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.