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.