Читать книгу A Shadowed Love - Fred M. White - Страница 3

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I. — HARD UP.

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Nothing from the hot languid street below but a grumbling, whining voice or two. A mean London street off the river in August. How men who know the country and have the scent of the sap in their nostrils can toil and moil under such conditions is known only to themselves and their God.

High up a cheap low-flash lamp added to the heat of a third-floor room, and gave a spice of danger to the occupant's more sordid condition. The man, bending over a penny exercise book, rose as there came from below a succession of knocks growing gradually louder. The dull double thud came presently far down below. A small servant came presently and laid a letter by the writer's elbow.

It was no manuscript returned or stereo-typed note of acceptance, nothing more than a curt intimation that unless the rent of the third floor of No. 19, Pant-street, was paid before twelve o'clock to-morrow a distress would be levied. These things are not idle threats in Pant-street.

"What is it, Dick?" a pleasant voice asked from the outer darkness.

"Rent," Dick Stevenson said between his teeth. "Midday to-morrow. Our last anchor gone—'a poor thing, but mine own.'"

Molly Stevenson groaned. It seemed dreadfully disloyal, but she had been wondering lately if Dick was the genius that they had both fondly imagined. They all used to be under this delusion in the old vicarage.

Molly was to be a great artist, and Dick to combine Scott and Dickens and a few great lights of fiction. The streets of London were paved with gold, and so those noble-hearted, simple young folks walked into it hand in hand two years ago, since which time—

But that is an old story, and has been told time out of mind. The prosaic fact was three pounds twelve shillings were due for rent, and that, if the sum was not paid by high noon to-morrow, two struggling geniuses would be turned into the street.

"Could you possibly get that money from 'The Record?'" Molly asked.

Dick shook his head. 'The Record' only paid on Fridays, it was nearly ten o'clock, and the business manager of the morning journal in question would have gone home before now. Moreover, he was a member of the firm who left a great deal to his well-trained subordinates.

"It is nearly six pounds, Molly," Dick said, "a little stroke of luck that came just in the nick of time between ourselves and the workhouse. Still I'll try it."

They were busy enough in the office of "The Record." A score of pale-faced clerks were slaving away under the brilliant bands of light thrown by the electrics. Without looking up, a cashier asked Stevenson's business.

"Mr. Spencer gone for the day," was the quick reply. "Won't be back till Friday, anyway. Account? Let me see. There was an account passed for you—six pounds odd. Get it on Friday in due course."

"If I could only have it now?"

"Rubbish. We don't do business like that, as you ought to know by this time. If I paid that I should get myself into trouble."

Dick turned heavily away. The cashier was not to blame, he was a mere machine in the office. As Dick passed into the street somebody followed him.

"I'm awfully sorry," he stammered, "but you see I recognised you, Mr. Stevenson. My father was head gardener at Stanmere, and many a kindness we used to get from the rector and your mother. Are you—er, are you—"

The bright eyed lad hesitated in confusion.

"Hard up," Dick said, grimly. "I recognise you now, young Williams. How about those Ribstone Pippins that his lordship—"

"Please don't jest with me," the other said, imploringly. "I came out to tell you that Mr. Spencer has gone home. His address is 117 Cambria Square—he has one of those big flats there. If you go and see Mr. Spencer and tell him exactly how you stand, he will give you an order on the counting-house at once. Mr. Spencer will do anything for anybody."

"That's very good of you," Dick said, gratefully. "As it happens, I have never seen Mr. Spencer. What is he like?"

"Tall and spare, with a long grey beard. He's an enormously rich man, and practically our paper belongs to him. He never goes out in the daytime because he has something queer the matter with his eyes. During the year I have been in the office I have never seen him in the daytime."

Apparently Mr. Spencer of 'The Record' was a difficult person to find. It was a long time before the porter motioned Dick into the lift. Eventually a sombre-looking man in black livery conveyed him into a sitting-room, the solitary light of which was so shaded down that the intruder could see nothing but dim shadows. Presently out of these shadows loomed a tall figure, with the suggestion of a beard on his face.

"You wished to see me," he said. His voice was kindly, but there was a strange note of agitation in it. There was no reason why this rich and powerful man should be frightened, but undoubtedly he was. "Your name is strange to me."

Dick explained more or less incoherently. As he stumbled on nervously his almost unseen companion seemed to gain courage.

"It's a dreadful liberty," Dick mumbled. "But my little home is all I have, and—and the money is owing to me, and—"

"And you most assuredly shall have it," Mr. Spencer interrupted. "My secretary has unfortunately gone out, or I could give you a cheque now. But my card and a line or two on it will produce the money at the office. And if you call and see me there after nine to-morrow night I'll see what I can do for you."

Dick murmured his thanks.

The sudden kindness, the prospect of something beyond this terrible hand-to-mouth kind of existence, had thoroughly unhinged him. As he stood there, a little white-haired terrier trotted along the passage and sniffed at him with an eye to friendship. Dick stooped with a kindly pat, and the dog licked his hand.

"Your coat is coming off, sir," Dick said, huskily. "Look at my trousers, the best pair I have, and between ourselves, doggie, the only pair. And all smothered with white hairs. And if the editor of 'The Times' sent for me suddenly, why—"

Dick paused, conscious that he was talking pure nonsense. He was also conscious of the sudden opening of a door at the end of the corridor, a brilliant bath of light, and the figure of the most beautiful girl Dick had ever seen in his life. He was destined never to forget the perfect symmetry of that lovely face and the deep pathos of those dark blue eyes. A man came out, half turning to kiss the face of the girl, evidently previous to his departure.

"Exquisite!" Dick muttered. "At the same time it strikes me that I am more or less playing the spy. There's an air of mystery about them that appeals to the novelist's imagination. Good-night, doggie!"

He stooped down, gave the terrier a friendly pat, and was gone.