CHAPTER VII
A week later Celia was crouching over her fireless grate. The Wolf wasno longer outside the door, but beside her, his red eyes watching herbalefully, his cruel teeth showing between his mowing jaws. The hunger,for which the overfed rich man longs in vain, was gnawing at her; shewas penniless and well-nigh starving; no longer did she regard thelittle 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 theadvertisements in the free library, in search of some employment, anyemployment, which a woman could take up; and her last few pence had beenspent in one of those advertisements which tell their own tale ofdespair. She was willing to do anything; she would have taken asituation as a housemaid; would have gone out charing; for life isprecious to all of us, and scruples of refinement disappear when thereis no bread in the cupboard. But her applications, for even the lowliestplace, were turned down; she had no experience, no character; thepersons she interviewed saw, at a glance, that she was a lady, and thatwas 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 cheerfullyemployed in picturing her death; the discovery of the body, thecoroner's inquest, the leader which would be written in the _Wire_, theproperly indignant, stereotyped leader, dwelling with righteousindignation on the "terrible poverty in our midst." She raised her headand looked round the room. No, there was nothing left to sell orpawn--for her dire necessity had driven her to the pawnshop, that lastrefuge of the destitute, that dire rubicon which, having passed it, agirl 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 hadwritten in praise of his story; the hope, the encouragement she hadimplanted in his breast. She envied him, as she envied everyone who hadenough to purchase a loaf, a glass of milk. Then the incident in whichhe had figured passed from her mind. The strains of Mr. Clendon's violinstole up to her; but that brought no peace, no joy; to enjoy good musicwhen one is starving is an impossibility; the sounds irritated her, andshe was glad when they ceased.
Presently she heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and a knockcame at her door. She rose, painfully, wearily, and moved withdifficulty; for the floor seemed to rock under her, the room to swinground. 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," hesaid.
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 awayfrom him. He glanced round the room quickly, took in its emptiness, theblack, cheerless grate, her attitude of utter dejection; then, without aword, he went downstairs. To Celia, hours seemed to elapse after hisdeparture, but it was only a few minutes before he came up again, withbread and other things; but it was the bread only that Celia saw. Withall her might and main, she strove to eat slowly, indifferently, thefood he pressed upon her; and as she ate, the tears of shame and ofrelief coursed down her wan cheeks. He had brought fuel also; and, whileshe was eating, he seemed to devote all his attention to the making ofthe fire; when it was burning brightly, and she was leaning back, withher 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 tolaugh, but the laugh was choked in her throat.
"Not too poor to help a friend," he said. "I think you have been verywicked." He tried to speak sternly; but the "My poor child!" that brokefrom him declared his sympathy. "You have lost your situation?"
"Yes; he died. And I can't find anything else," said Celia, trying tospeak calmly. "I've tried--oh, everything. I've spent all my moneyadvertising and answering advertisements. Look! That's my last." With alaugh, she pushed a paper towards him. He glanced at the advertisementand 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 bedand board."
"I know," he said, with a nod. "It's very rarely that such anadvertisement 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'mfriendless--no, not friendless. How can I thank you, Mr. Clendon! Thesight of you--to say nothing of the food--has--has put fresh life intome. Tell me, what do you think I had better do? I'm not proud--why, I'mwilling to be a domestic servant, to go to one of the factories to fillmatch-boxes; but I've no experience. And there are thousands in myplight, thousands of girls who are worse off--well, no, I suppose theycouldn't be worse off; and yet--I haven't paid this week's rent; and youknow what that means."
"I know," he said, in a low voice.
He was sitting over the fire, looking into the burning coals, with acurious expression on his pallid, wrinkled face; an expression ofhesitation, doubt, reluctance; for the moment it seemed as if he hadforgotten her, as if he were communing with his own thoughts, working ata 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 handof the man of good birth.
"You'll get something presently; it is always when things are at theworst 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 youand me----" He checked himself and rose, buttoning his coat as he did sowith the air of a man who has come to a decision. "Yes; I'll pay therent, and I'll send them up with some coals. Oh, don't be afraid; youshall pay me when things come right. Don't you see, my good girl, that Iam glad to be able to help you--that it gratifies _my_ pride? There, sitdown and warm yourself, and try to eat some more food. I wish it werebetter worth eating: but we shall see."
He laid his hand on her shoulder as he passed her on his way to thedoor, and Celia, blinded by tears, took the hand and carried it to herlips.
Mr. Clendon went down to his own room, almost as barely furnished asCelia's had become; and he stood for a moment or two looking round itwith a sigh; then he took up his worn hat and stick, and went out. Withbent head, and eyes fixed on the pavement, he made his way to GrosvenorSquare; and, mounting the steps of one of the largest of the houses,rang the bell. A dignified hall-porter opened the door leisurely, andeyed the thin, poorly-clad figure and pallid face with stern disfavour.
"Is Lord Sutcombe at home?" asked Mr. Clendon, quietly, and not withouta certain dignity.
"His lordship the Marquess is within; suttenly; but----" The manhesitated, with unconcealed suspicion.
"Will you tell his lordship, please, that a gentleman wishes to seehim?" said Mr. Clendon.
The porter looked beyond the bowed figure, as if he expected to seesomeone else, the "gentleman" referred to; then, as he failed to seeanyone, 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 thisdifficulty. He wrote the single letter "W" on a piece of paper he foundin his pocket, and handed it to the man.
"Please give this to his lordship," he said, still with that quiet airof dignity and composure which had impressed the porter, against hiswill.
The man eyed the piece of paper doubtfully, and the applicant foradmission still more so; then, signing to the bench in the hall, by wayof permitting rather than inviting the old man to take a seat, he wentslowly up the broad stairs, lined with pictures and st
atuary, andcarpeted with thick Axminster. Mr. Clendon seated himself, leant bothhands on his stick and looked around him, not curiously, but with athoughtful, 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 burningin the bronze grate, and, as its warmth went out to meet him, Mr.Clendon thought of the fireless grate over which the young girl hadcrouched. By the table, with one hand pressed hardly against it, stood amiddle-aged man, with a pale, careworn face; his hair was flecked withgrey; his thin lips drawn and drooping at the corners, as if theirpossessor was heavily burdened by the cares of the world. That he wasagitated was obvious; for the lids flickered over his almost colourlesseyes, 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 onemight 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 isnothing to be alarmed at. Permit me to sit down; I have walked somedistance."
The Marquess of Sutcombe, with an air of desperation, motioned to achair, and fell to pacing up and down the room. "I swear that I thoughtyou were dead, Wilfred! When you disappeared, father--all of us--did ourbest to find you; we searched for you everywhere. We were in thegreatest distress, perplexity; for we did not know why you had gone--Idon't know even now--I can't, no, I can't believe that it is you! Whydid 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, withagitation. "You _must_ do so! Here am I, bearing the title and--and therest 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 tookcare that the evidence should satisfy you. Once more, there is no causefor alarm----"
"No cause for alarm! You talk--absurdly! You forget that the fact ofyour sitting there proves that I am a--a usurper; that I have no rightto the title, the estate; that everything belongs to you. By Heaven,Wilfred, I can scarcely believe that you have done this thing, that youcould have found it possible to do me--and Percy--such a wrong! Putyourself in my place. How would you like to discover that you wereliving under false pretences, that you had no right to--everything youhold. 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 myidentity, to displace you. You are mistaken. To do so after I, of my ownfree will, have effaced myself all these years, and allowed you to stepinto my place, would be unjust, would be impossible for--well, one ofus, Sutcombe."
"And--and there's Percy, my son," went on the Marquess, as if heignored, 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 wasnothing 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 hasmarried 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'shard 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 thatyou are not happy, that your son is not--satisfactory. I have not cometo 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? Becalm, and listen to me quietly. Accept my assurance that I have nointention whatever, and never shall have, of taking my proper place, ofdepriving you of all I resigned. If I ever had any desire to do so, thatdesire 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, asyou 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 oldenough to be my father. You look--are dressed--in rags. Do you thinkthat doesn't worry me, and add to my misery? Do you think that, eversince 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 abeggar, is the Marquess of Sutcombe and you are an impostor'?"
"Grant the case as you put it. I am poor, but not unhappy. I willventure to say that I am far happier than you, Talbot," said Mr.Clendon, his dark eyes scanning the careworn face of the Marquess. "Ihave my niche in the world; I earn my living, such as it is; I am freefrom care; I have enough laid by to save me from a pauper's grave, whileyou----"
"Oh, I'm unhappy enough, I'll admit," said the Marquess, with a deepsigh. "I hold your place, and all that it means in the way of money andpower; but I'm alone in the world, worse than alone; for Percy, my onlyson, I tell you--by Heaven, there is not a morning I wake that I do notdread 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 aneager, anticipatory relief.
Mr. Clendon shook his head. "No," he said, resolutely, "you mustcontinue to bear the burden I have imposed upon you, Talbot; and I begyou to believe me, fully and undoubtingly, that I shall never relieveyou of your responsibilities, which you have borne so well. Oh, ofcourse, I have watched. I know how admirably you have filled your place,and where I should have failed. Fate, Providence knew better than I whatwas 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 theMarquess. "Surely you owe it to me!"
"No, I have buried the past," said Mr. Clendon. "Let it lie. But I willtell 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 isanything I can do, if you have decided to stick to your resolution, ifthere 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 putit?--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 Ipossess is yours. But tell me what I'm to do, Wilfred."
"Nothing for me--that is directly," said Mr. Clendon. "Don't say anymore about myself. I am touched by your generosity--yes, generosity,Talbot; for I feel that you have every reason, every right, to turn uponme and upbraid me for presenting myself after all this time, forharrowing you with the knowledge of my existence. You can do nothing forme in the way of money. I have all I need. I have grown so used to thepoverty of my surroundings that, if I were raised out of them I shouldfeel like the prisoner released from the Bastille, and weep for my celland the prison rations. But you can do something for someone in whom Iam 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 ordaughter. I am childless. The person of whom I speak is a young girl, norelation of mine, scarcely a friend, save for the fact that I have beenof 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 thenight. She is a poor girl who has been working as a kind of secretary,but her employ
er has died suddenly, and she is now penniless andhelpless."
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 foryourself, but for someone, for some girl who is not even of your kithand kin, has no claim on you. I always thought you mad, Wilfred, in theold days when we were boys together. I still think you're mad. How couldI think otherwise?"
"We are all mad, more or less, Talbot," rejoined Mr. Clendon, with theflicker of a grim smile on his thin lips. "But this young girl--I havetaken her misery to heart. If you had seen her as I have seen her--butyou haven't, and I have to try to impress her case on you, enlist yoursympathies, as well as I can. She is a lady, not by birth, perhaps, butby instinct and training. She has been well educated. That's beenagainst 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. Ofcourse, 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 beangry, brutal; but, surely, you can understand what I am feeling. Howmuch do you want?"
"Nothing," said Mr. Clendon, with another flickering smile. "My dearTalbot, you don't understand. But I don't blame you; how should you? Allthe same, we poor people have our little pride; the girl of whom Ispeak--well, I found her starving in her miserable little room, becauseshe was too proud to descend a flight of steps to mine, to ask for thebread 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 theBoards of Guardians wot of. The doctor calls them 'heart-failure' in hiscertificate; and he is quite accurate. But let me tell you what I wantyou to do. This girl has been a secretary; she has been advertising forsome similar post; any post, indeed."
He took out the paper and pointed to the advertisement. The Marquesstook the paper, passing his hand over his eyes, as if he were dazed, andread the few lines which had cost Celia her last penny.
"Got it?" asked Mr. Clendon. "Well, now, I want you to write an answerto 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 doit--I feel, confused. Little wonder!--What kind of situation? I supposeyou 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 havenot looked after it?"
"No," said the Marquess, shaking his head. "I seldom go to Thexford. Ihave been in the Cabinet, as you may know; am still interested inpolitics--it has been something to do--and, in consequence, I have tolive in London most of the time. I have not been to Thexford for twoyears; the house is kept up, of course; I have often intended goingthere; but there are the other places."
"Pity!" said Mr. Clendon, looking straight before him, as if he werecalling up a memory. "It is a beautiful place; perhaps the mostbeautiful 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, andcatalogued, and the rest of it. She will do it very well. Give her agood salary--but not too large a one, or she will suspect; and I do notwish her to know how she obtained the post. You need not see her; shecan obtain testimonials from the executors of her late employer. Shewill give you no trouble; she will do her duty; for she is a lady, and apure, high-minded girl. Will you do this for me, Talbot?"
"You know that you've no need to ask," said the Marquess. "Do you meanto 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 realizehow badly I've treated you, Talbot, not only in allowing you to believeI was dead, but in turning up again? Well, do this for me, help thisyoung 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 notto let you go. That, in justice to myself, my own sense of right andhonour, I ought to detain you, proclaim that----"
"It would be of no use," said Mr. Clendon. "You could not detain me, thedisclosure 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 youhold will be really, legally yours. Have patience. Let me go my way--itis the only one for me----"
"But you will tell me where you live, where I can find you?" interruptedLord Sutcombe.
Mr. Clendon smiled, gravely. "I think not, Talbot. To tell you thetruth, I am so enamoured of this life of mine, of its solitude andindependence, 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 backto the grave again."
The Marquess stretched out his hand, as if to detain him; but, with agesture, full of dignity and command, as well as imploration, the bentfigure passed out.