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.