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.