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.
IV.
Madge and her poet did not meet again for several days. Meanwhile, she posted his letter "for luck." He also left a roll of MS. at her door with "Paul Vespan's compliments." She read the poems in her leisure moments, which were few; for she now went daily to the red house in the avenue. The cosy corner made splendid progress, and the twins were more than ever enchanted with their upholsteress.
With a rebel thought of the poet thrusting itself between the lines, Madge read the verses to a finish; and then seized a regretful opportunity to return them.