain, and in attempting to leap from the ground to the horse while it was in motion he missed and sprawled on the tan.

A roar of ridicule rose from the cheaper part of the house. Jackman sprang to his feet, ran across the ring, and made another attempt; and failed again. The roar of mockery rose now like one vast derisive cheer. Jackman, glaring round the audience, his lips drawn from his teeth in a snarl, waited till the horse came round, then struck at it, as if to show that the animal and not he was in fault.

The laughter, derision, gave place suddenly to a yell of objurgation. Two young men, obviously cowboys, sprang over the low barrier, and Jackman, after a moment's hesitation, turned and ran. One of the cowboys caught the horse, and the audience, breathless and silent now, waited for events. Derrick, who had been watching the scene closely, came slowly, almost saunteringly, across the ring to the two young men.

CHAPTER XII

"What is the trouble?" Derrick asked, in a perfectly calm, almost casual way.

The man who was holding the horse turned to him with a grin.

"We're going to show your man how to do the trick, mister," he said. "He's a fool-man, to think he can come over here and teach us boys how to ride."

Derrick had not been to a public school for nothing. He caught the spirit of the thing in a moment, and with that readiness which makes the Britisher the master of circumstance wherever he goes, he nodded and smiled, and clapped the cowboy on the shoulder.

"Right you are! Go ahead," he said, cheerfully, and the cowboy, evidently surprised by Derrick's complaisance, stepped back.

The horse was set going, the cowboy walked slowly in the proper direction, the audience watching him in intense silence, then, with a run and a bound, he alighted on the horse's back, performing the trick to perfection. The audience thundered its applause, and Derrick, to round off the thing properly, took the cowboy's rough hand, shook it, and whispered,

"Bow, bow, and get back to your place at once. Off with you!"

Amidst cheers and laughter, the now shy and confused amateur obeyed, and Derrick, with his hands in his pockets, strolled across the ring, as if the whole incident had been planned.

A group of persons awaited him; men and women who had paled beneath their paint, for they had expected trouble. But they were flushed now, and the women's eyes were sparkling with admiration. Isabel, in all the glory of her costume, was the first to greet him.

"It was splendid," she said, in her deep contralto, and, as if involuntarily, she held out her hand. "You saved the show."

Derrick, with the wholesome red of modesty mantling in his cheeks, gently pushed by them.

"Nonsense! There was no danger, not a bit. Keep it going; we're all right."

And so it proved; for the audience, highly pleased with itself and the member who had distinguished himself, received the rest of the bill with marked satisfaction and pleasure.

"The guv'nor wants you, Mr. Green," said Sidcup, who had not joined in the congratulations and admiration of the rest.

"All right," said Derrick. "Be with him in a moment."

He went in search of Jackman, and found him, with a bottle of whisky, just outside the men's quarters. He looked up and snarled as Derrick approached him. Derrick took the bottle from him, and then looked down at him with an air of doubt and uncertainty.

"I'm trying to make up my mind whether I should give you your discharge or a good hiding. I don't like sacking a man in a strange land, and you're not in a condition for a fair fight. What do you think I ought to do?"

Jackman staggered to his feet and glared at him.

"You've hit me once before, Mr. Green," he said. "Hit me again—just lay your hand on me, and it'll be the last man you ever bash. You're an upstart, that's what you are. You think, because you can come over that old fool, that you're going to lord it over everybody. You can play that sort of game with the women, but you can't with me. I'm engaged for this trip, and you can't sack me because I made a slip of it in the ring just now. I know the law, Mr. Green. You think I'm drunk. I'm sober enough to best you, anyhow."

Thinking to take Derrick unawares, the foolish man aimed a blow at him; but Derrick caught the arm, and almost gently forced Jackman into his seat again.

"If you hadn't gone for me I'd have sacked you; but I see there's some good left in you, anyhow. Pull yourself together, man, and don't be an idiot. Cut this stuff"—he tapped the bottle—"and do your job properly. I'll talk to you in the morning. No, I won't; but if I find you playing the giddy goat again, I'll give you your choice of a hiding or a discharge."

As Derrick hurried off to the manager's office he asked himself why he had been so merciful, for the man had deserved all with which Derrick had threatened him. But Derrick knew, for as he had stood looking down at the man, he had remembered a certain young man who had been saved from playing the fool by a girl; and the remembrance would never leave him, would always make him merciful towards the folly of other men.

Mr. Bloxford was not wearing his fur coat, but he nodded to the garment, where it hung on a chair behind him.

"Help me on with it, will you? Took it off—thought there was going to be a row," he said, with the air of a man who is quite able alone to quell a disturbance. "You managed that very well, Mr. Green." This was the first time he had honoured Derrick with a prefix. "The neatest thing I've seen. Yes, you're a cool hand, young man. At first I thought you were going to come the high and mighty over that cowboy, and if you had, you'd have raised Hades and Thomasus. We should have had the rest of them on us and the show wrecked, like they did that other one. I tell you I was out of that coat before you could say Jack Robinson. But before you were half across the ring I twigged your game. And you played it for all it was worth. You're made of the right stuff. Yes, you're the sort of man I've read about in the silly story books; but I little thought I should ever come across him. Now, I wonder why it is?"

He cocked his bald head and peered at Derrick thoughtfully.

"Of course, they'd say in the books it's because you're a 'gentleman.' Well, up to now, I've always given the grin to that highfulutin notion; but—I dunno. Anyhow, I'm much obliged to you."

He held out a grubby paw and shook the now very much embarrassed Derrick by the hand.

"Of course, I'm going to raise your screw. We'll say, double it, and no palaver."

Derrick expressed his thanks, but Mr. Bloxford waved him away.

"As for that pig Jackman, we'll fire him out, of course."

Derrick pleaded for the man, and Bloxford yielded, but with a shrug of the shoulders and a dissenting shake of the head.

"All right," he said, grudgingly. "It's up to you, of course. But don't you forget what I told you when you and he had a shindy on board. He's the kind of man who'll wait and lay for you when he gets a chance."

Derrick laughed easily as he proceeded to count the money.

They drew good audiences for the whole of their stay, and then prepared to move on. As before, the heaviest of the responsibility fell on Derrick's shoulders, but it was made as light as possible for him by the good will the company bore him, which it expressed by rendering prompt obedience and willing assistance. Jackman had given no further trouble, but had gone about his work with a sullen demeanour, and he markedly avoided any meeting with Derrick, who treated him exactly as he treated every other member of the company.

On the morning of their departure Derrick was standing in the centre of the tent, superintending the displacement and packing up of the seats and other properties. He was immediately beneath a large and heavy circular lamp which afforded the principal light, and up above him was Jackman, who had been sent to lower it. He was waiting for the word from the chief baggage man, who was standing at a little distance from Derrick.

Derrick was moving away, when suddenly he heard a warning cry. He looked up and saw the mass of metal descending, though the baggage man had not given the word. It was a swift upward glance, and as swiftly he swerved aside. Then he felt a sharp but heavy pain on his shoulder, and fell. He was conscious of a number of voices shouting, of vague forms hurrying towards him, then all became a blank.

When he recovered consciousness he found himself lying in one of the living vans. He tried to move, but the upper part of his body felt as if it were made of lead. He opened his eyes and looked round him. Someone, a tall figure, bent over him, and laid a hand on his forehead. He looked up and, with a struggle for consciousness, saw that the face above him was Isabel's.

"What's the matter—what is it?" he asked, and, to his surprise and consternation, his voice sounded hollow and weak.

She dropped on her knees beside him, her hand still on his brow.

"You've been ill," she whispered. "Don't move. I don't think you ought to speak. Stay quite still."

"But why?" he asked, with gentle impatience. "Why am I lying here, and what's the matter with me?"

"You've been hurt," she said, in a voice that was trembling as well as low. "It was the lamp. Don't you remember?"

Derrick knit his brows and tried to recall the past just before he became unconscious.

"The lamp—Jackman!" he said, with a frown that turned to a grin; for even at that moment he appreciated the neatness of Mr. Jackman's revenge.

"Don't think of it," Isabel said, her hand becoming caressing, as she passed it over his forehead. "You needn't be afraid; the beast has disappeared. Yes, he bolted, or it would have been the worse for him. The men——" Her eyes flashed, her white, even teeth clenched together. "It was a wonder you weren't killed; if you hadn't moved, just at the moment you did——"

"Am I badly hurt?" asked Derrick, anxiously. "Am I going to be laid up? Awful nuisance!"

"No," she said; "it was your collar-bone. It is all right now. It struck your head, too. That's why you were unconscious. We brought a doctor along with us. He'll be here presently. They wanted to take you to the hospital, but Mr. Bloxford—all of us—couldn't leave you behind."

"I'm glad you didn't," said Derrick. "I shall be all right presently. I feel better already. And you have been nursing me?" he asked.

A blush rose to the clear olive of her face, and she smiled, a heavenly smile, for this was a very beautiful woman, and when a beautiful woman smiles the gods nod approval.

"You see, I was used to it. I was a nurse once; but I couldn't stick it—too quiet. Alice has been helping me," she added, as if forced to make the admission.

"I say, you have been awfully good to me," said Derrick, gratefully.

"Oh, that's all right," she said. "I—I like it. Like old times, you know. I must go and tell Mr. Bloxford; he's been like a sick monkey fretting over its young."

She stood beside the bed, her eyes downcast, her face pale now, but an expression on her proud and haughty lips which would have befitted a schoolgirl.

"Let me give you some broth. The doctor said you might have it, if you came to."

She brought him a cup, but to Derrick's disgust he could not grasp it, and she held it to his lips while he drank.

"You're an angel," he said; "yes, an angel. You look pale; you've been nursing me all this time. How long is it?"

"Four days," she said, in a low voice. They had been the happiest four days of her life.

"Good lord!" he muttered. "Four days! Oh, here, I say, I wish I could thank you properly, but I can't."

"There's no need," she said, in a low voice. "I'll go and tell the doctor and Mr. Bloxford."

She smoothed the clothes about him, her eyes still downcast, but as she went to the door she turned and looked at him. Derrick met the gaze of the dark eyes full blank, and as he did so the colour rose to his face, and it was his turn for his eyes to become downcast.

He had learned her secret, and his heart was heavy within him, for, though they were unlike, the eyes of that other girl, who was always in his thoughts, flitted between him and Isabel.

CHAPTER XIII

Celia hurried back from Lady Gridborough's, ran up the great stone steps and entered the hall. Catching sight of Mrs. Dexter coming from the dining-room, Celia began,

"Oh, Mrs. Dexter, I've had quite an adventure——" But she stopped as she saw that the hitherto placid housekeeper was evidently in a state of agitation, and, instead of continuing, Celia broke off with: "Oh, is anything the matter, Mrs. Dexter?"

"Matter! I should think so," responded Mrs. Dexter, throwing out her hand, which grasped a telegram. "I've just had this from his lordship the Marquess, saying that he is coming down. And to dinner! I'm sure I don't know what I'm going to do."

"But everything is in readiness?" said Celia, remembering Mrs. Dexter's vaunt.

"Of course it is, my dear; but the dinner——! All the staff seems to have lost its head; and I, myself, am so flurried——"

Celia laid her hand upon the plump arm and pressed it, encouragingly.

"It will be all right," she said, soothingly. "Surely there will be enough in the house for one man!"

"My dear young lady," retorted Mrs. Dexter, solemnly, "you have to prepare a regular dinner, with all the proper courses, whether it's for one man or a party. Like enough, his lordship will only partake of one or two dishes, but you have to provide them all, and serve them properly."

"I see," said Celia, who was beginning to understand the exigencies of rank. "Can I help you? Surely there must be something I can do!"

"Well, you can arrange the flowers for me, if you will be so good, my dear," said Mrs. Dexter. "Mr. Douglas, the head gardener, will cut you some from the conservatory."

"All right," said Celia eagerly. "You run away and see to the dinner; and if I can help you in any other way, after I've done the flowers, let me know."

Herself not unexcited, she interviewed the dignified and extremely capable head gardener, who, departing from his custom, did not utter any complaint, but sacrificed his choicest blossoms to the beautiful young lady to whom he had not yet spoken.

Celia thanked him, and ran off to get the receptacles for the flowers from the stately Mr. Smith, the butler, and set about arranging the exquisite blossoms. As she was doing so, she remembered a certain bed of beautifully-grown pansies on one of the lawns. She picked a great bunch, and arranged them by themselves in a flat bowl; and when the table was laid, her floral decorations made a brave show amidst the glittering plate and old English cut-glass.

"Oh, you've done them beautifully, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Dexter; and even the impassive Smith nodded his head approvingly. Celia was able to render assistance in various other ways, following Mrs. Dexter everywhere, and venturing to give a hint now and again. Then, her excitement increasing, she tried to settle down to her work in the library; but all the while she was writing down titles in her draft catalogue she was listening for the sound of the motor, and presently she heard it buzzing up the drive, followed by hasty footsteps and the murmur of subdued voices.

When Celia's dinner was brought into the little room behind the library, which was now recognized as her own, Mrs. Dexter appeared for a moment. She was quite calm now, but looked rather tired.

"Everything is all right?" said Celia, sympathetically.

"Yes, my dear," responded Mrs. Dexter, with a little sigh of relief, as she smoothed her black silk dress. "It's as well that we were all ready; though this is the shortest notice we've ever had."

"I hope the Marquess is well," said Celia.

Mrs. Dexter shook her head, and sighed again. "I'm afraid not," she said, gravely; "indeed, he is looking ill; though not so much ill as tired and worried. He has changed greatly since he was last here, and looks years and years older. When I last saw him, his lordship was in the Government, which means, as I dare say you know, a great deal of work and responsibility; but he was quite cheerful then, and strong; now——" She paused, and added, "He ought not to be so worried; but perhaps it's Lord Heyton—he's always been a trouble to his father, I'm sorry to say. But now he's married, I should have thought that he would have settled down and not have caused his father any further anxiety. The Marquess tells me that Lord Heyton is coming down with his bride in a day or two."

As Mrs. Dexter was departing, Celia said, a little shyly:

"Is there any way out of this room except through the library and the hall? I don't want to disturb the Marquess."

"There is no other door but this one," replied Mrs. Dexter. "You see, it's only a kind of ante-room. But you need not be afraid of disturbing his lordship; he will be sure to go to the drawing-room or his own sitting-room, after he has had his dinner. Though there's no cause for you to be nervous at meeting his lordship, for he's one of the kindest of men, especially to anyone in his service."

Celia ate her dinner and returned to the library, where she worked for a couple of hours to make up for the time she had lost in the afternoon; then she took up an exquisitely-bound copy of Spenser's "Faerie Queene" and settled herself in a chair for half an hour's quiet reading. But the great masterpiece could not hold her attention; she let it lie on her lap and thought of her adventures of the day; she tried not to dwell on Susie's tragedy, though it was difficult not to do so; and presently her mind reverted to Brown's Buildings, to Mr. Clendon and the young man she had rescued. And yet "rescued," she thought, with a sigh, was scarcely the word, for, unwittingly, she had made him a fugitive and an outcast.

The great house was quiet, and, relying on Mrs. Dexter's assurance that she ran no risk of intruding upon the Marquess, she turned out the lights and went into the hall. On the threshold she drew back, with a little flutter of excitement, for in the dim light of the great fire, which was always burning, she saw a tall, thin figure in evening dress standing with its hands clasped behind it. It was the Marquess. She saw distinctly the pale, worn face, the thin, almost colourless lips, drawn into a line that indicated profound sadness and a deep anxiety. He was standing before the portrait of the lad, his elder brother, of whose history Mrs. Dexter had told her; the elder brother who, if he had not died, "in foreign parts," would have been the Marquess instead of the man who was gazing at the portrait.

Celia stood quite still, her eyes chained to the haggard face; she did not know whether to withdraw into the library or to pass softly behind him and reach the stairs; and while she was hesitating, the Marquess heaved a deep sigh, made a gesture as of a man beaten by some insoluble problem, and, turning, saw her.

He did not start—men of his class are taught to repress every sign of emotion—and he stood quite still, looking at her gravely, as if the sudden interruption of his train of absorbing thought had caused him to forget whom she might be; then, as if he had remembered, he came towards her and said:

"You are Miss Grant, the librarian, I suppose?"

Even as she answered, "Yes, my lord," Celia noted the dull, toneless melancholy of his voice, the voice of a man to whom all things save one, whatever that might be, are but trivial and of no consequence.

"I am glad to see you," he said, with a little courtly inclination of his head, but certainly with no gladness in his voice. "I hope you are comfortable here; that you find your work congenial?"

"Oh, yes, my lord," said Celia, and, unconsciously, her voice was pitched low, like his own; for, somehow or other, she felt as if she were in the presence of a deep grief, of an unnamed trouble.

"I am very glad," he said again. "You are fond of books, I was told—I heard—I was given to understand. The collection"—he nodded towards the library—"is a good one, is it not?"

"A very good one," assented Celia; "it seems to me a magnificent library. But, then, I am not qualified to express an opinion. I have not much experience; I mean, of private libraries; I am used to the British Museum one only."

"My great grandfather was an enthusiastic collector," said the Marquess; "but I fear I have not inherited his taste, and have neglected the library."

In an absent-minded kind of way, he passed into the superb room, and looked round, reflectively.

"You are making a catalogue, of course? It must be a very heavy task, especially for one so young."

Celia began to tremble; and at that moment she realized fully how precious the work and position were to her.

"I am not so very young, my lord," she said, with a little, nervous smile. "I am twenty-two."

He looked at her with a suspicion of a smile on his lips.

"Youth has much in its favour," he said. "It is rich in energy and in strength. All the same, one must not abuse either. You are working late to-night; that is not wise."

"I was out, took a holiday, this afternoon, and was making up for it; but I enjoy working at night; it is so quiet—but it is always quiet here, in this great place."

"You have no father and mother?" he said, after a pause, during which he was trying to remember what Mr. Clendon had told him of her.

"No, my lord," said Celia. "I have no one belonging to me."

"That is sad," he said, more to himself than to her. "Mrs. Dexter looks after you, I suppose? I must tell her to see that you do not work too hard."

"She is more than kind to me," said Celia, warmly.

There was another pause; she did not know whether to remain or stay; but, as he had taken up the draft catalogue, she paused, standing by the table and waiting to see if he would speak to her again.

"Do you not feel lonely here?" he asked.

"Oh, no," she replied, promptly. "Not the very least. There is Mrs. Dexter, and the books and——" She laid her hand on the head of Roddy, who strolled in at the moment, and, after wagging his tail in response to her caress, moved slowly to the Marquess and thrust a wet, cold nose against the long, thin hand. "Besides, I made an acquaintance this afternoon; a lady, a dear old lady, Lady Gridborough, at Lensmore Grange, you know."

"Yes, I know," he remarked, with a nod. "That is well. She is a good soul. Warm-hearted, but eccentric. By the way, the house will not be so dull presently; for my son, Lord Heyton, and his newly-married wife are coming to stay."

As he made the announcement, he checked a sigh and turned away. Celia waited for a moment or two; the Marquess had sunk into a chair, his eyes fixed on the great dog, which had thrown itself at his feet. It seemed to Celia that his lordship had forgotten her.

"Good night, my lord," she said, softly.

He looked up with a start, rose, and opened the door for her, and, with a courtly inclination of the head, bade her good night.

Now a strange thing happened. As Celia was crossing the hall, she stopped and looked at the portrait before which the Marquess had been standing; and she remembered how she had been struck by a fancied resemblance to someone whom she could not trace. Her pause before the picture was scarcely more than momentary, but she was startled by the sound of footsteps, and, looking up with a half-frightened gaze, found the Marquess standing beside her. His face was almost stern, his dark eyes, so like those of the picture, were fixed on her, questioningly; and there was just a suspicion of anger in the keenness of his regard.

"You are interested in that picture?" he said, in a dry voice.

"I—I——Yes," said Celia, telling herself that she had no cause for fear, seeing that she had committed no crime.

"Why?" he demanded, curtly, and his tone was still dry and harsh.

Celia was silent for a moment; then she raised her eyes to his, calmly—for what was there to fear, why should he be angry with her for looking at the portrait?

"It is a very beautiful picture," she said.

The Marquess's brows lifted, and he bent his head as if apologizing for his curtness.

"That is true," he said, more gently. "It is one of the best in the collection. And your interest is only an artistic one?"

Celia had only to say "Yes," and to escape; but she was not given to equivocation; moreover, her high spirit had resented the anger and suspicion in his manner, for which, she felt, he had no justification.

"Not only, my lord," she said, as quietly as before; "but the first time I saw it, I thought that the face of the portrait was like that of someone I knew."

She was startled by the sudden change in his demeanour. His brows came down again, his eyes grew piercing, his lips stern.

"Like whom?" he demanded, shortly.

"I don't know," she said, with a slight shrug; "that is why the portrait interests me so. If I could trace the resemblance, I should—well, not be so bothered by it."

The Marquess paced to the fire and held his hands to it, as if he had become cold suddenly.

"Strange!" he said, musingly, and with an air of indifference, which Celia felt to be assumed. "Is the man you think resembles the portrait young—or old?"

As he put the question, a sudden flood of light seemed to illumine Celia's mind; it was as if she had been gazing perplexedly on a statue swathed in its covering, and as if the covering had been swept away and the statue revealed. She knew now that the face in the portrait resembled that of the young man on whom her thoughts were always dwelling. The resemblance was faint; but it existed in her mind quite plainly. The revelation brought the blood to her face, then she became pale again. The Marquess, looking over his shoulder, waited for her answer.

"I remember now, my lord——" she began.

"Young or old?" he said, not loudly, but with a quiet insistence.

"Young," replied Celia.

To her surprise and relief, the Marquess gave a little dry, almost contemptuous, laugh; and as he turned to her, with his hands folded behind his back, there was a faint smile on his face.

"Who is he?" he asked.

"I don't know," replied Celia.

"You don't know!" said his lordship, raising his brows. "Pardon me, I don't understand."

Celia stood before him, her hands clasped together in a clasp that, light at first, became tighter; her eyes were downcast, a slight fold came between her brows; for an inappreciable second or two, she lost consciousness of the great hall, the tall, bent figure silhouetted against the fire; she was back in Brown's Buildings, in that poverty-stricken room, and she saw the young man's head lying on his outstretched arm, a revolver in his hand.

"I don't know," she repeated, returning, suddenly, from that vision of the past. "It was someone I met, saw, for a short time——"

"But his name?" said the Marquess, with a subdued impatience.

"That I don't know," Celia replied, raising her eyes, in which the Marquess could not fail to read truth and honesty. "I saw him once only, and for a short time, and then—then he passed out of my life. I mean, that I did not see him again; that it is unlikely I shall ever see him again."

"Where was this—this meeting of which you speak?" inquired the Marquess, in a conversational tone. "Pardon me if I seem intrusive—it is your affair and yours only—but you have excited my curiosity. The portrait is that of my brother."

"I know," said Celia. "I do not mind your asking me; but I cannot tell you. What passed between me and him——" She stopped; she was on delicate ground; this man, with his worldly experience, his acute intelligence, might lead her on to disclose what had happened that night; she could not cope with him. "I do not know his name."

The Marquess bowed his head, and smiled slightly, as if he scented the aroma of a commonplace romance.

"Quite so," he said. "A casual meeting. Such occurs occasionally in the course of one's life, and I dare say the resemblance you noticed was only a fancied one. It must have been," he added, looking on the ground, and speaking in an absent way; "for as it happens, my brother"—he nodded towards the portrait—"was unmarried, had no relations other than myself and my son." He turned away to the fire again. "Oh, yes; only a fancied one. Good night."

This was a definite dismissal, and Celia, murmuring, "Good night, my lord," went up the stairs. At the bend of the corridor she glanced down involuntarily. The Marquess had turned from the fire again, and was looking, with bent brows, at the portrait.

CHAPTER XIV

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.

CHAPTER XV

Somehow or other, Celia was relieved that she was not asked to dine with the family; for she had feared that she might have to do so. She had her dinner in her own room as usual, and afterwards went into the library to do a little work; but she had scarcely commenced when she heard a knock at the door, and a fashionably-dressed young woman entered. As she rose, Celia knew that it was Lord Heyton's wife, and she regarded the beautiful face and exquisitely-clad figure with all a woman's admiration for a lovely specimen of her own sex.

"Oh, may I come in?" said Lady Heyton. "I shan't disturb you, Miss Grant? I do so want to see you. The Marquess has been telling us about you. What a handsome room! May I sit down—you're sure I shan't disturb you, be a nuisance?"

"Oh, no," replied Celia, pushing forward one of the antique but comfortable chairs.

Lady Heyton seated herself, looked round her, and then fixed her eyes on Celia's face, curiously.

"And so you are the lady librarian; and this is where you work? How charming! Why didn't you come in to dinner to-night?" she asked, abruptly.

"I dine alone, in that room," replied Celia, colouring slightly.

"How quaint!" remarked Lady Heyton, with a little shrug. "I shall ask the Marquess whether you can't dine with us; you will be company for me. It was rather dull this evening, and I was terribly bored. It's the first time I've been here, you know; the first time I've seen the Marquess, in fact. Don't you find this great big place rather—rather depressing?" She gave a little shudder, and held out her ring-laden hands towards the fire. "I suppose it's because the house is so old, and there are so few people in it.—But tell me about yourself. You're very young, and—yes, you're exceedingly good-looking. Do you mind my telling you so?"

"Not at all," said Celia, with a smile. "I wish the information was as accurate as it is candid. No, I don't find the house dull. I'm very busy, you see."

"Ah, that makes a difference, I suppose," said Miriam, leaning back and barely concealing a yawn with her hand. "I'm afraid I shall be bored to death if we stay here long. You know, I've only been married a short time, and I hate being bothered."

Celia noted the petulant droop of the almost perfect lips, the faint lines of weariness which trailed from the corners of them, noted the weakness of the chin, the restlessness of the blue eyes which shone like amethysts in the firelight; it was evident to Celia that this beautiful, graceful young creature was not a happy woman. She did not know how much, since her marriage, Miriam had deteriorated, mentally and spiritually. One cannot touch pitch and escape undefiled.

"Oh, I've no doubt you'll find plenty to amuse you," she said. "The country is delightful——"

"Oh, I'm rather fed up with the country," said Lady Heyton. "I've lived in it all my life, you see—one of a poor country parson's superfluous daughters. Oh, I've had enough of muddy lanes and stupid local people. Give me London—and life. One doesn't live in the country, one only exists, like a vegetable. Do you like my dress?" she asked, with her irrelevant abruptness; and she cast a complacent eye down her exquisitely-clad figure.

"It is a very beautiful one," said Celia.

"Paris. The worst of Paris is that, once you have had it, everything else seems dowdy. By the way, that's a very pretty frock you're wearing," she added, with an appraising glance.

"I'm glad you like it," said Celia, laughing. "I made it myself."

"Really! How clever you must be! Oh, of course, in the old days I've made dresses myself; but they were always sights. Yes; you must be very clever; you have good taste, evidently. I've got a maid who's a perfect fool; perhaps, sometimes, you won't mind giving her a hint or lending her a hand?"

"Why, I should be very pleased to do so," said Celia; "though I'm afraid she will not consider my advice or assistance of any great value, Lady Heyton."

"How nicely you said that!" said Miriam, again looking up at Celia, curiously. She possessed intelligence enough to discern, at the first glance, that Celia was not the common, ordinary type of girl she had expected to see; but the repose of Celia's attitude, the timbre of her voice, were making their due impression. "But, of course, you would speak nicely, having to do with books and all that sort of thing. Do you like the Marquess?" she asked, slipping off to another subject, with her usual irrelevance. "He is very stern and grim; and I must confess I'm almost afraid of him. He is quite different from Percy; they're scarcely like father and son—I mean my husband, of course."

"I don't think the Marquess is very stern or hard," said Celia, musingly. "I have only spoken to him once, but he seemed very kind," she added, with a certain hesitation; for she remembered that he had been somewhat stern in the matter of the portrait.

"Oh, I dare say it's only his manner," said Lady Heyton; "and I suppose I'm not a favoured person. You see, he was opposed to our marriage: poor parson's daughter, you know."

Celia coloured with embarrassment; it seemed to her that this beautiful young woman was without reserve, and that her remark had been in very bad taste; but Celia was always ready to make allowances and look on the best side of people, so she said, gently:

"I dare say you will grow to like him. He is sure to like you."

"Think so?" said Miriam. "Well, I hope he will; he ought to like his daughter-in-law; and I mean to make him, if I can. I want to keep the peace between him and Percy; they haven't been the best of friends, as I dare say you've heard. Did you cut that dress from a paper pattern, or how?"

"You've guessed correctly," said Celia, laughing. "It was cut from a paper pattern, given away with a popular magazine."

"Well, it fits awfully well. And there's a style about it; it's quite chic. Oh, you really must give a hint or two to that idiot of a Marie. What society is there here? I thought, as we drove from the station, that the place looked awfully dull and quiet. By the way," she went on, without waiting for her question to be answered, "didn't I see you standing at one of the cottages as we drove past?"

"Yes," said Celia. "I had been calling on a friend."

"A friend," repeated Lady Heyton, raising her brows, languidly. "Do you mean the woman with the baby? I thought she looked quite a common, ordinary sort of person."

"I should scarcely call Susie common," said Celia, with a smile. "I like her very much."

"Do you? How quaint! This fire is very jolly. Do you always have one here?" asked her ladyship, as if her volatile mind had forgotten the last subject of the conversation.

Celia told her that the fire was lit every evening, and Lady Heyton, rising with a yawn, remarked that she should often drop in for a warm; the rest of the house seemed to her chilly. Celia gave the required invitation, and Lady Heyton stood looking about her vacantly, and as if she were waiting for the volition to go.

"I say; do tell me your name?" she said, languidly.

Celia told her.

"Awfully pretty name. Mine's Miriam; ridiculously unsuitable, don't you think? So hard and cold; and I'm anything but that. Pity one can't choose one's own name! Do you mind if I call you 'Celia'? 'Miss Grant' is so stiff."

"Oh, not at all," said Celia.

"Thanks very much. What's that?" she asked, starting, her hand going to her bosom, her brows coming together nervously.

The sound of voices, not in actual altercation, but something very near it, came from the hall.

"It's the Marquess and Percy," said Miriam, in a low and frightened voice. "Oh, I do hope they're not quarrelling. I warned Percy. Hush! Listen!"

She stole to the door and opened it slightly, and Celia heard the Marquess say:

"I have promised. The money shall be paid; but I warn you, Percy, there must be an end to this wicked and foolish extravagance. I say there must be an end to it. I do not want to threaten you, but——"

"Threaten!" came the younger man's voice, which was almost insolent and rather thick, as if he had been drinking too much wine. "No, I don't suppose you do. After all, I've got to live. I'm your son——"

"Do not hesitate," said the Marquess. "You would add, my heir. I do not forget it. But do not count too much on the fact. I say to you, do not count too much on it. Percy!" His tone changed to a pleading one. "For Heaven's sake, take heed to what I say. Do not try me too much. There are reasons——"

His voice broke and ceased; with a glance at Celia and a shrug, Lady Heyton opened the door widely, and went into the hall.

"I have been making the acquaintance of Miss Grant," Celia heard her say, with an affectation of casualness. "Are you two going into the smoking-room; may I come with you? I shall feel so lonely in that big, solemn drawing-room."

"Miss Grant in there?" said Lord Heyton, with a nod towards the library. "I should like to make her acquaintance, too."

He took a step towards the door; but Celia closed it and went quickly into the room beyond; and soon afterwards, when the coast was clear, went up to her own room.

CHAPTER XVI

Not only on her own account, but on that of the Marquess, Celia regretted keenly the advent of Lord and Lady Heyton at the Hall. Of the man, Celia had formed a most unfavourable opinion, and she could not but see that his wife, beautiful as she was, was shallow, vain, and unreliable, the kind of woman who would always act on impulse, whether it were a good or evil one. Such a woman is more dangerous than a deliberately wicked and absolutely heartless one.

The coming of these two persons had broken up the quiet and serenity of the great house; she felt sorry for the Marquess, who had been forced almost into an open quarrel with his son on this first night; and she felt sorry for herself; for she had taken an instinctive dislike to Lord Heyton, and knew that she would have hard work to avoid him. There are men whose look, when it is bent upon a woman, is an insult; the touch of whose hand is a contamination; and Celia felt that Lord Heyton was one of these men. She shut herself up in the library the next morning, and though she heard him in the hall, and was afflicted by the pungent cigarette, which was rarely out of his lips, he did not intrude on her; but as she was passing through the hall, on her way for a walk, she met him coming out of the smoking-room. His was a well-groomed figure, and save for the weak and sensuous lips, and the prominent eyes with the curious expression, he was, physically, by no means a bad specimen of a young man; but Celia was acutely conscious of the feeling of repulsion, and she quickened her pace. With his hands still in his pockets, he almost intercepted her.

"Good morning, Miss Grant!" he said, with the free-and-easy manner of a man addressing a dependent. "First-rate morning, isn't it? Going for a walk?"

"Yes, my lord," replied Celia, giving him his title with a little emphasis, and speaking coldly, with her eyes fixed on the ground, her hands touching Roddy, who had not offered to go to Lord Heyton, but gazed up at Celia as if he were saying, "I don't like this man. Let us go for our walk and get away from him."

"Not a bad idea, a walk; tip-top morning," said Heyton. "I'll come with you, if you'll allow me."

Celia bit her lip, and flushed angrily; for the request for permission was so evidently a mere matter of form.

"I would rather go alone, my lord," she said. "I am going to call on a friend."

"Oh, but I can go as far as the door with you, surely," he said, with the smile of a man too self-satisfied to accept a woman's rebuff seriously. "Two's company and one's none."

"But there are already two," said Celia, forcing a smile and glancing at Roddy. "It is very kind of your lordship, but I would rather be alone." She moved on quickly, her heart beating rather fast with resentment, her face crimson. Heyton followed her to the door, and stood looking after her, an evil smile on his face.

"Pretty high and mighty for a typewriting girl," he muttered. "By jove! she's pretty. I like that swing of hers. All right, my girl; I'm not taken in by that mock shyness. You wait awhile. Yes; she's deuced pretty. I wonder how the old man picked her up!"

Celia had gone some distance before she recovered her equanimity. Certainly, this son of the Marquess was a hateful creature, and she could not help wondering how even so shallow and frivolous a woman as his wife could have married him. She had reached the bend of the road, when she stopped short and stared with amazement at a group which presented itself a little farther down.

On the bank adjoining the pathway was seated Lady Gridborough; her hat was on one side, her face was flushed, her mantle dusty and disarranged; but her good-natured face was wreathed in smiles as she watched a young man, standing beside the Exmoor pony and attempting to keep it from rearing and plunging.

"Oh, whatever is the matter?" demanded Celia, as she ran forward.

Lady Gridborough looked up, laughed, and wiped her eyes.

"Good morning, my dear," she said; "you've come just in time to enjoy a little comedy." She nodded at the young man and the frisking pony. "Turk took it into his head to bolt just now, coming down the hill there. I suppose it was only his fun, but we ran up on to the path, the cart overturned——"

"Oh! Are you hurt?" demanded Celia, anxiously.

"Not a bit," replied Lady Gridborough; "but I might have been, for I was mixed up with the cart in some extraordinary fashion. I don't know what might have happened if it hadn't been for that young man there. He appeared on the scene as if he had dropped from the clouds; he disentangled me somehow, set the cart up again, and is now trying to persuade that fool of a pony that this isn't a circus."

At the sound of Celia's voice, the young man had turned his head and uttered an exclamation, and now that Celia saw his face, she, too, uttered a cry of astonishment; for she recognized Mr. Reginald Rex, the young man of the British Museum.

She sprang up and went to him with a hand extended; he grasped it, and they stared at each other for a moment in astonished silence; then Celia burst into laughter.

"Why, how ridiculous!" she said. "To think of meeting you here, and in this way!"

"It's—incredible!" he retorted. "What are you doing here?"

"I may ask you the same question," said Celia.

"I'll tell you directly," he replied, "as soon as I've persuaded this pony that we've finished the trick act."

"Celia!" called Lady Gridborough from the bank. "Come here at once. What does this mean? Do you know that young man? You greet each other as if you were life-long friends!"

"Well, we're not quite that," said Celia, laughing. "We've met at the British Museum. He is a novelist."

For an instant Lady Gridborough looked slightly disappointed; but it was for an instant only.

"Well, he's a plucky young man all the same, my dear," she said. "He really did show great presence of mind, and has been awfully nice throughout the whole business. Fancy your meeting here in this way! What is his name?"

As Celia told her, Reggie, having secured the harness sufficiently, brought the now placid and subdued Turk to his mistress.

"Oh, is it all right?" said her ladyship. "Well, Mr. Rex, I'm very much obliged to you. And so you know this young lady, my friend, Miss Grant! Dear me, how extraordinary. My dear, is my hat straight?"

It was resting on one ear; and Celia, laughingly, but gently, put it straight.

"I was going into the village," said Lady Gridborough; "but I suppose I'd better go home."

"Yes, yes; of course you had!" said Celia. "You must be very much shaken, if you are not actually hurt."

"Very well, then," said her ladyship. "Get in, my dear. And you, too, Mr. Rex, if you've not already had enough of me, and Turk."

"I'll come, and drive," said Rex, with marked promptitude.

"Yes, do; though a child might drive him with a match and a piece of cotton now. This is a very interesting meeting for you two. May one inquire what you are doing in this locality, young man?"

"I'm taking a bit of a holiday—well, scarcely a holiday; for I'm thinking out a new novel," said Reggie, modestly, and with a little blush.

"Dear me, you don't say so," said the old lady, opening her eyes wide. "Wonder how you do it! Come in search of character, I suppose? Well, here's your heroine, anyway."

"Yes, she is," said the boy, now blushing outright and nodding at Celia. "She's been my heroine ever since I first saw her—in the British Museum Reading Room, you know."

"That's a candid avowal," observed her ladyship, dryly, as Celia laughed.

They chatted in this pleasant fashion, and, in due course, reached the Grange. It was quite a merry little lunch, through which Reggie talked incessantly, to the increased amusement of his good-natured hostess, and confirming her good opinion of him.

"Now, you two children can go and sit on the terrace while I have my nap. Wiggins, give Mr. Rex a cigar."

The two went out on the terrace; and scarcely waiting for him to light a cigar, Celia demanded "his story."

"Oh, well; I've had a stroke of luck," he said, with a long breath. "And it's all owing to you."

"To me!"

"Yes. You remember that 'short' I sent you? But, of course, you don't."

"Oh, yes, I do," Celia assured him. "It was an awfully good story."

"Well, backed up by all the fine things you said, I sent it to the editor of the Piccadilly Magazine. He accepted it—perhaps he wasn't well at the time—and more than that, he sent for me. I thought, perhaps, he wanted to shoot me; but, bless you, no! He liked the thing so much that he commissioned me to write a 'long, complete,' twenty thousand words; so I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone, run down into the country for a holiday and business combined. But, look here, before I say another word, you've got to tell me what you're doing here."

Celia told him as briefly as she could.

"Oh, but that's splendid!" he cried, seizing her hand and shaking it, just as if she were another boy. "I say, you are a swell; and amongst such swells; marquesses and lords and ladies of high degree! But, I say, I am glad. How happy you must be!"

"I am," said Celia. "But go on, tell me about your novel; what kind of a novel is it to be?"

"Do you remember my telling you, that afternoon at the A.B.C. shop, how, if ever I got a chance, I meant to go in for character, psychology? Good word, psychology! Well, I've got my chance, and I'm going for it bald-headed. Since I saw you, I have been studying Lavater; the physiognomy man, you know—wonderful book!—and I've been fitting imaginary histories to everybody, man or woman, I've met."

"I used to do that," said Celia, dreamily; and back came Brown's Buildings.

"Yes? Of course, one may make an awfully bad shot sometimes; but I'm inclined to think that, as a rule, one is pretty accurate. I mean, that you can judge the character of a man from his face—not so often that of a woman, because she's more difficult, she knows how to mask her feelings——"

"Thank you," interjected Celia.

"Oh, you know what I mean! She's been the slave of the man for centuries, and she's been obliged to deceive him."

"Thank you very, very much!"

"Oh, but she's getting past that, now; she's coming into her own, whatever that may prove to be; and presently she'll go about with an open countenance, and it may be easier for me to study her."

"It's to be a detective story, I suppose?" said Celia.

"Right the first go off!" he assented, admiringly. "Yes; but something out of the ordinary, I hope. I've been through a course of Gaborieau, and the rest of the detective-story men, and I want to come out with something fresh. Of course, what I need is real experience. I suppose I ought to have served my term as a criminal reporter; do murders and forgeries, and all that kind of thing. But, then, I haven't. I must trust to luck and chance. You don't happen to know whether a nice little murder I could sleuth down has been committed here?"

"I'm afraid there hasn't," replied Celia, laughing.

"Rather a pity, isn't it? Never mind! Oh, are you going?"

"Yes, I must go," said Celia. "I won't disturb Lady Gridborough. Will you say good-bye to her for me?"

"Oh, but I'm coming with you," he said, decidedly. "I'll walk with you as far as your place and then come back and make my adieux to her ladyship."

They set off, laughing and talking; and presently, as they came to Susie's cottage, Susie herself, with the baby in her arms, was standing at the door. At sight of Celia's companion, Susie drew back; but Celia called to her and ran up to her.

"Oh, Susie, I'm so sorry!" she said, remorsefully; "but I meant to speak to Lady Gridborough to-day about the christening. I have seen her; but she met with an accident; she is all right, quite all right. I will go up to the Grange again to-morrow, and come in to tell you what we have arranged."

She had taken the child in her arms and was hugging and kissing it; then, seeing that Susie wanted to retreat, she gave her the child and returned to Reggie, who had been standing by the gate, his eyes fixed on them. He drew a long breath as they turned away, and exclaimed, in a low voice:—

"I say! What an awfully pretty woman! Was that her baby? She looked quite a girl."

"Yes," said Celia, gravely. "Susie is only a girl."

"She must have been married very young," said Reggie, with, evident interest. "What beautiful eyes! But, I say, why did she look so sad? Isn't—isn't her husband good to her?"

Celia was silent for a moment, her eyes fixed on the ground, a faint colour in her cheeks. If he were staying in the neighbourhood, he must inevitably learn something of Susie's story. Would it not be well for her to tell him?

"She is not married!" said Celia, in a whisper.

"Oh, lord," said Reggie, "I'm sorry! Poor girl!"

There was no more light-hearted chatter; he became absent-minded; indeed, they were almost silent till they were close upon the lodge gates.

"You must go back now," said Celia.

"Must I? I say, when can I see you again; and how soon? May I write to you and fix up an appointment, or will you write to me? You will, won't you, Miss Grant?"

"Yes," said Celia. "I want to hear how the novel goes on. Perhaps Lady Gridborough will let us come to tea at the Grange, if I ask her."

They were shaking hands, when they both saw Lord Heyton crossing the lawn. Reggie looked at him in silence for a moment; then he said:—

"That one of the swells of the house?"

"That is Lord Heyton, the Marquess's son," said Celia.

"Friend of yours?" Reggie inquired.

"No!" escaped Celia's lips.

Reggie turned his eyes to her quickly.

"Glad of that!" he said. "Because, if there's anything in the science of physiognomy, that gentleman is a decidedly bad lot."

Celia turned away from the gate and walked slowly beside Reggie.

"You jump at conclusions," she said. "You have only seen him for a moment or two, and at a distance."

"I've got very good eyes," said Reggie; "and a moment or two's long enough; it's the first impression that's valuable; and, as I say, if there's any truth in the theory that you can read a character by facial characteristics, that gentleman is about as bad as they make 'em."

"But—forgive me—that you should be able to judge so swiftly sounds absurd."

"Well, it may be," admitted Reggie, grudgingly. "But I'll bet my last dollar that I'm right. Why, don't you see," he went on, earnestly, insistently, "the man's got all the wrong points; the low, shelving brow, the weak chin, the—the wrong lips. Did you notice the trick he has of looking sideways under his lids? You know what I mean, the furtive 'does-anyone-know' look?"