By E. M. Hewitt.

I.

Marigold Place is a blind alley turning out of the animal life and ugliness of the Harrow Road. No. 7 is Mrs. Xerxes'. She was unique among landladies, never having seen better days. The oldest inhabitant of the Place had no other recollection of her, girl and matron, than as a limping slattern with a squint, wearing a sackcloth bib-apron and a ragged, rusty crape bonnet. Mrs. Xerxes' sole source of income, in addition to occasional charing, was derived from her lodgers—a colony of obscure workers, with much shabby tragedy underlying their daily absences. Little Miss Barberry, the upholsteress, who lived on the third-floor back, was Mrs. Xerxes' model lodger, or, as she expressed it, "the only 'let' that does credit to the 'ouse."

Madge Barberry was a very pretty girl, refined in voice, manner, and appearance, with delicate features, soft, dark eyes, and glossy brown hair loosely coiled on the top of her head. She always wore black, with a white apron, and a chatelaine of keys, scissors, and needle-case hung on a long ribbon at her waist. She lived in one room, poorly furnished, for which Mrs. Xerxes condescended to accept three-and-sixpence weekly. It was little more than a garret, hideous with the miserable appointments and musty atmosphere of the low-life London lodging-house. But, as for outlook, it was much better off than Paul Vespan's, on the other side of the landing. Through its grimy windows there was a glimpse of green Virginia creeper climbing up the dingy walls of the opposite mews; whereas, the third-floor front only commanded the depressing prospect of the narrow street. Madge merely knew Mr. Vespan by sight. They had met on the stairs, passing each other with that curious blending of shyness and suspicion which characterises the relation of London fellow-lodgers. Once or twice Paul had heard her singing; she had a sweet voice.

Mr. Vespan ranked next to Miss Barberry in Mrs. Xerxes' estimation.

"Bookish, but with a good 'eart. Shabby, but quite a gentleman," ran the landlady's verdict. Madge chose to take him for a poet. He was a tall, fair young man, with a pale face and sad, serious eyes. The little upholsteress, who was not a philosopher, and had never read Emerson, had, nevertheless, long ago "renounced ideals and accepted London." Her life had always been hard. Before her birth her parents had lost their all in one of those financial disasters which sometimes overtake the most prosperous communities. The father died broken-hearted. Madge worked bravely for her mother until she, too, went from her. Then the orphan faced the world with a slender yearly pittance of twenty pounds. Such lives are too common in London to stand for romance. She was generally lucky in getting work, and one cannot starve on a shilling a day.

Paul Vespan, whom Mrs. Xerxes believed to be "something in the City," was much poorer than Madge; but he had a Hope, which he meant to convert into money some day. Meanwhile, he carried it about in the breast-pocket of his shabby coat in the shape of a roll of MS. The sheets were torn at the edges and blackened with frequent post marks—the scars of repeated disappointments. But all day long they nestled near the poet's heart. For the truth of Paul Vespan was what Madge Barberry had divined, though Mrs. Xerxes also had right on her side. Her lodger was a sandwich-man. He had not come to London with that intention, but he had fallen to it. His people, well-to-do, narrow-minded country folk, took it for granted that he was getting on. The fact was, he was on the verge of starvation.

II.

It was sultry summer evening in Marigold Place. Madge Barberry, who had worked far into the twilight, was sitting at her open window with idly folded hands. Overhead the glassy sky was brilliant with stars. Down in the mews the lamps flickered fitfully behind their panes. From time to time the silence was broken by the shrill screams of gutter children at play, or by the impatient stamp of a horse in its stall. Madge was singing to herself, but her thoughts were wandering away from the song to Mr. Vespan. The motherliness in her tender young heart had been touched by the sight of his wan, weary face, as it passed her on the stairs that morning. He walked languidly, and seemed paler than usual. But, then, the heat was very trying. Fierce enough in Marigold Place, it was worse, no doubt, in the City. Could it have been a mere fancy, too, that he looked at her, as she hurried by, with timid, pitiful eyes, that seemed to ask her help? Poor Paul! It would have done him good to know how much sympathetic interest he was exciting in this stranger's heart.

Mrs. Xerxes limped upstairs after supper, and found her lodger in the dark. Madge economized in lights all the summer.

"If you please, Miss Barberry," said Mrs. Xerxes, who brought with her a strong odour of fried fish, "I've taken the liberty to get a job for you."

"That is very kind of you, Mrs. Xerxes," smiled Madge.

"I 'oped you would take it that way, miss. It's where I was charing to-day. The young ladies are doin' up their rooms, and they asked me if I could recommend a respectable young person for upholstery. So I put in a word for you, thinking that every little helps."

"Indeed, it does, Mrs. Xerxes. Where is the house? And when am I to go?"

"To-morrow, at nine. Here's the address."

Mrs. Xerxes extricated a scrap of dirty paper from her pocket, and handed it to Madge. Then she went hobbling downstairs again.

A little later, a man who had groped his way up the narrow stairs stopped on the third-floor landing, gasping for breath. Madge was singing—her chatelaine jingling, not unmusically, for accompaniment—as she moved about her room. It was a sweet song, sweet with hope and promise:—

But the words fell with pathetic irony on Paul Vespan's ears, that must shortly be deaf to the sound of all human voices.

That verse was not for him. The light-hearted singer, no doubt, had had her love-passages, but she had evidently outlived them. He had no such memories to console or to detain him. He had lived solitary and misunderstood. He must die alone. Who would be sorry for him? Not this heartless singer, certainly. Poor Madge, who had been troubled, even in her singing, for her poet!

Paul turned into his room, and began to grope about for a match. Then he felt in his pockets. They were empty. He was poor, indeed. Fate had not left him so much as a light for his last journey. Nor was this the only delay. Across the landing a sweet voice called him back with tender insistence—

There is yet a day for me!

If only he could believe it! He had grown weary waiting for its dawn. The Poet's day is long in coming.

If it might be so! Paul staggered out of his dark room into the darkness beyond, clutching blindly at the air, for he was weak with long fasting. The song broke off. A woman called across the landing:—

"Who is there?"

"It is I."

"That's a starving man," said Madge to herself, "and it's Mr. Vespan's voice. What do you want?" she asked, opening her door.

"A light."

"Wait a moment. I will bring you one."

She came out and stood in the doorway, shading a flickering candle with her hand. The delicate face and slender figure were sharply silhouetted on Paul Vespan's fading consciousness. If he had meant to live, here was a woman worth living for. But he had done with possibilities. She went up to him and looked bravely into his white face.

"You are very ill," she said, gently.

"I shall be better soon."

Madge's quick eyes travelled down to his shaking hand. It had closed like a vice over some hidden treasure; but not before his good angel had seen it. Her own face paled as she bent above him.

"Give me that bottle," she said, quietly.

But, as the dark blue phial with its orange label slipped from Paul Vespan's nerveless fingers to hers, the little upholsteress burst into tears.

"Don't cry," said the man, hoarsely. "I am not worth it."

"You never meant it. No, my poor boy, no. You were unhappy—tired. It was all a mistake."

He fell back, gasping, against the wall.

"You had no right——"

"It would have been easier than—did you ever see anyone die of—starvation——?"

"You are not——"

"Yes, I am."

"Let me get you something."

"Anything—I am so hungry."

What should she do? She had spent her daily shilling. But to-morrow she would be sure of a dinner: to-morrow's pittance should go to this starving man.

Her poet was starving! That awful cry, going up hourly from the heart of the Great City, had never come home to Madge Barberry before. True, the horror had sometimes seemed imminent in her own life, but her brave hands, made desperate by love, had always kept it at bay. For the sake of her dead mother, who had been spared this martyrdom, she must save Paul Vespan. Quick as thought, she ran downstairs and knocked at the kitchen door. Mrs. Xerxes came out, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Deary me, Miss Barberry, whatever's the matter?"

"Will you come upstairs, Mrs. Xerxes? Mr. Vespan has fainted outside his door. He looks very ill. Perhaps he's hungry. Would you take this and buy what he wants until—until he gets better?"

"I always said you were the lady born, Miss Barberry," observed Mrs. Xerxes, looking down at the silver coin which Madge had pressed into her grimy hand; "but I don't know that I ought to take this from you. What would Mr. Vespan say?"

"Please, please don't tell him," cried poor Madge, in an agony of apprehension. "Let him think it's you."

III.

Madge went to her work next morning at nine, after a sleepless night. Mrs. Xerxes stopped her on the stairs to whisper that Mr. Vespan was much better. He had begged her to say to Miss Barberry that he hoped he had not frightened her, and to thank her for her kindness.

"Mrs. Xerxes! You never told him?"

"Bless you, my dear; he meant his fainting. I was mum about the money."

Madge nodded, much relieved, and resumed her way.

Her destination was within easy reach of Marigold Place. It was a stately red-brick house, one of a fashionable avenue, the blue window-boxes gaily crowded with white and scarlet flowers. The upholsteress was shown into the young ladies' boudoir. Two pretty girls were standing at a table, looking through a book of patterns in cretonne. They were twin sisters, and always spoke together. When the servant announced "The young person from Mrs. Xerxes'," both turned on Madge.

"Do you think you could upholster a cosy corner for us—Miss Barberry, isn't it? Then we want curtains to match. Can you make curtains? Which of these cretonnes will look best? How many yards will it take? May we stay and watch you work?"

Madge contrived to give lucid answers to all their questions, and proved invaluable to the sisters, who were delighted with her. They wasted a whole morning discussing and suggesting; but Madge had her dinner, and they insisted on her staying to tea also.

She went home at six. Mrs. Xerxes darted out of the kitchen, pointing mysteriously over her shoulder.

"He's in there."

"Who?"

"Mr. Vespan. I got him downstairs for a change. Suppose you go in and see him?"

"I?"

"Why not? Where's the harm? But for you, I'd like to know where he'd be!"

"Hush! He might hear you," whispered Madge.

"Not he. Well, will you come?"

Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Xerxes threw open the door of her sitting-room.

"I've brought Miss Barberry to see you, sir."

Paul Vespan turned his head languidly.

In Mrs. Xerxes' back yard, among battered tins and broken bottles, a Madonna lily had grown up, tall, and strong, and pure. It reminded the poet of Madge Barberry, as he saw her then.

"I have much to thank you for," he said, "though you saved a worthless life."

Madge looked round nervously; but Mrs. Xerxes had disappeared.

"How wicked I must seem to you!" Paul Vespan went on, in his weak, weary voice; "but if you knew what I have suffered!"

"I think I do know," said Madge, gently. "Life in London is very hard. And it is hardest for such as you are."

Paul looked at her inquiringly.

"That is——?"

"Perhaps you will laugh at me."

"No, no. Tell me."

"I took you for a poet."

"It is the truth."

"Not really!"

"But it is no use. There is no room for me anywhere. Board-carrying is more lucrative."

"Board-carrying?"

"Yes. Does it shock you? I am a sandwich-man by profession; a poet by accident."

"Oh! it can't be true!" cried Madge, passionately. "You—you, a sandwich-man?"

"One and twopence a day is poor pay; but I assure you it's better than poetry."

"Some day——"

"Yes. I know. I have heard that so often. But one never comes up with 'some day.' Perhaps you are not ambitious?"

"No."

"How do you escape? It is in the air in London."

"I only have a wish. It is not great enough to be called an ambition."

"Will you tell me what it is?"

"Not now. I'm afraid I have let you talk too much as it is."

"No. It has done me good. What a happy face you have!"

"I am not unhappy."

"May you always remain so! Good-bye, then, since you must go. And thank you once more."

He held out his hand feebly, with a wan smile.

"And now—now, you will be brave, will you not? Try once more. Let me post your next poem for you. I may bring you luck."

"As you brought me light. I should be a churl to refuse you, to whom I owe my life. You shall post a poem for me. I have a penny in my pocket, the last, until I get another job. It shall buy a stamp."

Then she went away, shutting Paul into loneliness once more. But she had also left a hope behind. He was a braver man for the contact of that sister-life, his fellow-toiler in the Great City. Her courage shamed him. She, too, was poor and lonely, but not a coward. He would be one no longer. Because she had saved his life, he could never again think meanly of it, nor lightly fling it away. At last his heart could join in her sunset song:—

There is yet a day for me!

He went up to his poor room presently with a firmer step and a grateful glance across the landing to the door from which light had streamed to beckon him back to hope and life. He sat down in the twilight and began to think. First of all, he must find work or starve. Meanwhile, how was he living? On whose bounty? Mrs. Xerxes was a poor woman. She could not afford to be generous. To whom, then, did he owe it that he was not at this moment a homeless wanderer in the streets? Surely not to that strong, sweet woman to whom he owed his very life! His pale face flushed at the wild thought. Impossible, if her resources ran on anything like the same lines as his. He drew from his pocket the back of an old envelope, pencilled with figures. Madge Barberry's balance-sheet, indeed, compared favourably with this. On the credit side appeared six days' pay at 1s. 2d. per day for board-carrying. The debit side was made up of seven days' food, 2s. 4d.; lodging, 2s. 4d.; soap, 1d.; washing, 3d.; boots, 2s.

That was how Paul Vespan lived on seven shillings a week, and but for Madge Barberry, the record might have run "how he died" instead.

It was a pathetic little story; but, like Madge Barberry's, too everyday for romance in this city of sharp contrasts.

Then he rummaged amongst the contents of a battered cardboard box for the best of his poems, which he had promised to lend Madge. In the search he encountered frequent sharp reminders of past failure. Many a curt editorial note of rejection had drifted in between the loose sheets of MSS. Here, one "regretted that the accompanying manuscript was unsuitable to his pages, and returned it herewith."

Or another "presented his compliments to the writer of the accompanying article, which he returned with thanks."

But in the strength of the new life which he was facing, these stabs were pin-pricks. He would try once more, as that sweet voice had urged.

IV.

Madge and her poet did not meet again for several days. Meanwhile, she posted his letter "for luck." He also left a roll of MS. at her door with "Paul Vespan's compliments." She read the poems in her leisure moments, which were few; for she now went daily to the red house in the avenue. The cosy corner made splendid progress, and the twins were more than ever enchanted with their upholsteress.

With a rebel thought of the poet thrusting itself between the lines, Madge read the verses to a finish; and then seized a regretful opportunity to return them.

She gave them back to him reverently.

"They are all very beautiful," she said: "I wonder no one listens; but I am sure they will some day."

Dear critic! If she were all he had to fear!

"I am glad you like them," he said.

"Is there any news yet of the other?" she asked.

"Not yet."

But Madge was to hear it first.

The next afternoon when she was at the avenue, a red-faced old gentleman with white hair put his head in at the door of the work-room, and then beat a hasty retreat.

"Come in, papa," chorused the twins; "it's only Miss Barberry."

"I'll look in presently. I only came to tell you I've found a poet."

"Papa! Not really! Where is he?"

"Marigold Place, Harrow Road, of all localities in the world."

"Why, that's where Mrs. Xerxes lives!" said one of the sisters, and then she looked at Madge.

"They're a very promising set of verses," went on the editor, impressively, "but I don't know that I can find room for them."

"Oh, please, please, don't send them back, sir! It will kill him."

"Eh? What? Who's this?" exclaimed the editor, looking severely over his glasses at Madge, and from her to his daughters. "Do you know this Paul Vespan, young woman?"

"Yes, sir. He lives in the house where I lodge. And he's starving, sir. He is, indeed. He has sent his work everywhere, and can't get it accepted. I posted that poem for him. I hoped it would bring him good luck."

"And so it shall!" cried the editor. "You send this young man to me. What does he do in his spare time?"

"He's a sandwich-man, sir," faltered Madge; "and I think, if you don't mind," she added, "perhaps it would be better for you to write to him. He's had so many disappointments, that he'll hardly believe his luck."

"Very good," agreed the editor, "I'll write."

So Paul received his first cheque by the morning's post, "With the Editor's compliments, and thanks for the contribution entitled 'Love's Handicraft,'" and a request that he would call at the office.

V.

The sacristan was putting out the lights in St. Ethelreda's after evening service. The church was cool and still now that the people had gone. A restful gloaming fell upon the deserted aisles. One sunset shaft crept aslant the pictured walls, on the Virgin Mother and her Holy Child. Before the altars, the perpetual lamps swung solemnly. In this sanctuary of hushed repose, Madge Barberry lingered late and last of all the worshippers. She was never lonely here. The lines of statued saints looked down upon her from their niches with tender reminder that they, too, of old had fought her wars. Victorious, they were no less her fellow-soldiers. They were still one with that brave world-army of heroic men and women battling with high tides of poverty and misfortune.

She went regretfully down the shadowy nave. Paul Vespan was waiting for her in the dark porch.

"I came to meet you," he said; "Mrs. Xerxes told me you were here."

She smiled gratefully as they went out into the dusty street together. Soon she would have him no more to walk beside her. Great changes had come to Paul Vespan since that dark night when Madge Barberry's brave hand snatched him from death to life. The editor, once his friend, had remained so. After a pleasant probation in his own office, he was sending him to take charge of a small provincial paper in a cathedral town.

"You have heard the good news, Madge?" said Paul, thinking of this.

Yes, she had heard it. But to her, it was not good news, though she was glad for him.

"I hope you will be very happy," she faltered.

"I shall be very lonely. Unless—Madge, will you come with me?"

"I? Oh! no! I should be standing in your light."

"You? What are you saying, Madge? Why, didn't you bring me back to light? My life will be dark, indeed, without you."

"Then," she said, as they entered Marigold Place, "I will go with you."

Paul Vespan's after-history bears tender witness to the wisdom of his choice. In the light of his wife's unswerving love, he works bravely. The rewards which are sure to come will be sweeter because shared by her. She is his "lady with the lamp," standing no more beside the weary craven in his hour of tragic necessity, but shoulder to shoulder, heart to heart, with the valiant world-soldier in the thick of his battle for fame and fortune.