Part 17 (1/2)

”Bless me, miss, you _are_ white!” cried the woman anxiously. ”Have you turned faint? Sit down, my dear, and I'll make you a cup of tea.”

”Thank you, you are very kind, but I shall be all right when I get into the air. The room--the room is rather warm.”

Madge gave a nickering smile, pulled herself together, and went through the concluding interview with the shopman with creditable composure; but once outside in the street, and lost in the deadliest of all solitudes-- a London crowd--her agitation could no longer be restrained.

Oh Barney! beloved Benjamin of the family--radiant, clear-eyed child-- honest, fearless boy--have you come to this? Betting, Barney! Losing five pounds in a fortnight--throwing it away with both hands--while at home Philippa sat sewing--sewing from morning to night--mending, turning, contriving, to save a penny--while Steve became old before his time, and Hope grew pale and thin with anxiety. A rush of colour flooded Madge's cheeks, and the indignant blood tingled in her veins.

Then came a sudden terrifying thought before which she paled again.

_Where had Barney got this money_? It was impossible that he could have saved it out of his pittance of a salary; the home exchequer could not furnish it; then how had he come by it? Madge walked along the busy streets pondering on this question, and on another equally important-- her own course of action. If she could save her sisters from this painful discovery, if she could bring Barney to a sense of his wrong-doing, and pay off his debts by her own work, Madge felt that she would not have lived in vain. It did not matter how hard she had to work; she would sit up half the night gladly--gladly; and her experience had been so encouraging as to justify her in more ambitious flights.

She would set to work at once on a design for a nursery frieze which had been in contemplation for some time past, offer it to a West End firm, and boldly ask a good price. If only Barney would be frank, and confess the whole truth! She reviewed his conduct for the last few weeks, and realised that, with the exception of one outburst of spirits, the boy had been preoccupied, silent, inclined to be irritable. She studied his face throughout the evening which followed, and was startled at what it told, even as Hope had been before her.

It was not until the house was quiet, and Barney had retired to his room, that Madge found her opportunity. Then she knocked softly at the door, was told to come in, and entered, to find Barney hastily covering up a bundle of papers. The action, the glimpse at the papers which showed them so surely to be tradesmen's bills, fired Madge with fresh indignation. She looked fixedly at the boy, and he returned her gaze with surprised inquiry.

”Well! What do you want?”

”I want a little conversation with you apart from the rest. I was in that tobacconist's shop this afternoon when you came in, Barney--that is to say, I was in the room behind the shop putting a few last touches to my sketch.”

”Well!”

”The door was open, and I heard what you said.”

Barney sat down on a chair, stretched out his legs, stuck his hands in his pockets, and looked at her with an air of insolent calm. The worried, downcast air which he had worn on her entrance disappeared as if by magic; his face was hard, stubborn, and defiant.

”Well--and what if you did?”

”What if I did? You can ask me that, when by your own confession you are betting and gambling, and leading a double life--when you are throwing away money which is needed for daily bread!”

”I never threw away any of your money, did I? You mind your own business, Madge, and leave me to mind mine.”

”It is my business to look after you and keep you out of mischief.

Where did you get that five pounds? It is bad enough that you should have lost it, but did you get it honestly, in the first place?”

”You'd better be careful what you say. You are not talking to a thief, remember!”

”How am I to know that?” cried Madge wildly. ”If a man begins to bet, one can never tell to what he may sink next. And how could a boy like you have such a sum to spare? Where did you get it, Barney? Wherever you got it, it must be paid back at once.”

There was no reply. Barney folded his arms, and set his lips in sullen determination. The question was repeated, to be ignored once more, when the tide of the girl's indignation could no longer be restrained.

”Coward! Despicable! To see your sisters slaving for a pittance, and to be content to be a shame and a burden! If you cannot work, at least you might try to be a man, and not disgrace our name.”

Bitter words--bitter words I what need to repeat them? The girl had worked herself into a frenzy of anger, and hardly realised what she was saying, and the boy eat still and listened--the boy of seventeen, who all his life had been the spoiled darling of the household. Ten minutes before the stress of acc.u.mulated troubles was upon him, and he had been wrestling with an agony of repentance. A kiss from Philippa, a soft word from Hope, would have brought him to his knees in a flood of penitent tears; but the lash of Madge's words hardened his heart within him. He made no attempt to stop the torrent of reproach, but when at last she came to a pause he rose slowly, and standing at his full height, looked down upon her.

”If you have quite finished, will you kindly leave my room?” He pointed to the door as he spoke, and there was a look on his face which Madge had never seen before. Barney the boy was dead: Barney the man confronted her with haggard face, and spoke in a tone of authority which she dared not disobey. She turned towards the door, murmuring disjointed words of warning:

”If you will not tell, I must. Philippa--she will have to know.”

”There is no necessity to disturb Philippa to-night. In the morning, no doubt, she will hear that--and other things!”

There was an ominous sound in those last three words which chilled Madge with a sense of trouble to come, but the door was closed against her even as they were spoken, and she crept back to bed s.h.i.+vering and dismayed. Perhaps if she had been gentler, more conciliating--if she had fought with the weapons of love instead of anger--she would not have been so signally defeated. Like many another quick-tempered sister, Madge's anger ended in self-reproach, and when too late she would have given the world to withdraw her bitter, pitiless words.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.