III.
Madge went to her work next morning at nine, after a sleepless night. Mrs. Xerxes stopped her on the stairs to whisper that Mr. Vespan was much better. He had begged her to say to Miss Barberry that he hoped he had not frightened her, and to thank her for her kindness.
"Mrs. Xerxes! You never told him?"
"Bless you, my dear; he meant his fainting. I was mum about the money."
Madge nodded, much relieved, and resumed her way.
Her destination was within easy reach of Marigold Place. It was a stately red-brick house, one of a fashionable avenue, the blue window-boxes gaily crowded with white and scarlet flowers. The upholsteress was shown into the young ladies' boudoir. Two pretty girls were standing at a table, looking through a book of patterns in cretonne. They were twin sisters, and always spoke together. When the servant announced "The young person from Mrs. Xerxes'," both turned on Madge.
"Do you think you could upholster a cosy corner for us—Miss Barberry, isn't it? Then we want curtains to match. Can you make curtains? Which of these cretonnes will look best? How many yards will it take? May we stay and watch you work?"
Madge contrived to give lucid answers to all their questions, and proved invaluable to the sisters, who were delighted with her. They wasted a whole morning discussing and suggesting; but Madge had her dinner, and they insisted on her staying to tea also.
She went home at six. Mrs. Xerxes darted out of the kitchen, pointing mysteriously over her shoulder.
"He's in there."
"Who?"
"Mr. Vespan. I got him downstairs for a change. Suppose you go in and see him?"
"I?"
"Why not? Where's the harm? But for you, I'd like to know where he'd be!"
"Hush! He might hear you," whispered Madge.
"Not he. Well, will you come?"
Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Xerxes threw open the door of her sitting-room.
"I've brought Miss Barberry to see you, sir."
Paul Vespan turned his head languidly.
In Mrs. Xerxes' back yard, among battered tins and broken bottles, a Madonna lily had grown up, tall, and strong, and pure. It reminded the poet of Madge Barberry, as he saw her then.
"I have much to thank you for," he said, "though you saved a worthless life."
Madge looked round nervously; but Mrs. Xerxes had disappeared.
"How wicked I must seem to you!" Paul Vespan went on, in his weak, weary voice; "but if you knew what I have suffered!"
"I think I do know," said Madge, gently. "Life in London is very hard. And it is hardest for such as you are."
Paul looked at her inquiringly.
"That is——?"
"Perhaps you will laugh at me."
"No, no. Tell me."
"I took you for a poet."
"It is the truth."
"Not really!"
"But it is no use. There is no room for me anywhere. Board-carrying is more lucrative."
"Board-carrying?"
"Yes. Does it shock you? I am a sandwich-man by profession; a poet by accident."
"Oh! it can't be true!" cried Madge, passionately. "You—you, a sandwich-man?"
"I AM A SANDWICH-MAN."
"One and twopence a day is poor pay; but I assure you it's better than poetry."
"Some day——"
"Yes. I know. I have heard that so often. But one never comes up with 'some day.' Perhaps you are not ambitious?"
"No."
"How do you escape? It is in the air in London."
"I only have a wish. It is not great enough to be called an ambition."
"Will you tell me what it is?"
"Not now. I'm afraid I have let you talk too much as it is."
"No. It has done me good. What a happy face you have!"
"I am not unhappy."
"May you always remain so! Good-bye, then, since you must go. And thank you once more."
He held out his hand feebly, with a wan smile.
"And now—now, you will be brave, will you not? Try once more. Let me post your next poem for you. I may bring you luck."
"As you brought me light. I should be a churl to refuse you, to whom I owe my life. You shall post a poem for me. I have a penny in my pocket, the last, until I get another job. It shall buy a stamp."
Then she went away, shutting Paul into loneliness once more. But she had also left a hope behind. He was a braver man for the contact of that sister-life, his fellow-toiler in the Great City. Her courage shamed him. She, too, was poor and lonely, but not a coward. He would be one no longer. Because she had saved his life, he could never again think meanly of it, nor lightly fling it away. At last his heart could join in her sunset song:—
There is yet a day for me!
He went up to his poor room presently with a firmer step and a grateful glance across the landing to the door from which light had streamed to beckon him back to hope and life. He sat down in the twilight and began to think. First of all, he must find work or starve. Meanwhile, how was he living? On whose bounty? Mrs. Xerxes was a poor woman. She could not afford to be generous. To whom, then, did he owe it that he was not at this moment a homeless wanderer in the streets? Surely not to that strong, sweet woman to whom he owed his very life! His pale face flushed at the wild thought. Impossible, if her resources ran on anything like the same lines as his. He drew from his pocket the back of an old envelope, pencilled with figures. Madge Barberry's balance-sheet, indeed, compared favourably with this. On the credit side appeared six days' pay at 1s. 2d. per day for board-carrying. The debit side was made up of seven days' food, 2s. 4d.; lodging, 2s. 4d.; soap, 1d.; washing, 3d.; boots, 2s.
That was how Paul Vespan lived on seven shillings a week, and but for Madge Barberry, the record might have run "how he died" instead.
It was a pathetic little story; but, like Madge Barberry's, too everyday for romance in this city of sharp contrasts.
Then he rummaged amongst the contents of a battered cardboard box for the best of his poems, which he had promised to lend Madge. In the search he encountered frequent sharp reminders of past failure. Many a curt editorial note of rejection had drifted in between the loose sheets of MSS. Here, one "regretted that the accompanying manuscript was unsuitable to his pages, and returned it herewith."
Or another "presented his compliments to the writer of the accompanying article, which he returned with thanks."
But in the strength of the new life which he was facing, these stabs were pin-pricks. He would try once more, as that sweet voice had urged.