LIGHT.
AFTER a long and baffling search up and down through western Europe
he learned that Courtleigh had robbed her and deserted her, and that
she was alone, under the name of Mrs. Brandon, at a tiny house in
Craven street near the Strand. He lifted and dropped its knocker,
and a maid-of-all-work thrust through a crack in the door, her huge
be-frowzled head with its thin hair drawn out at the back over a big
wire-frame.
“How is Mrs. Brandon?” he said.
“Not so well, thank you, sir,” replied the maid, looking at him as
suspiciously as her respect for the upper classes permitted.
“I wish to see the landlady.”
She instantly appeared, thrusting the maid aside and releasing a rush
of musty air as she opened the door wide. She was fairly trembling with
curiosity.
“I am Mrs. Brandon’s--next friend,” he said, remembering and using the
phrase which in his reporter days he had often seen on the hospital
entry-cards. “I am the guardian of her child. I’ve come to see what can
be done for her.”
His determined, commanding tone and manner, and his appearance of
prosperity, convinced Mrs. Clocker. “We’ve done all we could, sir. But
the poor lady is in great straits, sir. She’s been most unfortunate.”
“Is there a physician?”
“Doctor Wackle, just up the way, sir.”
“Send for him at once. May I see her?”
The maid set off up the street and Stilson climbed a dingy first
flight, a dingier second flight, and came to a low door which sagged
far from its frame at the top. He entered softly--“She’s asleep, sir,”
whispered Mrs. Clocker.
It was a miserable room where the last serious attempts to fight
decay had been made perhaps half a century before. It now presented
queer contrasts--ragged and tottering furniture strewn with handsome
garments; silk and lace and chiffon and embroidery, the latest Paris
devisings, crumpled and tossed about upon patch and stain and ruin;
several extravagant hats and many handsome toilet-articles of silver
and gold and cut glass spread in a fantastic jumble upon the dirty
coverings of a dressing-table and a stand. Against the pillow--its case
was neither new nor clean--lay the head of Marguerite. Her face was
ugly with wrinkles and hollows, that displayed in every light and shade
a skin shiny with sweat, and bluish yellow. Her hair was a matted mass
from which had rusted the chemicals put on to hide the streaks of gray.
She was in a stupor and was breathing quickly and heavily.
He had come, filled with pity and even eager to see her. He was ashamed
of the repulsion which swept through him. Her face recalled all that
was horrible in the past, foreboded new and greater horrors. He turned
away and left the room. His millstone was once more suspended from his
neck.
Dr. Wackle had come--a shabby, young-old man with thin black whiskers
and damp, weak lips. In a manner that was a cringing apology for his
own existence, he explained that Marguerite had pneumonia--that she
was dangerously ill. He had given her up, but the prospect of payment
galvanised hope. “There is a chance, sir,” he said. “And with----”
“What is the name and address of the best specialist in lung diseases?”
he interrupted.
“There’s Doctor Farquhar in Half Moon Street, sir. He ’as been called
by the royal family, sir.”
“Take a cab and bring him at once.”
While Wackle was away, Stilson arranged Marguerite’s account with the
landlady and had some of his belongings brought from the Carlton and
put into the vacant suite just under Marguerite’s. After two hours Dr.
Farquhar came; at his heels Wackle, humble but triumphant. Stilson
saw at one sharp glance that here was a man who knew his trade--and
regarded it as a trade.
“What is your consultation fee?”
Dr. Farquhar’s suspicious face relaxed. “Five guineas,” he said,
looking the picture of an English middle-class trader.
Stilson gave him the money. He carefully placed the five-pound note
in his pocket-book and the five shillings in his change-purse. “Let
me see the patient,” he said, resuming the manner of the small soul
striving to play the part of “great man.” Stilson led the way to the
sagged, hand-grimed door. Farquhar opened it and entered. “This foul
air is enough to cause death by itself,” he said with a sneering glance
at Wackle. “No--let the window alone!”--this to Wackle in the tone a
brutal master would use to his dog.
Wackle stood as if petrified and Farquhar went to the head of the bed.
Marguerite opened her eyes and closed them without seeing anything.
He laid his hand upon her forehead, then flung away the covers and
listened at her chest. “Umph!” he grunted and with powerful hands
lifted her by the shoulders. Grasping her still more firmly he shook
her roughly. Again he listened at her chest. “Umph!” he growled. He
looked into her face which was now livid, then shook her savagely and
listened again. He let her drop back against the pillows and tossed
the covers over her. He took up his hat which lay upon a silk-and-lace
dressing gown spread across the foot of the bed. He stalked from the
room.
“Well?” said Stilson, when they were in the hall.
The great specialist shrugged his shoulders. “She may last ten
hours--but I doubt it. I can do nothing. Good day, sir.” And he jerked
his head and went away.
Stilson stood in the little hall--Wackle, the landlady and the
maid-of-all-work a respectful group a few feet away. His glance
wandered helplessly round, and there was something in his expression
that made Wackle feel for his handkerchief and Mrs. Clocker and the
maid burst into tears. Stilson went stolidly back to Marguerite’s room.
He paused at the door, turned and descended. “Can you stay?” he said to
Wackle. “I will pay you.”
“Gladly, sir. I’ll wait here with Mrs. Clocker.”
Stilson reascended, entered the room and again stood beside Marguerite.
With gentle hands he arranged her pillow and the covers. Then he seated
himself. An hour--two hours passed--he was not thinking or feeling;
he was simply waiting. A stir in the bed roused him. “Who is there?”
came in Marguerite’s voice, faintly. “Is it some one? or am I left all
alone?”
“What can I do, Marguerite?” Stilson bent over her.
She opened her eyes, without surprise, almost without interest. “You?”
she said. “Now they won’t dare neglect me.”
Her eyelids fell wearily. Without lifting them she went on: “How did
you find me? Never mind. Don’t tell me. I’m so tired--too tired to
listen.”
“Are you in pain?” he asked.
“No--the cough seems to be gone. I’m not going to get well--am I?” She
asked as if she did not care to hear the answer.
He sat on the edge of the bed and gently stroked her forehead. She
smiled and looked at him gratefully. “I feel so--so safe,” she said.
“It is good to have you here. But--oh, I’m so, so tired. I want to
rest--and rest--and rest.”
“I’ll sit here.” He took her hand. “You may go to sleep. I’ll not leave
you.”
“I know you won’t. You always do what you say you’ll do.” She ended
sleepily and her breath came in swift, heavy sighs with a rattling
in the throat. But she soon woke again. “I’m tired,” she said.
“Something--I guess it’s life--seems to be oozing out of my veins. I’m
so tired, but so comfortable. I feel as if I were going to sleep and
nobody, nothing would ever, ever wake me.”
He thought she was once more asleep, until she said suddenly: “I was
going to write it, but my head whirled so--he stole everything but
some notes I had in my stocking. But I don’t care now. I don’t forgive
him--I just don’t care. What was I saying--yes--about--about Mary.
She’s yours as well as mine, Robert--really, truly, yours. I made you
doubt--because--I don’t know--partly because I thought you’d be better
off without us--then, afterward, I didn’t want you to care any more for
her than you did. You believe me, Robert?”
He nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I believe you.”
“And you forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive--nothing.”
“It doesn’t matter. I only want to rest and stop
thinking--and--and--everything. Will it be long?”
“Not long,” he said in a choked undertone.
Presently she coughed and a black fluid oozed hideously from her lips
and seemed to be threatening to strangle her. He called the doctor who
gave her an opiate.
“Come with me, sir,” said Wackle in a hoarse, sick-room whisper, “Mrs.
Clocker has spread a nice cold lunch for you.”
Stilson waved him away. Alone again, he swept the finery from the
sofa and stretched himself there. Trivial thoughts raced through his
burning brain--the height and width of the candle flames, the pattern
of the wall paper, the tracery of cracks in the ceiling, the number of
yards of lace and of goods in the dresses heaped on the floor. As his
thoughts flew from trifle to trifle, his head ached fiercely and his
skin felt as if it were baking and cracking.
Then came a long sigh and a rattling in the throat from the woman in
the bed. He started up. “Marguerite!” he called. He looked down at her.
She sighed again, stretched herself at full length, settled her head
into the pillow. “Marguerite,” he said. And he bent over her. “Are you
there?” he whispered. But he knew that she was not.
He took the candle from the night stand and held it above his head. The
dim flame made his living face old and sorrow-seamed, while her dead
face looked smooth, almost young. Her expression of rest, of peaceful
dreams, of care forever fled, brought back to him a far scene. He could
hear the crash of the orchestra, the stirring rhythm of a Spanish
dance; he could see the stage of the Gold and Glory as he had first
seen it--the bright background of slender, girlish faces and forms; and
in the foreground, slenderest and most girlish of all, Marguerite--the
embodiment of the motion and music of the dance, the epitome of the
swift-pulsing life of the senses.
He knelt down beside the bed and took her dead hand. “Good-bye, Rita,”
he sobbed. “Good-bye, good-bye!”
* * * * *
Suddenly the day broke and the birds in the eaves began to chirp, to
twitter, to sing. He rose, and with the sombre and clinging shadows of
the past and the present there was mingled a light--faint, evasive, as
yet itself a shadow. But it was light--the forerunner of the dawn of a
new day upon a new land where his heart should sing as in the days of
his youth.
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Emboldened text is surrounded by equals signs: =bold=.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.