The Woman's Way. Charles Garvice
You know?"
Celia nodded. That tender heart of hers was quite ready with its comprehension and sympathy.
"I hope you will succeed; but if you don't—Ah, well; you can go back," she said, half-enviously.
"No; one doesn't go back," he said, with a gravity that sat curiously on his boyish face. "Once you've got the fever, you've got it for life. Tiger tasting blood, you know. I'd rather be a literary man than—than the German Emperor. Of course, I'm hoping to do better things; but even the stuff I do makes me—oh, well, kind of happy. Every time I get a proof something runs through me, something grateful and comforting—like the cocoa. I mean to get on to fiction presently." He blushed like a girl, and looked at her timidly, with the appealing look of a dog in his eyes. "I've tried my hand already at a short story or two." He paused. "I say"—hesitatingly, his eyes still more dog-like—"you are so awfully kind, I wonder whether you'd mind looking at one of my things. Oh, of course, it's too much to ask! You're busy—you work hard, I know; I've watched you."
"Why, I shall be very pleased to read something you have written," said Celia, smiling encouragement.
"You will! Oh, that's stunning of you! I'll send you a short story to-night, if you'll give me your address. But perhaps you'd rather not," he added, quickly.
"Why not?" said Celia. She gave it to him.
"I'll send it," he whispered; but as he spoke, his hand went towards his breast-pocket.
Celia tried not to smile; for she saw what was coming.
"To tell you the truth," he said, with a burst of candour, "I've got one with me. I'll give it to you now. But for Heaven's sake don't look at it here! I should see by your face what you thought of it, and you're likely to think precious little of it; you'll think it tommy-rot; though, of course, you won't say so. Look here!" he went on, as he drew out the precious manuscript slowly, "don't tell me that it 'shows promise'; I can bear anything but that. That's fatal; it's what all the beastly editors say when they don't mean to have anything to do with you."
"Very well," said Celia. "I will tell you exactly what I think of it."
"Honest Injun?" he queried, his blue eyes twinkling.
"Honest Injun," repeated Celia. "And I think I shall be able to say something very nice; for I am sure you are clever."
He blushed, and his eyes danced.
"You've said something very nice already," he said, gratefully; "and when you say it like that—well, upon my word, it makes me feel that I am clever. And that's half the battle, Miss Grant. A man is just what he feels himself to be; that's why nothing succeeds like success; to feel that other people know you can do your job. Oh, well!"
Celia nodded. "I must go back," she said. "I was not able to begin my work so early as usual this morning."
"Not feeling well?" he said, anxiously, and with a glance at her face which, he had noticed, was paler than usual. "I suppose you've got the Reading-Room headache. Everybody gets it; it's the general stuffiness of the place. They can't help it—the officials, I mean; they've tried all sorts of dodges for ventilation; it's better than it used to be; but it's still crammed full of headache."
"No; I've been worried this morning," said Celia, more to herself than to him.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" he said, in a voice full of a boy's ready sympathy. "Look here! Is it anything I can help you with? I mean——" He grew red, and stammered. "Oh, of course, you'll laugh; and it's like my cheek, but—you helped me, you know—and we're brothers and sisters in misfortune, working on the same treadmill—I'd do anything for you—it would be a pleasure——"
Celia sighed as she smiled, and wondered idly how he would respond if she said, "Well, find a man for me, a man whose name I don't know, to whose whereabouts I have not the slightest clue." She shook her head.
"It is very good of you," she said; "but you could not help me; no one could."
"I am sorry," he murmured. "I should have loved to have done something for you; perhaps I may some day—lion and the mouse, you know. It's a rum world. You'll find my address on the manuscript," he added, shyly, as she rose.
He did not follow her; but later in the afternoon Celia caught sight of him seated at the farther end of the Reading Room. He was looking in her direction, but, as his eyes met hers, he dropped them and bent over his work. It was evident that he had changed his place lest she should think he was intruding on her.
As she entered the courtyard of Brown's Buildings, Celia bought an evening paper. If she had mistaken the significance of the old gentleman's message and the man who haunted her thoughts had been arrested, the case might be reported. She scanned the police news anxiously; but there was no report, and she was laying the paper down when her eye caught a familiar name in a paragraph. She read the few lines in a kind of stupor, with a sense of unreality; and when she had finished reading she stood with the paper gripped in her hand, and staring stupidly before her.
The paragraph ran thus:—
"We regret to announce the death of Mr. William Bishop, the well-known antiquarian, which occurred suddenly at his country residence early this morning."
Slowly through her stupor broke the realization that she had been thrust back into the ranks of the unemployed, that only a few shillings stood between her and utter destitution.
CHAPTER VI
Strangely enough, Dene's spirits seemed lightened by the scene with Heyton; perhaps he had found that peculiar satisfaction which comes to all of us when we have relieved our minds by telling a man who has behaved badly and injured us what we think of him. But this hypothesis does not altogether account for the uplifting of Dene's mind. He had been going to commit suicide, because he was assured that everybody would regard him as one of the meanest of creatures, a forger and passer of a "stumer" cheque; but suddenly, at the tragical moment, an angel, in the guise of a young girl, had appeared, snatched the revolver from his hand, and saved him by just telling him that she believed him innocent.
It seemed to him that this guardian angel of his was hovering about him still; that it was incumbent upon him to carry out his pact with her, and to escape the fate that had threatened him, and, indeed, threatened him still. So centred were his thoughts on this girl, whose very name he did not know, so buoyed up was he by her wonderful goodness to him, that he had to remind himself he was still in danger. Perhaps, after all, that fact was not without its compensations; for Youth, when it goes with strength, and a clear brain, loves adventure, and enjoys pitting itself against any kind of foe. Here was he, an innocent man, flying from Injustice; he was to find out, perhaps for the first time in his life, what his wits were worth.
As he walked quickly, but not too hurriedly, through the shady streets towards the river, he considered the situation. If they were keen on the pursuit, the police would no doubt already have set a watch at the various ports; and it would be useless for him to attempt to reach the Continent; besides, he had not sufficient money to carry him far enough from England; for, in addition to the five-pound note, which had assumed already the character of a talisman, there were only a few shillings in his pocket.
It occurred to him that he would go down to the docks and see if he could obtain a berth on one of the small trading vessels; he had the quickness of hand and foot which comes of football and cricket, and he had done some sailing in a friend's yacht; enough, at any rate, to make him useful on board a ship. He took the train to Mark Lane Station, and suddenly reminded by the inward monitor that he had eaten nothing for some hours, turned into one of the numerous old-fashioned coffee-shops near the quay.
The place was crowded with ship hands and dock labourers, and reeked with that indescribable odour which is peculiar to the locality. Without receiving an order, a one-eyed waiter slammed a cup of thick coffee and two hunks of bread and butter before