II.
It was sultry summer evening in Marigold Place. Madge Barberry, who had worked far into the twilight, was sitting at her open window with idly folded hands. Overhead the glassy sky was brilliant with stars. Down in the mews the lamps flickered fitfully behind their panes. From time to time the silence was broken by the shrill screams of gutter children at play, or by the impatient stamp of a horse in its stall. Madge was singing to herself, but her thoughts were wandering away from the song to Mr. Vespan. The motherliness in her tender young heart had been touched by the sight of his wan, weary face, as it passed her on the stairs that morning. He walked languidly, and seemed paler than usual. But, then, the heat was very trying. Fierce enough in Marigold Place, it was worse, no doubt, in the City. Could it have been a mere fancy, too, that he looked at her, as she hurried by, with timid, pitiful eyes, that seemed to ask her help? Poor Paul! It would have done him good to know how much sympathetic interest he was exciting in this stranger's heart.
Mrs. Xerxes limped upstairs after supper, and found her lodger in the dark. Madge economized in lights all the summer.
"If you please, Miss Barberry," said Mrs. Xerxes, who brought with her a strong odour of fried fish, "I've taken the liberty to get a job for you."
"That is very kind of you, Mrs. Xerxes," smiled Madge.
"THAT IS VERY KIND OF YOU."
"I 'oped you would take it that way, miss. It's where I was charing to-day. The young ladies are doin' up their rooms, and they asked me if I could recommend a respectable young person for upholstery. So I put in a word for you, thinking that every little helps."
"Indeed, it does, Mrs. Xerxes. Where is the house? And when am I to go?"
"To-morrow, at nine. Here's the address."
Mrs. Xerxes extricated a scrap of dirty paper from her pocket, and handed it to Madge. Then she went hobbling downstairs again.
A little later, a man who had groped his way up the narrow stairs stopped on the third-floor landing, gasping for breath. Madge was singing—her chatelaine jingling, not unmusically, for accompaniment—as she moved about her room. It was a sweet song, sweet with hope and promise:—
Sing high. Tho' the red sun dip
There is yet a day for me;
Nor youth I count for a ship
That was long ago lost at sea.
But the words fell with pathetic irony on Paul Vespan's ears, that must shortly be deaf to the sound of all human voices.
Did the lost love die and depart?
Many times since have we met;
For I hold the years in my heart,
And all that was is yet.
That verse was not for him. The light-hearted singer, no doubt, had had her love-passages, but she had evidently outlived them. He had no such memories to console or to detain him. He had lived solitary and misunderstood. He must die alone. Who would be sorry for him? Not this heartless singer, certainly. Poor Madge, who had been troubled, even in her singing, for her poet!
Paul turned into his room, and began to grope about for a match. Then he felt in his pockets. They were empty. He was poor, indeed. Fate had not left him so much as a light for his last journey. Nor was this the only delay. Across the landing a sweet voice called him back with tender insistence—
There is yet a day for me!
If only he could believe it! He had grown weary waiting for its dawn. The Poet's day is long in coming.
Nor youth I count for a ship
That was long ago lost at sea!
If it might be so! Paul staggered out of his dark room into the darkness beyond, clutching blindly at the air, for he was weak with long fasting. The song broke off. A woman called across the landing:—
"Who is there?"
"It is I."
"That's a starving man," said Madge to herself, "and it's Mr. Vespan's voice. What do you want?" she asked, opening her door.
"A light."
"SHE STOOD IN THE DOORWAY."
"Wait a moment. I will bring you one."
She came out and stood in the doorway, shading a flickering candle with her hand. The delicate face and slender figure were sharply silhouetted on Paul Vespan's fading consciousness. If he had meant to live, here was a woman worth living for. But he had done with possibilities. She went up to him and looked bravely into his white face.
"You are very ill," she said, gently.
"I shall be better soon."
Madge's quick eyes travelled down to his shaking hand. It had closed like a vice over some hidden treasure; but not before his good angel had seen it. Her own face paled as she bent above him.
"Give me that bottle," she said, quietly.
But, as the dark blue phial with its orange label slipped from Paul Vespan's nerveless fingers to hers, the little upholsteress burst into tears.
"Don't cry," said the man, hoarsely. "I am not worth it."
"You never meant it. No, my poor boy, no. You were unhappy—tired. It was all a mistake."
He fell back, gasping, against the wall.
"You had no right——"
"It would have been easier than—did you ever see anyone die of—starvation——?"
"You are not——"
"Yes, I am."
"Let me get you something."
"Anything—I am so hungry."
What should she do? She had spent her daily shilling. But to-morrow she would be sure of a dinner: to-morrow's pittance should go to this starving man.
Her poet was starving! That awful cry, going up hourly from the heart of the Great City, had never come home to Madge Barberry before. True, the horror had sometimes seemed imminent in her own life, but her brave hands, made desperate by love, had always kept it at bay. For the sake of her dead mother, who had been spared this martyrdom, she must save Paul Vespan. Quick as thought, she ran downstairs and knocked at the kitchen door. Mrs. Xerxes came out, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Deary me, Miss Barberry, whatever's the matter?"
"Will you come upstairs, Mrs. Xerxes? Mr. Vespan has fainted outside his door. He looks very ill. Perhaps he's hungry. Would you take this and buy what he wants until—until he gets better?"
"I always said you were the lady born, Miss Barberry," observed Mrs. Xerxes, looking down at the silver coin which Madge had pressed into her grimy hand; "but I don't know that I ought to take this from you. What would Mr. Vespan say?"
"Please, please don't tell him," cried poor Madge, in an agony of apprehension. "Let him think it's you."