A VOICE IN THE DARK.

Evening Post, Volume LXXVII, Issue 108, 8 May 1909, Page 10

A VOICE IN THE DARK.

— , —^ (By IZ. liverett Green.) (All Rights Reserved.) "Harold — do listen a moment ! Who can that be singing?" The young man, with a fine intellectual face and air of supreme absorption in his task, lifted his head, his hand ■with his fountain pen suspended in mid-air. "Somebody in one of the other flats, I suppose. She has a beautiful voice." "Wait, Harold; don't begin writing just for a moment. I want to open the window. I believe — only it seems impossible—" Edith moved across and threw up the window. A gust of rain drove her back; but the next minute she was leaning out — and a strain of melody sung in a voice of witching sweetness rose through the wet stillness of the autumn night. "Harold — it is — I was sure of it ! It is a girl singing in the streets! But just listen to that voice ! And the rain ! Harold, Harold — do be a dear good kind boy! Go and bring the poor thing in here. It's not the voice of a common woman. She might make her fortune on the operatic stage. Harold — let us discover her! let us exploit her! Ah, you are laughing at me ; but you are going to do something — I see it in your eye! At least run down and bring her in out of the rain. I'll let you in. We needn't scandalise old Mother Hubbard ! She'll be gone to bed directly too. We can have our discovery all to ourselves ! Do go quickly — before anybody else forestalls us ! There's an angelboy !" The young man laughed, stepped ont into the paasage-Svay of the bright little fiat, seized his cap, and passed through the door upon the stairs, down which his sister heard him lightly run, after which she darted back to her post by the window, hearing the sweet strain!? of the exquisite Voice rise up again through the murk of the soft, wet, moonless night. She could not watch the encounter between her brother and the "pjrimadonna of the future" — as s-he dubbed her in her thoughts, for the fiat was high up in the block of building, and the street was not a wide one. But she noted the cessation of the song. . She almost fancied she heard voices in colloquy, and in a fe-w moments more .she darted back to the door-way to the staircase, and waited there for the approach of ascending steps. And all the while her mind was working hard. "With that voice she must have a history ! It must have been trained and cultivated somehow. It is the voice of a lady — I don't care what anybody says ! One never knows the shifts one may be put to in these hard, terrible days ! Do we not know ourselves what the struggle can be — in measure? And now, when Harold has won success and fame — when money comes to us easily and in increasing sums, are "we not the very people who ought to help others, who are still fighting the waves which we have escaped'/ O, I hear steps — if Harold were alone he would come quicker than that! Yes, and he is talking to some one, and she is answering! It is a lovely voice — her speaking voice, too ! I'm sure she is pretty to look at, too. I'll go and meet them, she must be drenched. I'll find her some clothes — we'll feed and warm her — and — •" But by this time Edith was face to face with the ascending couple. There was her brother, tall and broad-shoulder-ed — a humorous smile lurking in his brown eyes, and twitching the corners of his clean-shaven lips — and beside him a slender figure in a, clinging wet gown of poor material, that left marks against every step its owner ascended ; an inadequate cape protecting her shoulders, a little black straw hat, glistening with rain drops, surmounting a mass of gol-den-brown hair. "You poor clear !" spoke Edith with quick, impulsive kindliness, "What a night for you to be out! You should not risk that lovely voice of yours in such reckless fashion. Come in — and let me see what 1 can do for you !" "Ah, but I am so weW-I am not fit to come in anywhere. I told your husband so just now ; but — "Ah, but come in, come in — we will soon have you dry. Harold, clear, just get the kettle boiling, whilst I see what I can do about getting her dry. Now follow me, please. 0, never mind a few pools ! You have shed the worst of the wet on the stairs ! Come along in — and afterwards you shall sing for us— you know the good old Nursery rhyme — ' Little Tommy Tucker, sang for his supper ' ? Well, that's what you shall do to-night ! Yours is not a voice to be wasted in the street ! Come this way, please. Our domain is not a very large one ; but we have a spare room. And I keep a supply of garments there for friends who drop in and spend the night in impromptu fashion. I'll light the gas-fire. We'll dry your cape and gown for you— and anything else that's wet. And I'll soon rig you out in something more comfortable ; and we'll have some supper together afterwards." By this time Edith Dean was perfectly certain she had a lady to deal with. Every tone of the voice, every turn of head or hands, every little deprecating or grateful gesture told the same tale. Although the clothing she helped to remove was poor and plain, and almost threadbare, it was beautifully neat, mended with scrupulous care, and nut on with finish and delicacy. Edith rummaged in a closet which opened from this room, and in which some of her own spare clothing was stored, and came back with a black quilted leu-gown in her hands, the front trimmed with a cascade of yellowish lace, and this she tossed down on the bed whilst she rumniciged out dry footgear for her guest. She noted with quick surreptitious glances how delicate were the girl's hands and feel — ah, it was sad, sad, sad when delicately reared high-bred girls were reduced to straits like these ! Her busy biain was hard at work. This girl must not expose herself to such a. life as that of street singing — the thought was not to be borne. Waves of generous sympathy overflowed Edith's kindly heart. Had she and Harold not always agreed that they must help the needy — remembering that they had known poverty and the dread of need themselves ? Perhaps this girl had been sent to them by Providence, that they might undertake her case. At any rate, with the rain streaming down now so as to cause quite a commotion outside, they would not easily let ncr out into the night again ! How slender and beautiful and distinguished she looked in the trailing black wrapper ! Edith tied a golden sash about her waist, and exclaimed as she did so — "You pooi dear — there is nothing of you ! Tell me — have you been short of "food ?" " I—lI — I have not had much to eat today," was the answer, spoken by the clear, sweet tones, "that is why I was singing in the streets. I have not done that before." " Come along, come along and have supper with us ! 0 you poor dear ! No, I'll not hear anything yet. Afterwards you may tell us just as much or as little as you please. But you must first be fed, now that you're dry and waim. Then we will talk — if you care to do so. But vow I'll not hear or ask anything — except just — your name." • " #lary Denzil.

" How pretty ! I love the name of Mary. I always wish I had- been called that. Mary Mellor would have been so much prettier than Edith. Yes, Mellor is our name — and this flat is our home. Now come along, and we will see what sort of a supper Harold has foraged out for us. When we sit up shockingly late we get ourselves what as children we used to call a ' surreptitious meal. ' Somehow the things . always taste better so." The small cheerful dining-room seemed to smile them a welcome. Harold Mellor, as he saw the pair enter, gave some- J thing-,like> a start of surprise. What a lovely creature Edith's protegee was ! He had no idea in the dark of the street and the half light of the staircase of the exquisite purity of the complexion, the delicate . moulding of the features, the sweep of the long curved lashes of golden brown over eyes of a marvellous j depth g£ blue. Now sit down, you poor dear. Harold, what have you got ? Boiled eggs and buttered toast — capital ' And you always were the best hand at coffee ! Mary, dear, take a good drink to warm you ! And don't be afraid of London eggs; for these come from a friend's farm in the country. They are quite safe. I declare I'm hungry myself. Harold, you must be famished !" She gave him a quick, meaning look, "I'm going to get out the cold tongue and the fruit tart. You were so bursting with ideas that you took no dinner. Mary, ■when you live with a rising author — if ever you do have that privilege ! — you'll find that the caprices of the creature are like the sands of the seashore for multitude !" Harold grinned to nimself ; for author and genius as he was, with power to grip and hold his world by the force of his creative gifts, he was in daily life a man of few moods, few eccentricities, and of quiet and regular habits. But he instantly understood that their guest was to be fed ; and though her movements were all delicately refined, and her experience of the usages of the table showed perfectly her familiarity with the life of the rr ' classes," yet it was evident that she was in a half-famished condition, and the pity of the strong man welled up in his heart, ac he realised that this delicate and supremely lovely creature had actually known the pinch of semistarvation. "And I never sang for this splendid supper after all !" This was when they were bacK in the drawing-room, and Harold had settled her in the most luxurious chair, bending over her with a solicitude which brought a gleam of fun to Edith's eyes. When she made an excuse to leave the room for a few minutes she knew that he would follow her; she knew what he had come to say. ■ "Y.ou must keep her the niglit, Edith. We can take the risk. It's awful to think wliat might happen to a girl like that in the streets of a great city. We must keep her !" "I never sang for my supper !" spoke Mary again, when they returned to the room. "And now it is so late — I must be—" Edith could be very firm. She was firm now. She spoke her ultimatum ; and Mary looked at the two kind faces witli sudden tears springing to her eyes. "Then I shall sing for my bed as well as my supper," she said ; and crossed to the piano which stood in the corner. She sang. They listened. Harold never took his eyes off the lovely face of the singer. Edith watched them both, and suddenly a queer thrill ran through her — its root a sudden blinding sense of /conviction. "Ah me, ah me — has it come at last? 0, Harold ! — and a perfect stranger — just a Voice in the night ! Well, it was my doing first and last. If I am hoist with my own petard — I have only myself to thank ! As the girl rose from the piano at last, her eyes fell upon a book lying on the table. She pounced swiftly upon it — as one who seizes a treasure. '"Ah — you have his books here — The Hermit ! — who is he ? Where does he come from? I simply revel in his work! — but nobody can tell me who he is !" EditWs face lighted with laughter ; but Harold gave her a quick look that she instantly understood. It was he who spoke : "How do you know that The Hermit is a man at all ? And what is it in the books you like so much?" "Of course he is a man ! You feel his strength an/1 masculinity in every line ! But he handles women so tenderly — so understandingly ! Yes, it is the work of a great soul as well as a master-hand." She turned the leaves lingeringly, as one who knows and loves the words they contain, and quoted a few passages, which, as she expressed it, were "graven upon her heart." For three days she remained the guest of the Mellors, as Edith had decreed that first night. She had owned to being alone in the world, without parents, brothers or sisters, or near relatives. She stayed ; and it was during the second day that Edith suddenly said : "Mary, I am going to tell you some--thing, I think I ought. It is my brother — Harold — who is the Hermit; that is the name he began to write under when he was a struggling journalist. He keeps to it still now that success has come." Mary turned slowly pale; her eyes dilated with wonder— "Your — brother. Harold — Mr. Mellor? I thought — I thought — he was — your husband !" "Ah no — though we are lovers — after a fashion — always shall be, I hope. He is my hermit-erab — my very dear brother. He writes his novels, and I type them for him. Once I made my living -after a fashion — with a typewriter. We are very happy — and we are slowly growing rich We are putting by against the future with its possibility of rainy days ; but success seems to have come." Mary was very quiet all that day. In the evening she sang to them again — sang in a fashion which made Harold suddenly exclaim— "Miss Denzil — I cannot understand it ! Where were you trained ? What does it all mean? It is not possible that — " She looked at him with the light in her eyes that seemed to flood the room. "Yes, I know what you mean. I was a rich man's daughter. But you know — in these days — what changes come — ' ' He restrained himself at that moment. Something in her gentle dignity and sweetiipss of manner restrained him ; but, in the twilight of the third clay no found her alone. She was standing beside the window, looking ont upon the murk of the tvilieht. He pictured her anew as he had seen her fii-pt — aloivo in the glistening streets — singing wilh that jxlorious voice — for ears which cared not to hear. The thine was monstrous, incongruous — impossible. He made a forward step. He took her straight into his strong arms. "Mary, Mary — you are not going out any moro into the darkness and the night. I love you. love you— love you. I am going to hold you so fast, so safe, that yon shall learn to love me ! Mary, listen ; I leave the flat to-morrow — not you. You stay on with Edith. I live at my club. I love you, Mary. Let me teach you to love me ; and when you arc ready to be my wife; Mary, Mary — what does this mean ?" For she had her two hands upon his shoulders, and hey face v ,i<, ;ill one dazzling glory oi surrender and passionate love " Harold, Harold — my hermit ' It is got I who have to learn to know — to

love !" I have known and loved a long while now ! I know your soul, your mind, your heart ! I know that innermost self within you, which leaps into being in Hashes of splendour. But you — what do you know of me ? — the beggar maid — the wet and hungry creature you took into your horne — and have taken to your great heart? Harold, are you sure of yourself? Remember it is a great — an almost terrible pledge ! — for richer, for poorer, for better, for worse, in sickness and in health ' Harold, it is a very big thing — a very solemn thing ; and what do you know of me ?" " This," he answered, taking her into his arms, " that Mary Denzil is the ■\voruan I love — the only one I ever have loved or could love. That is all that matters to me!" " Then if that is all that matters to you, Harold — take me !" " Yes, I would like to show you where I have been living," said Mary next day. "It has not felt much like a horne — " " But we will change all that now," spoke Harold tenderly. "We will go there, and you shall take away just what you want; but for the future, Mary, your life belongs to me. I shall settle matters for you. You can leave all to me." 0 the sweet, happy, trustful glance she turned upon him ! Edith could not trouble about the possible loss and change to herself; it was so good to see two people so unutterably happy. " We will not drive right to the door," said Mary. "Tell him the end of Cheyne Walk, Chelsea; after that I will take you on foot." She did so, leading them upon the Embankment, and to the portals of a splendid mansion, which she entered as to the manner born. Liveried servants came forward to salute her and ask her wishes. She moved with the tread of a young empress into a great drawingroom overlooking the river. When the doors closed .upon them she faced round upon Harold, a glow of glory in her eyes. " Remember, Harold, there is only one thing that matters — that you love Mary Denzil, and that she loves you. ' For richer, for poorer, for better, for worse ' — all that goes without saying ! The only thing that matters is that they love one another !" She went up to him and clasped her hands round his neck. " Kiss me, my beloved, and take me into your arms again. Then this great house will be a home for me !" " But Mary, Mary — you must explain !" This was said much later, as Mary gave them tea from the heavy silver equipage the servants had brought and placed before her. " Ah, yes — of course ! It was just this. Father was very rich ; but he had losses. When he died it was thought there would be almost nothing. I began to think of facing life seriously. Then two things happened almost together. An old aunt died, leaving me this great house and a large income, and father's affairs took a turn for the better. But I had been thinking about poverty — reading — learning. I went into the slums. I made experiments there. I did work — flower-selling and other things — just to learn what it was like. I made a resolution the other day — that for one Meek I would live only on what I could earn. I had a dress for my slumming ; I kept it, mended it myself — my maid was far too fine ! H, got shabby fearfully fast. I tried to sell flowers, but they got wilted and faded, and I had to spend all the money on food. Then 1 hawked matches — that was worse. At last I had only my voice ! I didn't want ti give in ! I couldn't bear the casual ward, so I sang in the streets. You kr.ow the rest. Harold — Edith — you took me in — when I was indeed a stranger; fed me comforted nie — ah ! how I loved you — loved the thought that there were people like that in the world !" — She held out a hand to each. Harold drew her towards him. He had been very silent ; she had noticed it ; she lifted her eyes and seemed to ask a question with them. "Am I forgiven? You did not ask — that was so sweet of you ! I was just a Voice in the Night — !" "The Voice of my beloved!" suddenly whispered Harold, catching her in his arms, and straining her to his heart. She lay still against it in great content. "Yes — that is all that matters," she whispered.