The Beggar Man. Ruby M. Ayres
"So would you if you knew as much as I do," was the sharp retort.
Faith pushed the soft hair back from her forehead; she was beginning to feel unutterably fagged. "I don't think I could hate anyone very much," she said, "except the man who ruined father," she added slowly.
Peg said "Humph!" and for some moments they worked silently. Then Faith asked again: "What is he like?"
"Who? Scammel? Oh, big and ugly."
"Does he ever come here?"
"Bless your heart, no! He's a millionaire with a house in Park-lane or somewhere, and a yacht, and a place on the river, and a Rolls-Royce, and no end more. … " She was drawing entirely on her imagination. "I saw him once when he brought two ladies round the works—dressed-up creatures they were, too! One of them spoke to me. I nearly told her to mind her own business and not try the district visitor stunt on me."
Faith caught her breath. "You wouldn't dare!" she said aghast.
Peg laughed. "Wouldn't I! I'm not afraid of anybody or anything."
Faith could well believe her, and from that moment the friendship between the two girls was finally cemented. In a hundred small ways Peg proved herself nobly. She helped Faith through the long, weary days, taking extra work upon her own capable shoulders to save the younger girl; shielding her many times from the petty disagreeablenesses of the room and the sharp tongue of Miss Dell.
"You're not fit for a life like this," Peg said once angrily. "Why doesn't your mother send you somewhere better?"
Faith gave a little wavering smile. "It's not so easy now to get work," she said.
Her little face had grown pale and peaked during the last week, and there were shadows beneath her soft brown eyes.
"I should go sick if I were you," Peg advised one morning.
"It's no worse for me than it is for the rest of you," Faith answered. But in her heart she knew that she could not stand it much longer. Sometimes she felt as if she could not breathe in the hot, noisy room.
Then one night, going home, she fainted.
One moment she had been quite well, walking with hurried, eager steps through the sun-baked streets, and the next the pavement seemed to rise up to her face, and she knew no more. …
"If only someone of you would get some water instead of standing staring … here—let me come!"
She struggled back to consciousness to the sound of a man's impatient voice, and then she felt herself gently raised by a strong arm and something was held to her lips.
She turned her head protestingly. "Don't … don't … I'm all right. … " And then quite suddenly she burst into tears—tears of sheer weakness that would not be checked.
Ashamed, she covered her face with her trembling hands; and then she felt herself lifted and carried and set down gently against softly padded cushions.
She looked up with scared eyes. She was lying back in the luxurious seat of a motor-car and a man with a big, burly figure was standing at its door, his face turned from her, talking to a policeman.
"All right, constable, I'll see her home," she heard him say. She saw the policeman salute and stand back, and the next moment the car was moving slowly away from the kerb.
Faith sat up with a frightened gasp, the colour coming back to her white cheeks.
"Where are you taking me? Oh, I'd much rather walk."
The big man was sitting opposite to her now, and his eyes were kind as they noted her distress.
"It's all right," he said cheerily. "You're not fit to walk. Just tell me where you live and I'll drive you straight home. Feel better?"
"Yes." She began a trembling apology. "It was the sun, I suppose; it's been so hot all day."
"Do you work in the city?"
"Yes—at Heeler's."
"Oh, that place!" There was a note of disparagement in the man's voice. "Now tell me where you live?" he said again.
She told him reluctantly. Poplar and its poor surroundings seemed so terribly far removed from this man and the magnificence of the car in which they were driving.
He repeated her directions to the chauffeur and the car quickened its speed.
Faith was feeling almost herself again. The air beat on her pale cheeks and stirred the soft hair on her forehead. She stole a shy glance at the man opposite to her.
Not very young—quite forty, she decided—not very good-looking. Big and burly, a little clumsy in build, the fastidious might have said, but strong and manly, with a square jaw that spoke of strength and determination, and humorous grey eyes set rather deeply in his brown face. His soft hat was worn with a rather Colonial tilt.
He was perfectly aware of her scrutiny, and after a moment he asked whimsically:
"Well, what do you make of me?"
Faith flushed to the roots of her hair.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she stammered. "I know it was rude—I didn't mean anything."
The man laughed carelessly. "No need to apologise," he said. "I was only wondering what sort of a chap I appeared to you."
She did not answer, and he went on: "You're thinking that I'm to be envied with this car and all the other things you can imagine I've got stored up at home—eh?"
Faith clasped her hands.
"I think you must be the happiest man in the world," she said fervently.
The man smiled grimly. "Yes, that's what everyone thinks," he said. "And, of course, you would not believe me if I were to tell you that there is no man in the world so poor as I am."
She stared at him with wide eyes of incredulity.
"Why, no!" she breathed.
His eyes softened a little. "Have you got a mother?" he asked abruptly.
"Yes."
"And do you love her?"
"Oh, yes!" said Faith.
"Anyone else—any other people?" he asked.
"Two little sisters," said Faith, and her voice was eager. She loved to speak of her sisters. "They're just the dearest little mites," she urged. "They're twins, just turned six."
The man nodded. "In fact, when you're at home, you're happy, eh?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," said Faith again, earnestly. "If only we'd got a little more money, we'd all be quite, quite happy," she added wistfully.
The man said: "Then it's you who are to be envied, not me!"
She coloured a little. "I don't understand," she said in a whisper.
He laughed. "Do you know the story of King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No, I don't think so."
"Well, anybody will tell you—I'm no good at explaining things. Ask your mother when you get home, and then remember that I said that you were Queen Cophetua, and I the Beggar Man."
She echoed his last word incredulously. "Beggar Man! How can you be, with all—this?"
"All this—" he answered dryly—"is all I have, and there is no man so poor as he who has only money. Now do you understand?"
The car had turned a corner and was slowing down. "I think this must be your home," he said, and Faith gave a sigh. It had been such a heavenly drive; why did all beautiful things end so soon?
He opened the door of the car and gave her his hand. "Good-bye,