CHAPTER I

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

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."