THE WOMAN'S WAY
by
CHARLES GARVICE
Author of "Just a Girl" "Two Maids and a Man" Etc.
Hodder and StoughtonLondon New York TorontoPrinted in 1914Copyright in Great Britain and the Colonies and in the United States ofAmerica by Charles Garvice, 1913
CHAPTER I
Celia climbed up the steps to her room slowly; not because she was verytired, but because her room was nearly at the top of Brown's Buildingsand she had learnt that, at any rate, it was well to begin slowly. Itwas only the milk boy and the paper boy who ran up the stairs, and theygenerally whistled or sang as they ran, heedless of feminine reproofs ormasculine curses. There was no lift at Brown's; its steps were as stonyand as steep as those of which Dante complained; the rail on whichCelia's hand rested occasionally was of iron; and Brown's whitewashedcorridors, devoid of ornament, were so severe as to resemble those of aprison; indeed, more than one of the inhabitants of the Buildings spokeof them, with grim facetiousness, as The Jail. Without having to pauseto gain her breath, for at twenty-two, when you are well and strong,even sixty steep steps do not matter very much, Celia unlocked a door,bearing the number "105," and entered her room.
It was not large; to descend to detail, it measured exactly ten feet byfifteen feet; but scantily furnished as it was, it contrasted pleasantlywith the prison-like corridor on which it opened. Like that of the BabyBear, everything in the apartment was small; a tiny table, a diminutivearmchair, a miniature bookcase; the one exception was a wardrobe, whichwas not in reality a wardrobe; it served a double purpose; for when thedoors were opened, they disclosed a bed, standing on its head, whichcame down at night and offered Celia repose. The room had a cheerfulair; there was a small fire in the tiny grate, and the light of theflickering coal was reflected on one or two cheap, but artisticallygood, engravings, and on the deep maroon curtains--"Our celebrated artserge, _1s. 6d._ a yard, double width"--which draped the windows lookingdown on Elsham Street, which runs parallel with its great, roaring,bustling brother, Victoria Street.
There were few prettier rooms in Brown's than Celia's; but then,compared with the other inhabitants of The Jail, she was quitewell-to-do, not to say rich; for she earned a pound a week; and a pounda week is regarded as representing affluence by those who are earningonly fifteen shillings; and that sum, I fancy, represented the topincome of most of Celia's neighbours.
You can do a great deal with a pound a week. Let us consider for amoment: rent, which includes all rates and taxes, five shillings a week;gas, purchased on the beautiful and simple penny-in-the-slot system,say, one shilling and threepence, and firing one shilling andsixpence--at Brown's you only have a fire when it is really cold, and itis wonderful how far you can make a halfpenny bundle of wood go when youknow the trick of it. Now we come to the not unimportant item of food.It is quite easy; breakfast, consisting of an egg, which the grocer,with pleasing optimism, insists upon calling "fresh," one penny; breadand butter, per week, one shilling and sixpence; tea, milk, and sugar,per week, one and fourpence. Lunch, a really good, substantial meal, ofsavoury sausage or succulent fish and mashed potato, and a bun. If youare a lady the bun is indispensable; for if there is one faith implantedfirmly in the feminine breast, it is that which accepts the penny bun asa form of nutrition not to be equalled. Thrones totter and fall,dynasties stagger and pass away, but the devotion of Woman to the PennyBun stands firm amidst the cataclysms of nature and nations. Thissubstantial lunch costs sixpence. On Sundays, you dine sumptuously athome on a chop, or eggs and bacon, cooked over your gas-ring, and eatenwith the leisure which such luxury deserves. Tea, which if you are inCelia's case, you take at home, consists of the remains of the loaf andthe milk left from breakfast, enhanced by a sausage "Made in Germany,"or, say, for a change, half a haddock, twopence. Of course, this meal issupper and tea combined.
If you tot all this up, you will find it has now reached the notinconsiderable sum of fifteen shillings and tenpence. This is how therich person like Celia lives. There still remains a balance of fourshillings and twopence to be expended on clothing, bus fares, insuranceand amusement. Quite an adequate--indeed, an ample sum. At any rate, itseemed so to Celia, who, at present, was well set up with clothes, andfound sufficient amusement in the novelty of her life and hersurroundings; for, only a few months back, she had been living incomfort and middle-class luxury, with a larger sum for pocket-money thanhad now to suffice for the necessaries of existence.
The kettle was boiling, she set the tea; and while she was arranging ina vase--"Given away with every half-pound of our choice Congo!"--thepenny bunch of violets which she had been unable to resist, her lipswere moving to the strains of the hackneyed but ever beautifulintermezzo in "Cavalleria Rusticana," which floated up from the roomimmediately underneath hers; but as she drew her chair up to the fire,the music of the violin ceased, and presently she heard footstepsascending the stairs slowly. There came a knock at the door, and sheopened it to an old man with a frame so attenuated that it appeared tobe absolutely fleshless. His hair was white and almost touching hisshoulders, and his face so colourless and immobile that it looked as ifit were composed of wax; but the dark eyes under the white, shaggy browswere full of life, and piercing.
"Oh, good evening, Mr. Clendon!" said Celia, in the tone a woman useswhen she is really pleased, and not affecting to be pleased, at theadvent of a visitor. "Come in."
"Thank you, Miss Grant," said the old man, in a peculiar voice that wasquite low and yet strangely vibrant, like the note of a muted violin. "Ihave come to ask you if you could oblige me with a couple of pieces ofsugar. I have run out, and somehow--one has one's foolish weaknesses--Idislike my tea without sugar."
"Why of course," said Celia, with a touch of eagerness. "But--but won'tyou come in and have your tea with me?"
The old man shook his head; but his eyes, taking in the comfort of thetiny, fire-lit room, the aspect of home, grew wistful; besides, therewas a note of entreaty in the invitation; and "Thank you," he said,simply.
With a nod of satisfaction Celia insisted upon his taking the easychair, gave him a cup of tea--"Three lumps, please," he said--and seatedherself opposite him and smiled on him with the sweetness that is asindefinable as it is irresistible. Mr. Clendon, who played in theorchestra at the Hilarity Theatre of Varieties, just below Brown'sBuildings, being a gentleman as well as a broken-down fiddler, wasconscious of, and appreciated, the subtle manner. He sat quite silentfor a time, then, as his eyes wandered to the violets, he said:
"They smell of the country."
Celia nodded. "Yes; that is why I bought them. It doesn't often run tothe luxury of flowers; but I could not resist them."
"You are fond of the country?" he said.
"Oh, yes!" she responded, turning her eyes to the fire. "I have livedthere all my life, until--until quite recently--until I came here." Shewas silent for a moment or so. This old man was the only person she knewin Brown's Buildings; they had made acquaintance on the stairs, and theyhad now and again borrowed little things--sugar, salt, a candle--fromeach other. She liked him, and--she was a woman and only twenty-two--shecraved for some companionship, someone on whom she could bestow thegentle word and the smile which all good women and true long to give. Atthis moment she wanted to tell him something of her past life; but shehesitated; for when one is poor and alone in the world, one shrinkskeenly from speaking of the happiness that is past. But the longing wastoo much for her. "I used to live in Berkshire."
She paused, and stifled a sigh.
"My father bought a house there; we had plenty of money--I mean, at thattime." She coloured and was silent again for a moment. "My father was abusiness man and very lucky--for a time. Then luck changed. When hedied, nearly six months ago, we found that h
e was ruined; he left verylittle, only a few pounds."
The old man nodded again.
"I understand," he said, with neither awkward sympathy nor intrusivecuriosity.
"I was an only child, and suddenly found myself alone in the world.Oh, of course, there were relatives and friends, and some of themwere kind, oh, very kind"--once more Mr. Clendon nodded, as if heunderstood--"but--but I felt that I would rather make my own way. I daresay it was foolish; there have been times when I have been temptedto--to accept help--throw up the sponge," she smiled; "but--well, Mr.Clendon, most of us dislike charity, I suppose."
"Some of us," he admitted, dryly. "You found it hard work at first?Sometimes, when I hear stories like yours, Miss Grant, when I pass younggirls, thin, white-faced, poorly-clothed, going to their work, with thelook of old men on their faces--I mean old men, not women, mind!--I askmyself whether there is not some special place, with a special kind ofpunishment, appointed for selfish fathers, who have consigned theirdaughters to life-long toil and misery. I beg your pardon!"
"No, I don't think my father was selfish," said Celia, more to herselfthan to her listener. "Not consciously so; he was sanguine, toosanguine; he lived in the moment----"
"I know," said Mr. Clendon. "Some men are born like that, and can't helpthemselves. Well, what did you do?"
"Oh, it was what I tried to do," said Celia, with a laugh. "I tried todo all sorts of things. But no one seemed inclined to give me a chanceof doing anything; and, as I say, I was on the point of giving in, whenI met in the street, and quite by chance, an old acquaintance of myfather. He is a literary man, an antiquarian, and he is writing a bigbook; he has been writing it, and I think will continue to write it, allhis life. He wanted, or said he wanted, a secretary, someone to look upfacts and data at the British Museum; and he offered me the work.I--well, I just jumped at it. Fortunately for me, I have had what mostpersons call a good education. I know French and one or two otherforeign languages, and although I have 'little Latin and less Greek,' Imanage to do what Mr. Bishop wants. He gives me a pound a week; andthat's a very good salary, isn't it? You see, so many persons can dowhat I am doing."
"Yes, I suppose so," Mr. Clendon assented; he glanced at the slight,girlish figure in its black dress, at the beautiful face, with its clearand sweetly-grave eyes, the soft, dark hair, the mobile lips with alittle droop at the ends which told its story so plainly to theworld-worn old man who noted it. "And you work in the Reading Room allday?"
"Yes," said Celia, cheerfully, and with something like pride. "It is asplendid place, isn't it? Sometimes I can scarcely work, I'm sointerested in the people there. There are so many types; and yet thereis a kind of sameness in them all. One seems to lose one's identity themoment one enters, to become merged in the general--general----"
"Stuffiness," he said. "I know; I have been there. Do you manage to keepyour health? I have noticed that you are rather pale."
"Oh, I am quite well and strong," she said, with a laugh. "I always walkthere and back, unless it rains very hard; and I take long walks,sometimes in the early morning; sometimes at night, when it is fine. Ithink London is wonderful in the moonlight. You know the view fromWestminster Bridge?"
"Yes," he said. "And you are always alone?"
"Why, yes," she assented. "I know no one in London, excepting yourself;for Mr. Bishop lives in the country, in Sussex, and we work bycorrespondence. Oh, yes; I am lonely sometimes," she added, as if he hadasked a question. "But then, I am very busy. I am very much interestedin what I am doing, and besides--well, when one is poor, after 'seeingbetter days'"--she laughed apologetically--"it is, perhaps, better--onecan bear it better--to be alone."
He gave another nod which indicated his complete comprehension.
"And there is so much to interest one in the people one sees and livesamongst. Now here, in Brown's Buildings, in The Jail, one finds quite alarge amount of amusement in--well, in noticing one's neighbours andfitting a history to them. There is the young girl who lives on yourfloor; the girl who, you told me, is in the chorus of the 'Baby Queen';I am sure she is dreaming of, and looking forward to, the time when shewill be--principal lady, don't you call it?--and there is the lady wholives opposite her; the old lady who always wears a black silk dress, asatin cloak, and a crape bonnet. I am sure she has been 'somebody' inher time. I met her one day on the stairs, carrying a milk-can. I shouldhave been cowardly enough to put it under my jacket or behind me; butshe held it out in front of her and stared at me with haughty defiance.And there is my opposite neighbour"--she jerked her head, with a pretty,graceful motion, towards the door fronting her own--"that handsome,good-looking young fellow who comes up the steps two at a time and bangshis door after him, as if he were entering a mansion."
"I know the young man you mean," said Mr. Clendon. "Have you fitted ahistory to him?"
"Well, no; he puzzles me rather. I am sure he is a gentleman, and, ofcourse, he must be poor, or he would not be here. Sometimes I think heis a clerk looking for a situation; but he has not the appearance of aclerk, has he? He looks more like an--an engineer; but then, his handsare always clean. He is well groomed, though his clothes are old."
She paused a moment.
"Do you know, Mr. Clendon, I fancy that he has been in trouble lately; Imean, that something is worrying him. Yesterday, I heard him sigh as heunlocked his door. He used to sing and whistle; but, for the last fewdays, he has been quite quiet, and as I came in last evening I heard himwalking up and down his room, as men do when they have something ontheir minds. Do you know his name?"
"No," said Mr. Clendon, shaking his head; "he is a comparativelynew-comer. I could find out for you, if you like."
"Oh, no, no!" she said, quickly, and with a touch of colour. "I am notat all curious. I mean," she explained, "that knowing his name would notincrease my interest in him; quite the reverse. You know what I mean?But I fancy I am interested in him because I think he may be in trouble.You see, when one has suffered oneself----"
"Yes, that is the way with you women," said the old man. "In fact, Isuppose that, until you have suffered, you do not become women." Heglanced at the sheets of paper which lay on the little writing-desk andadded, "I am afraid I am keeping you from your work. It was very kind ofyou to ask me to stay to tea--and to tell me what you have told me. Iwish I could help you----. But, no, I don't; for, if I could be of anyassistance to you, you would not let me; you are too proud, Miss Grant.I like you all the better for the fact."
"Oh, but you have helped me, more than you know," Celia said, quickly."You don't know what a delight it is to me to hear the violin you playso beautifully; but, of course, you are an artist."
"Thank you," he said, his voice almost inaudible, and yet with thatpeculiar vibrance in it. "I was afraid I worried you."
"No, no," said Celia; "I am always sorry when you leave off. You play meto sleep sometimes and--and keep me from brooding. Not that I have anycause to brood," she added, quickly; "for I count myself lucky."
"Yes," he said; "you are lucky; for you have youth, beauty--I beg yourpardon," he apologized with a little bow and a gesture which werestrangely courtly. "And best of all, you have hope; without that, one isindeed unfortunate."
He rose, and Celia accompanied him to the door; it was only a few stepsdistant; but the old man moved towards it as if he had been accustomedto traversing apartments of a larger size. As Celia opened the door, theone opposite hers opened at the same moment, and a lady came out.Judging by her figure, for her face was thickly veiled, she was young;she was plainly but richly dressed, and wore a coat and muff of sable.Her appearance was so strangely different from that of the residents andvisitors of the Buildings that Celia could not help staring at her withsurprise. As if she were conscious of, and resented, Celia's intentregard, the lady turned her head away, and, keeping as near the wall aspossible, descended the stairs quickly.
Celia and Mr. Clendon neither exchanged glances nor made any remark.With a gesture of farewell and thanks, he went
down. Half-unconsciously,she stood looking at the door which the lady had closed after her; thenCelia shut hers and went back to clearing away the tea.
When Mr. Clendon had asked her if she had fitted a history to the youngman who had interested her so much, she had replied in the negative; butnow, involuntarily, she began to do so. Of course, he was in trouble;probably in debt; this beautifully-dressed woman was his sister, or,perhaps, his sweetheart; she had come to help him, to comfort him.Something in the idea was pleasant and welcome to Celia; he was such agood-looking young fellow; that voice of his, which used to sing but hadbecome silent lately, had a good, true ring in it; yes, it was nice tothink that his sister--or his sweetheart--had come to bring him comfort.
She sat down to her notes; but she could not concentrate herself uponher work. The imaginary history of the young man obtruded upon her; shedecided that she would go out for a walk, and take up her work againwhen she returned. She was getting her coat and hat when Mr. Clendonbegan to play; she changed her mind about the walk and went to the doorto open it an inch or so, that she might hear more distinctly the softstrains of the Beethoven Sonata which came floating up to her. As sheopened the door, she heard a strange sound rising above the notes of themusic; it was that, perhaps, most terrible of all sounds, the unbidden,irresistible groan, rising from a man's tortured heart; and it came fromthe young man's room.
Startled, chilled, by the sound, she wondered that she could hear it soplainly; then she saw that the door opposite was slightly ajar;evidently the visitor had failed to close it. Celia waited, with thefamiliar horror, the tense expectation, for a repetition of the groan.It came. Obeying an impulse, a womanly impulse, to fly to the call ofsuch poignant distress, Celia crossed the corridor softly and opened thedoor.
By the light of a single candle, she saw the young man seated at atable; his head was resting, face downward, on one arm; his wholeattitude was eloquent of despair; but it was not this abandonment ofgrief which caused her to thrill with quick terror; it was because thehand held clenched in its grasp a revolver.
Most women have a horror of firearms; Celia stood motionless, her eyesfixed on the shining, deadly weapon, as if it were a poisonous snake.She wanted to cry out, to rush at the beastly thing and snatch it fromthe hand that gripped it; but she felt incapable of speech or movement;she could only stare with distended eyes at the revolver and the headlying on the arm.
So quick, so noiseless had been her entrance, that the man had not heardher; but presently, after a few moments which seemed years to her, hebecame conscious of her presence. He raised his head slowly and lookedat her with vacant eyes, as if he were half-dazed and were askinghimself if she were a vision. The movement released Celia from herspell; a pang of pity smote her at the sight of the white, drawn face,the hopeless despair in the young fellow's eyes; her womanly compassion,that maternal instinct which the youngest of girl-children possesses,gave her courage. She leant forward, loosened the stiff, cold fingersand took the revolver from them. He submitted, as if he were still onlyhalf-conscious of her presence, and her action; and he glanced at hisempty hand, at the revolver in hers, and then at her face. Guided oncemore by impulse, Celia closed the door, then went back and seatedherself in a chair on the other side of the table; and so, face to face,they regarded each other in silence.
The man broke it.
"How--how did you know?" he asked. He spoke almost in a whisper, as aman speaks who is recovering from an anaesthetic.
"I heard you--groan," said Celia, also almost in a whisper.
"You did?" he said, more clearly, and with disgust. "I must have groanedpretty loudly." His self-contempt was evident.
There was a pause, then he said: "You are the girl who lives opposite?"A flicker of irritation and impatience shone in his eyes. "Why do youinterfere? It is no business of yours!"
"Yes, it is," she said, and there was something like a note of anger inher voice; for it seemed to her that he was extremely ungrateful. "It isthe duty of anyone to prevent a man making--a--a fool of himself. Youought to be ashamed."
Unwittingly, she had used the right tone. He leant back in the chair andstared at her with a mixture of resentment and amusement.
"You have plenty of confidence, anyhow, young lady," he said.
"And you have none," retorted Celia, with a dash of colour. "Fancy a manof your age trying to--to kill himself!"
"My age!" He laughed mirthlessly, ironically. "You talk to me, look atme, as if I were a boy."
"You are not much more," said Celia; "and a foolish one into thebargain."
He pushed impatiently the short lock of hair from his forehead, whichwas dank with sweat.
"Be that as it may," he said, "you have interfered most unwarrantably ina matter which does not concern you. All the same, I suppose you expectme to say that I am obliged to you. Well, I'm not; I don't like beinginterfered with, especially--by a woman. You come into my room----" Hetried to rise with an air of dignity, but he sank back, as if he wereweak, and with his arms extended along those of the chair regarded herwith a grim smile of whimsicality. "Well, I suppose I ought to say I amobliged to you. Consider that I have said it and--pray, don't let mekeep you."
Celia rose, the revolver still in her hand.
"Good night," she said.
"Here!" he called out to her, wearily; "give me back that thing; put itdown."
"Certainly not," said Celia, with decision. "You are not fit to betrusted with it."
"Oh, am I not?" he said, sarcastically.
"You know you are not. What were you doing with it, what were you goingto do with it, when I came in?" she demanded.
"What an unnecessary question," he retorted. "I was going to shootmyself, of course."
"Exactly. That is why I am taking it away from you."
"You are very clever," he said, with an attempt at sarcasm. "I can goout and buy another. No, I can't"--he laughed rather quaveringly--"Ihaven't the coin. Put that revolver down, young lady, and leave mealone."
"I shall do nothing of the kind," said Celia, her eyes bright, her lipsdrawn straight. "I mean, that I am going to take the revolver. And I amnot sure that I ought to leave you alone. If I do, will you promiseme----"
"That I won't try to kill myself in some other way? I will promiseyou nothing of the sort; you don't know what you are asking. But, as Isaid before, I don't want to detain you. In fact, if you knew--what Iam----" his voice faltered for a moment--"you would clear out withoutany urging on my part."
There was a pause, then: "What are you?" asked Celia, in a low voice.
"I am a forger," he replied, after another pause.
The colour left Celia's face, her lips quivered for a moment, but hereyes did not turn from him; and his eyes, after an attempt on his partto keep them steady, drooped before her intent gaze.
There was a silence which could be felt; then Celia said, very slowly,very quietly:
"I don't believe you."