Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

There are a number of beautiful studies by Raphael here. Near the window is a book-case containing many of the prizes Sir Francis won at school and college. We look at them together. Sir Francis takes down from one of the shelves a small volume of "Dodd's Beauties of Shakespeare." It was given to him by Sir George Cornwall Lewis on the occasion of his tenth birthday.

"I value it," said Sir Francis, "because good nature is not a quality generally attributed to Sir George Cornwall Lewis."

There is much, very much, more to look at inside Arlington Manor--and one would like to refer at greater length to its many interior beauties; but the desire to take full advantage of the pleasant opportunity of having a talk with Sir Francis Jeune--and later on with Lady Jeune--leads one to hurry away from the apartments within and settle down in one of the wicker chairs on the veranda and listen to the quietly told story, and the impressive observations of the President of the Probate, Divorce, and Admiralty Division--at his country home.

Sir Francis Jeune is tall--his bearing is erect and stately. His hair is just turning grey--there is never a pleasant twinkle missing out of the immediate vicinity of his eyes. To watch Sir Francis in his court and to observe him in his home results in a conviction that his geniality and justness are as thorough and thoughtful in the one place as in the other. His temperament never seems to alter--he is always kind. He talks enthusiastically and generously about others--particularly his court officials--and quietly and modestly about himself. He has ideas, strong ideas, regarding the law's true administration and the best means of adapting it to the benefit of the public. But all his views are submitted gracefully--he never seeks to cram you with them or to say: "That's it, who can dispute what I say?" I have sat in his court and listened--I have occupied one of the wicker chairs on the veranda in front of the Hampshire Downs and listened, too. It has all amounted to the same thing. He is thoughtful and kind towards all men, both in his actions towards them and his ideas regarding them.

His first words to me, when we settled down to talk, were gratifying indeed.

"I have only been interviewed once before," he said, "and that was only on a small question."

"It is a big one now, Sir Francis--your life."

"Well, it was whilst my father was Dean of Jersey that I was born--on the 17th March, 1843. Though my early years were passed in the atmosphere of the Church, I was never clerically inclined. I was always intended for the Bar, and perhaps it was owing to my parentage that I acquired a practice in ecclesiastical law almost as soon as I was called. My first school was at Mr. Powle's, at Blackheath; then I went to Mr. Penrose's, at Exmouth. It was a school where most Devonshire county boys went--Sir Redvers Buller left a year before I went, though I was there with his brother. We were admirably taught, and this was the reason why I was placed as high as I could be when I went to Harrow. There I remained for five years--four of which I passed under Dr. Vaughan and the other under Dr. Butler.

"Dr. Vaughan was a man with a most gentle manner and a soft, deliberate voice, and I never saw him agitated. But he was as firm as iron, and a complete specimen of the pussy cat who could always show its claws when disturbed. He was polite to a degree--even, I believe, when flogging a boy!"

Sir Francis went into the house, and returned very shortly with another volume of letters which he preserves. He turned over the pages, and at last found the one he wanted. It was on blue paper, and the writing was very bad, but its contents were good. It was a letter from the great Lord Brougham to Sir Francis's father, and it told how Brougham had been to Harrow on Speech Day, and seen one of the best _Shylocks_ on or off the stage played by the President in embryo.

_From a Painting._]

Young Jeune did well at Harrow, and he is remembered there to-day, for on every successive advancement in life that has befallen him, the Harrow boys have had a holiday--and not a few either. Young Jeune got many prizes, and crowned his Harrow days by winning the Balliol Scholarship. He matriculated the day on which the Prince Consort was buried. He was at Balliol when Jowett was in his prime.

"He had very strong characteristics," continued Sir Francis, "and his extreme love for Boswell's 'Life of Johnson' was remarkable. He knew it better than any man, and was always quoting it. I remember just before I went up for my final he asked me if I was nervous. I told him rather so. He said:--

"'Never mind--you'll do in the schools better than what you think. Remember the story of Dr. Dodd and Dr. Johnson. When Dr. Dodd was in prison he preached a very fine sermon on the Sunday before he was hanged. People went to Johnson and told him they believed he had written it. 'Depend upon it, sir,' said Johnson to one of them, 'depend upon it that a man's faculties are considerably quickened when he is going to be hanged!'"

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]

Sir Francis did brilliantly at Oxford, gaining both the Stanhope Prize and Arnold Prize. The former gave occasion to an intensely interesting letter from Dean Stanley. Again the volume of letters was consulted, and a few pages further on from Lord Brougham's note was the missive. Sir Francis opened his Stanhope essay with Matthew Arnold's words:--

"I rejoice to see it," said Dr. Arnold, as he stood on one of the arches of the Birmingham railway, and saw the train pass on through the distant hedgerows--"I rejoice to see it, and to think that feudality is gone for ever. It is so great a blessing to think that any one evil is really extinct."

_From a Sketch by Harry Furniss._]

And this was a most generous, though undoubtedly well-deserved, tribute from Stanley--saying that it was he to whom these words of Dr. Arnold were first addressed.

Here is the letter:--

"June 22nd, 1863.
"6, Grosvenor Crescent, London.

"MY DEAR JEUNE,--Many thanks for your essay. I have read it with much interest, as I heard those few sentences which you delivered with so much effect and discretion with much pleasure. There was probably no one in the theatre to whom your opening sentences came with so much force as to myself. It is not often that such a good fortune can fall to anyone as to hear the chance sayings which he remembered thirty years before falling from the lips of a dear friend, in a solitary walk through the fields of Warwickshire, repeated with all the energy and weight of an authoritative maxim before the most magnificent assemblage that could have been gathered together in England or perhaps in the world.

"Yours very faithfully,

"A. P. STANLEY."

"I left Oxford when I was twenty-one," said Sir Francis, "and proceeded to London immediately and began to study law. Acting under the advice of Lord Westbury, I began by reading in a conveyancer's chambers. I went to Mr. Ebenezer Charles, brother of the present Mr. Justice Charles, a most accomplished lawyer; and happily in the same chambers was Mr. James, afterwards Lord Justice James. James was a brilliant man--but lazy, physically not intellectually, and the pupils had full leave to read his briefs, and tell him their contents and the authorities. His remarks were worth anything to a student. My other legal masters were the great pleaders, Mr. Bullen and the present Mr. Justice Wills. I was called to the Bar in 1868, but previous to that I went for a year into a solicitor's office, the firm of Baxter, Rose, and Norton. That was worth a great deal to me--the experience gained there was perfectly invaluable. As soon as I was called I was engaged in one very big lawsuit that ran into several years; almost all the great lawyers of the day were connected with it. In that way I not only had excellent employment during my first four years at the Bar, but also made the acquaintance of many eminent barristers."

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

Sir Francis Jeune was for twenty-three years at the Bar, and, when made a judge in 1891, was raised to the Bench with a record that he had been associated with many kinds of legal cases. He participated in much ecclesiastical work--sometimes on one side, and sometimes on the other--when "Ritual" raged strong in the land. He had experience in bankruptcy proceedings, Common Law, Probate and Divorce, and considerable Parliamentary practice fell to his lot.

He did much Privy Council work.

"I frequently held briefs for the Government of Canada, whose general retainer I held, and also other briefs from Canada," said Sir Francis, "and one of these gave rise to a dramatic incident. I was instructed to apply to the Privy Council for leave to appeal on account of some technical flaws in a trial for murder in Canada--the man having been convicted. Whilst I was arguing and hoping to make a good impression on the Court, a telegram was put into my hands. It read: 'So-and-so (the criminal) was hanged by order of the Governor-General at nine o'clock this morning'! It did not seem necessary to continue the argument after that. I recollect my point: it was that the case had never been sent before a grand jury!

"Ballantine! Yes. I was on several occasions associated with him. He was the most brilliant cross-examiner I ever heard--I don't say the best, for he never knew his brief. But his tact and readiness were extraordinary. I remember a divorce suit in which the husband petitioned against the wife. Ballantine and I appeared for the petitioner. The evidence was very much in favour of the wife as given by her maid--a very modest, unassuming girl. It came to Ballantine's turn to cross-examine.

"'What shall I ask her?' he said to me.

"At that moment somebody at the back of the court--I never found out who--whispered to me: 'She had an illegitimate child while in her late mistress's service!'

"I whispered this on to Ballantine, adding that I knew of no ground whatever for the imputation. He got up--and something like the following took place:

"Ballantine: 'I believe something serious happened whilst you were in your late mistress's service?'

"Maid: 'Yes, sir.'

"'Something very serious?'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'I believe you left?'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'When you left, did she mention it to your new mistress?'

"'No, sir.'

"'If she had done so, do you think you would have got your present situation?'

"'No, sir.'

"'If she were to mention it, do you think your mistress would keep you?'

"'No, sir.'

"Ballantine sat down. Sir John Karslake, for the respondent, thought it best not to re-examine, and Lord Hannen, in summing up, remarked that no doubt there might be something in the matter to which Serjeant Ballantine had referred, which might induce the girl to desire to stand well with her mistress, and Sir John Karslake had not felt inclined to re-examine! We won our case. The real truth, I believe, was that something--some article or the other--had been lost, and the girl was supposed to have been implicated in it.

"I have had doubts since whether the tactics were perfectly defensible--but you see the skill. Absolutely nothing was risked, because it would have been easy to retreat if the first answer had been unfavourable. A blundering advocate would have blurted out the offensive suggestion, got an indignant negative, set the judge and jury against him, and been considered a brute.

"Now," suddenly exclaimed Sir Francis, "are you good for a walk to Donnington Castle--we can just do it before luncheon?"

So we started, looking in at the stables on our way, to admire Queen, a purchase of Lady Jeune's, who, by-the-bye, is a capital judge of horseflesh; and Cardinal, so named, as it was bought during the run of "Richelieu" at the Lyceum; the riding ponies of the young ladies, Sir Francis's cob, and a Devonshire pony, recently given to Sir Francis's son by Lord Portsmouth. We stood for a moment at the animals' burying-ground--about a couple of hundred yards from the house. The greensward round the stones put up to the memory of Fox, a dog who died on July 2, 1892, and poor old Tim, who breathed her last on April 13, 1893, was covered with primroses. Poor old Tim. She was a favourite white cat, whom Sir Francis had had for fifteen years. She died very peacefully in the end. She always waited for her master at the top of the stairs, and, when her days were numbered, just lay down--under Sir Francis's chair in the dining-room--and died.

We talked on many things on our way to the famous old castle.

The Ballantine incident led me to ask Sir Francis if he thought counsel were generally fair. "Yes; emphatically yes," he replied. "I have known leading counsel, over and over again, resist great pressure to put forward points they knew were not sound, and to adopt courses of which they did not approve. You will never get law for nothing. I strongly suspect it is as cheap now as ever it will be. It is a great thing to have got rid of technicalities to the extent to which this has been accomplished. The public owe much to Lord Esher's presidency of the Court of Appeal in this matter. You ask me if purely family cases could not be settled at the dining-room table or over the fire. I don't think it possible. No feelings are so bitter as family feelings, and I think it is quite impossible that these matters should often be settled without the decision of a court of law. They often are settled when the cases get into court, because no litigant ever knows the weakness and strength of his case or of his opponent's case until it is in his counsel's hands, when he quickly becomes acquainted with the real situation."

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

"And divorce, Sir Francis?"

"The Divorce Court as we have it now has been in existence since 1857, and in proportion to the population, the number of divorces has not increased. I see a French legal writer of eminence has recently said that the French had in five years after their Divorce Act as many cases as we in thirty after ours. Even allowing for the difference between the laws of the two countries, it is not unsatisfactory as a comparison. Divorce in this country is a far easier thing than is popularly supposed. If a man can prove he does not get a pound a week, he is entitled to a divorce free, and there are always counsel who are kind enough to conduct his case for him. If he does not get counsel, the judge has often to pose as such, which is perhaps rather hard on the judge. Only about 5 per cent. of the divorce cases come from the upper classes--the remainder from the middle, lower, and frequently the pauper classes. The public hear very little of them--they are only interested in cases where the parties concerned are known and the interests at stake are big. But, to my mind, every divorce case in itself is sensational--be they rich or poor concerned--sensational because it is so severely serious. A divorce court should be and is the most serious of courts. If a person laughs, it is not so much the usher who puts it down as the public in the gallery themselves!"

Sir Francis said that he frequently gets through twenty cases of divorce a day, and sometimes sixty probate and divorce summonses and motions. He knows the points of each case--more particularly in the latter--they have been prepared for him by the registrar, and when a counsel rises and starts what promises to be a long discussion, the judge courteously stops him and requests him to argue the one main point. A judge's work is very much misunderstood by the public. When the Court rises at four, he frequently spends a couple of hours in getting ready his notes for summing up, which may come at any time if a case collapses. He must often spend the intervening days between Friday and Monday in "looking into the case."

"And do you think the present divorce laws are satisfactory?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied, thoughtfully, "fairly so. Of course it is said that men and women should be in exactly the same position, as is the case in Scotland; but there is much to be said for our law. One matter does, I think, require alteration. As the law stands, if a woman gets a divorce from her husband and she is given the custody of the children, the man need only keep them until they are sixteen. In many classes of society children require to be educated and maintained till much later, and it is frequently a great tax on the woman."

"And the Press--would you have divorce cases suppressed in the newspapers?"

"I am perfectly satisfied with the Press. Their discretion is admirable, and I have never felt disposed seriously to disapprove of a newspaper for over-reporting. The Press is the voice of the country. Justice is a public thing, and the administration of justice should be given all publicity. If this were not done, how would the public ever know that litigants were getting their rights? Newspaper reports to-day are pretty much as they should be."

We arrived at Donnington, and Sir Francis enthusiastically went over all the part the old pile had played in the long-ago days of rebellion.

We reached the house again, and entered it with a hearty laugh, for Sir Francis had just told a story which would tend to prove that you will never shape the divorce laws to suit everybody. A Frenchman applied for a divorce, but he had no witnesses. He got them the next day, and his application was granted. A few days afterwards Sir Francis received a letter from him, asking if it would not be possible to curtail the necessary six months in order to make the decree absolute, as the Frenchman had come across a very charming widow with money, and he was afraid that the lady might not be willing to wait six months.

"He made a strong appeal to my sympathies," said Sir Francis, "and I did sympathize, but I could not help him."

It was a very happy evening at Arlington Manor after dinner. Lady Jeune afforded me the opportunity I sought. Few women are better known in the charitable world than Lady Jeune, but it is only when one has met her that one realizes how very practical she is in her deeds of kindness. With a head of perfect silver hair, and keen, bright eyes, she just fixes them on you and says exactly what she thinks. There is nothing hesitating about her--she always appears to know what is best and acts up to it; what will succeed, and it does.

"My childhood," said Lady Jeune, "was passed in Scotland. I was brought up very homely, in a very strict way, with two sisters and a brother. I never came to London until I was eighteen. I cannot tell you how I came to do the things that you suggest I do. I think, perhaps, I drifted into them--but I have always been deeply interested in my own sex, and for the last thirteen or fourteen years particularly so."

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

"And children?" I hinted.

"Yes, and the little ones, too. My Holiday Fund? Oh, yes. It is about eight years old. Mr. Labouchere had some money given him, and I told him if he would let me have it I would take up the work. I began with £500, and have had as much as £1,800 to spend in the summer months. We board the children out in Essex, Berkshire, Oxfordshire--in fact, in places within easy distance of London, and where the pure, free air is sure. I am a manager of two groups of schools in the poorest parts of London--Shoreditch and Bethnal Green--so that I have a very good choice of really poor, deserving children, to whom the country meadows is like a peep into Heaven. I make no distinction as far as denominations go. Last year I sent away 1,200 children."

Lady Jeune is also interested in factory girls and tired mothers, whilst her Rescue Home in the North of London contains a large laundry business.

I gathered much of the greatest interest from Lady Jeune. The "Revolt of the Daughters" question mystifies her. There is always a certain proportion of young women who don't get on at home, and an outside remedy will never be found. It must be found--if it can be found--in the home itself. The woman of to-day is a very different sort of person from what she was twenty-five or thirty years ago. The girl of to-day may be more interesting, but she is certainly not so fresh--she knows too much, attempts too much. Twenty-five years ago a woman had no opinions until she was married. Girls of to-day start in their teens, and Lady Jeune thinks they do themselves more harm than good. You cannot have enough athletics for Lady Jeune--that is why the girls of 1894 are so much better grown, taller, and "finer animals," than were those of years ago; but she questions if their children will be equally good-looking and physically developed. The rapidity of life and excitement which many women lead must tell on them. She regards woman's too great love for amusement as being at the bottom of the cause of so many unhappy married homes. Why are there not more real friendships between man and wife? Let that be so, and the home would be home for both. She is a firm advocate of technical education.

"I believe in bigger girls being taught in class," said Lady Jeune; "it does a girl good to work with other girls. Boys? Let every boy be taught a trade at _school_--his father's trade for choice. Opportunity--as it is to-day--is levelled for all, and whether the boy is the son of a duke or the son of a working-man--a Board school boy--their opportunities and chances of real and true success in life are more equal than formerly."

"Then how would you meet the wants of your surplus boy population, Lady Jeune," I asked---"the lads of the slums, whose family motto is 'No work, and plenty of it'?"

"Either by emigration, or by some scheme such as the idea of the Gordon Boys' Home carried out on a small scale, which would enable them after training to become soldiers or sailors," replied Lady Jeune.

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

It was during the walk back over the fields from Donnington Castle that Sir Francis Jeune paid a magnificent tribute to the abilities of the late Lord Hannen--both as a lawyer and a man. On my return to town the following evening the newspaper placards had the announcement of Lord Hannen's death!

HARRY HOW.

_The Queen's Yacht_

BY MRS. M. GRIFFITH.

(_By special permission of Her Majesty the Queen._)

_From a Photo by G. West & Son, Southsea._]

The _Victoria and Albert_ is a paddle vessel of 2,470 tons, built by Her Majesty's Government and launched from Pembroke Dock in 1855. Her dimensions are: extreme length, 336ft. 4in.; breadth of deck, 40ft.; displacement in tons, when deep, 2,390 tons.

Her engines make twenty-one revolutions a minute, and are supplied by four boilers, with six furnaces to each. It takes about six tons of coal to get up steam, and about three tons an hour to keep her at full speed. Highest indicated horse-power, 2,400.

Her Majesty the Queen made her first cruise in her on July 12th, 1855.

What will first strike any visitor going on board the _Victoria and Albert_ is the utter lack of luxury and magnificence of decoration and furniture in the Royal apartments. The most perfect simplicity, combined with good taste, prevails everywhere. It would be well for those who complain of the cost of our Royal yachts to compare them with those of other nations, and note the difference.

The deck is covered with linoleum, over which red carpeting is laid when the Queen is on board; and plenty of lounges and cushions laid about and many plants, which contrast pleasantly with the white and gold with which the vessel is painted. She is lit electrically throughout, having forty-two accumulating cells. She carries two brass guns (six pounders) for signalling only. There is a pretty little five o'clock tea cabin on deck, which has a hood coming down from the doorway, as a protection from the wind. There is also a miniature armoury, lamp-room, chart-room, and a number of lockers for signalling-flags.

All the Royal apartments have the floors covered with red and black Brussels carpet, in small coral pattern; the walls hung with rosebud chintz, box pleated; the doors of bird's-eye maple, with handles of iron, and fittings heavily electro-plated. Her Majesty's bedroom has a brass bedstead screwed into sockets in the floor, bed furniture of rosebud chintz lined with green silk, canopy to match, green silk blinds, and plain white muslin curtains with goffered frills, mahogany furniture, chintz-covered. Dressing-room: mahogany furniture, covered with green leather, writing and dressing table combined; the walls covered with maps and charts on spring rollers.

The wardrobe-room, in which Her Majesty's dresser sleeps, is furnished in a similar style; and here I saw a boat cloak of blue embossed velvet, lined with scarlet cloth, and another made entirely of scarlet cloth and with the "Star" on the front, which once belonged to George IV., but is now sometimes worn by the Queen.

_From a Photograph._]

In the Princess Royal's room--as it is still called--the furniture is of maple, an electric light pendant hangs over the toilet table, the walls are a pale salmon colour, and the cornice a shell pattern in white and gold, the ceiling done in imitation of plaster.

_From a Photo by Symonds & Co., Portsmouth._]

The cabin which was formerly occupied by the Prince of Wales and Duke of Edinburgh contains two little brass bedsteads, maple furniture, decorated with the Prince of Wales' Feathers; and the Tutor's cabin opens out of it.

The pavilion, or breakfast-room, has mahogany furniture covered in leather, and a couple of large saddle-bag easy chairs, a very handsome painted porcelain stove, and frilled muslin curtains to all the parts.

The dining-room is furnished in a similar way, but the walls are hung with charts and portraits of the former captains of the vessel, who were as follows: (1) Lord Adolphus Fitzclarence, (2) Sir Joseph Denman, (3) George Henry Seymour, C.B., (4) His Serene Highness Prince of Leiningen, (5) Captain Hugh Campbell, and (6) Captain Frank Thompson. A very handsome candelabrum is of nautical design, and the brass coal scuttle is fashioned like a nautilus shell; walls, salmon; and cornice, white and gold, in "Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle" design.

_From a Photograph._]

Her Majesty's drawing-room is 26 ft. by 18 ft. 6 in. The walls chintz-covered, and hung with portraits of the Royal Family in oval gilt frames, in the same design as the cornice; the furniture of bird's-eye maple; the coverings, all of chintz, to match the walls. Two large sofas, one at each end of the room; two or three easy chairs, the others high-backed; an "Erard" piano, book-case and cabinet combined, writing-table, occasional tables, and an oval centre table, comprise the whole of the furniture. I noticed a very handsome reading-lamp of copper and brass, for electric light, with a portable connection, so that it can be used in any part of the room. The bells have also the same contrivance. The two chandeliers, for six candles each, are of the same design as the one in the dining-room.

_From a Photograph._]

The corridor leading to the Royal apartments is hung with rich green silk damask curtains, and on the walls are water-colour paintings of several of Her Majesty's ships, done by the boys of Christ's Hospital. The staircase is very wide and handsome, of maple, with gold and white balustrades.

_From a Photo by Symonds & Co., Portsmouth._]

The Ladies-in-Waiting have their cabins on the starboard side in the fore part of the vessel, and the Lords on the port side; they have also a commodious dining-room, decorated in white and gold. Her Majesty's servants have twelve cabins, six of them fitted up for two people. In addition to these there are numerous domestic offices, a dispensary, the officers' cabins, and accommodation for the crew, which numbers 170.

Her Majesty the Queen is never now longer on board than forty-eight hours at a time, and the vessel is kept in such perfect order that only twelve hours' notice is required to prepare her for the reception of Royalty.

_From a Photograph._]

LIGHT

A LONDON IDYLL]

BY E. M. HEWITT.

We lodged in a street together:
You a sparrow on the housetop lonely,
I, a lone she bird of his feather.

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:--

Sing high. Tho' the red sun dip
There is yet a day for me;
Nor youth I count for a ship
That was long ago lost at sea.

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

Did the lost love die and depart?
Many times since have we met;
For I hold the years in my heart,
And all that was is yet.

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.

Nor youth I count for a ship
That was long ago lost at sea!

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.

ZIG-ZAGS AT THE ZOO

By Arthur Morrison & J.A. Shepherd]

XXIV.--ZIG-ZAG RODOPORCINE.

"Rodoporcine" is a portmanteau-word. It is not a regular scientific term, although, as I may claim with modest pride (being its inventor), it is almost ugly enough to be one. I have invented it largely for the benefit of the building (it is only one building) which the Zoological Society numbers six and seven, and divides arbitrarily into "The Swine House" and "The Rodents' House"; but chiefly I have invented it because I wanted a title for this Zig-zag. _Rodo_ I gnaw, _porcus_ a pig.

The Society have old authority for any amount of confusion between the swine and the rodents. The guinea-pig has long ago established its right to its name, on the indisputable grounds of being entirely unconnected with Guinea, and not a pig, but a rodent. The capybara is also called a water-pig (even in its Greek name) in virtue, doubtless, of being a rodent. "Porcupine" means a thorny pig; the name being again found convenient for a rodent, and enunciated with peculiar emphasis by the wag who wrote:--

Each hair will stand on end upon thy wig,
Like quills upon the frightful porcupig.