LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

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