CHAPTER III
Celia went back to her room and sank into a chair. She had been upheldduring the scene by the excitement and the strain; she had been strongand purposeful a few minutes ago; but now the reaction had set in andshe felt weak and exhausted. It was difficult to realize that the thingwas real; it was the first time in her life that anything dramatic,tragical, had touched her. She had read of such incidents in novels, andeven then, presented in the guise of fiction, with all its licence, sucha self-sacrifice, so absolutely illogical and immoral, had seemedincredible 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 affairstood out from the rest. If the forgery was detected, and the young manunder suspicion, how was it that he was still free, still unarrested?Perhaps they had not yet been able to trace him; but, no doubt, theywere 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 asudden chill. The pity of it, oh, the pity of it! He was so young--hestill seemed to her little more than a boy--and he was so good to lookupon, so frank, so honest; and what a noble, generous nature he musthave 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 wasthe woman who had wrecked his life. Celia began to piece the storytogether; they had loved each other--at any rate, he had lovedher--probably for years; he had loved her with all his heart, and shewith, perhaps, a small half; she had thrown him over to marry a wealthyman--and yet, that theory seemed scarcely consistent; for a wealthy manwould not need to commit forgery. It was a mystery and a puzzle; but thegrim fact remained that the young man was going to take upon himself theterrible stigma of a convict for the sake of a woman--perhaps utterlyunworthy of him.
She stared at the fire, and it gave her back a picture of the young mandressed in the hideous prison garb, with the wavy hair cut close; withthe 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 wassitting there, alone, waiting for the touch of the detective's hand onhis shoulder, waiting for his doom. It was her fault; she had held himback from the release of death, had made him promise to live, to dragthrough a life of shame and humiliation, an outcast, a pariah, acreature from whom such women as herself would shrink as from somethingloathsome.
The thought was intolerable. Surely he could escape; they had not gotupon 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 evento buy another revolver; of course, he could not hope to get awaywithout money. A blush rose to her face; she sprang to her desk; with atrembling hand she unlocked it and took out a five-pound note--it wasthe 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 tofall back upon her resources. Often enough she had regarded thisfive-pound note as a barrier against the dread wolf that prowled aboutso 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 browsknit. 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 thatthey should remain strangers to each other.
She went out softly, crossed the corridor on tip-toe, pushed theenvelope under his door, then knocked very gently and darted back to herown room. Listening, with a heart that beat like a sledge-hammer fallingon an anvil, she heard him open the door, heard it close again; shewaited almost; breathlessly, and presently his step crossed thecorridor, and a piece of paper slid to her feet. She picked it up andread:
"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 herhand, burst into tears. She sat and waited and listened; a quarter of anhour dragged by; footsteps, some dragging and stealthy, some light andfree, passed up and down the stairs, and every step made her heart leapwith apprehension. Had he gone? Oh, why had he not gone? There wasdanger in every moment. Presently she heard a faint, almost inaudibleknock at her door; she rose quickly and opened it a little way; no onewas standing outside, the corridor was empty; but she heard someonedescending the stairs below her. She took a few steps out and lookeddown.
It was he. At the bend of the stairs, he paused and looked up; the lightof the murky, wire-globed gas-jet fell on him and she saw the pallor ofhis face; saw something else, something that remained with her whilelife lasted--a look, that expression in his eyes, for which many a womanhas been willing to give body and soul. He gazed up at her in silencefor a moment; then, with a gesture of the hand which conveyed farewelland gratitude, he moved on and disappeared.
Celia stood there until his footsteps had ceased to sound, and she heardthe outer door close softly, then she went back to her room and coveredher face with her hands; perhaps she was praying; if so, it wasunconsciously; but she still listened for the detectives, thepolice-officers who might be coming. The strain was almost unendurable,and it was with a strange, inexplicable relief that her suspense wasbrought to an end by the sound of someone approaching the opposite doorand knocking. She rose, trembling, and listened, as she had listened somany times that eventful night. The knock was repeated three times; sheheard the visitor--a detective, she didn't doubt--try the handle of theopposite door. Then, to her horror, she heard him move across thecorridor and knock at her door. The horror was so great that she felt asif every limb were benumbed and paralyzed; her mouth felt so dry as tobe 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 heragitation, would question her, in all probability would drag from hersome information which would enable him to track and arrest thefugitive. And yet she could not refuse to speak to him. Clenching herhands and setting her teeth hard, she forced herself to an appearance ofself-composure and opened the door; an elderly man, scrupulouslydressed, 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 youtell me, madam----? Do you know your opposite neighbour; a young man wholives at No. 106 there?"
Every woman is an actress; every woman will show fight for the thing sheis protecting, whether it be a man or a dog. Celia's nerves were highlywrought; she was herself again, for that moment, at any rate; for shewas on the defensive, and when a good woman is on the defensive, she isfull of innocent guile.
"No," she replied. "I have seen him, of course; seen him going in andout of his room----"
"Thank you," he said. "I am much obliged to you, and I apologize againfor my intrusion."
He was turning away; but suddenly he paused and, with a most deferentialair, said:
"May I ask you one question? The gentleman I wish to see, particularlywish to see, is not at home. I have knocked several times and have gotno answer. May I ask if you happen to know whether he is l
ikely toreturn; I mean, do you think he has gone away?"
Celia did not hesitate for a moment; it seemed to her as if she wereinspired 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'sface, that he accepted her statement, for he regarded her with anexpression of profound disappointment, combined with one of anxiety.
"Oh!" he said, thoughtfully. "Indeed. Thank you very much." He turnedaway, 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 withsudden keenness. "Do you happen to know his name?"
"No," replied Celia. "It is not unusual," she explained. "I mean, thatvery few of us in the Buildings know each other's names. It is a largeplace, 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 thename 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 askingyou 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, 'Itis all right.'"
Celia inclined her head; she could not speak; the blood surged to herface, then left it white; her eyes closed, she felt as if she were goingto faint; the revulsion from terror to relief had been almost too greatfor her.
The old gentleman saw the effect his words had upon her; he looked ather 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 wasresting 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, isthere anyone to take care of you?"
Celia was touched by the kindly, paternal note in his voice; thetears--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 momentaryfaintness. I will deliver your message."
He bowed, murmured his thanks and, with another glance of pity andconcern for her loneliness and weakness, he turned away--this time forgood.
Celia leant against the table, her hands closed tightly. "It is allright," 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 provedor the charge had been withdrawn; but, whichever it meant, the messagehad come too late. Oh, what had she done! She had saved his life, butshe had made him a fugitive, had condemned him to the cruellest offates, that of a doomed man flying from justice. Instinctively,mechanically, she flew for her hat and jacket; then she realized, withbitterness, the hopelessness of any such quest as that which, for aninstant, she had thought of undertaking. If she had known his name,anything about him, the search would have been difficult; with hercomplete ignorance it was an impossible one. She flung aside her outdoorthings with a gesture of despair.