REACTION.
Everybody who has ever passed by that passage of life’s poignant yet
ordinary way, knows what a reaction there is when the one is gone who
has thus occupied the first place in the thoughts of a man,--or woman
either, for that matter. The moment she,--or he,--is gone, what a sudden
quickening of energy, what a rush of all the faculties at the suspended
work,--suspended for the sake of that engrossing presence. It had been
natural to delay and muse the day before, recalling what sweet moments
there might be in the past, imagining what might be in the future; but
now, when all is over, with what an impulse the man works at his
occupation, to fill the void, to hasten, if he could, the very movement
of the earth, till the time of meeting again. Ben had a double motive at
this crisis of his history. For the first time in his life he had actual
work in hand, and the positive prick of necessity to drive him to it;
and at the same time the hope of making,--of winning,--what?--his
fortune,--Millicent,--a position in the world,--all out of the chance
that had fallen into his hands, of becoming assistant to an engineer on
some little bit of American railway,--a profession of which he knew
nothing. Knowledge, or skill, did not seem to him at this moment to
count for much. It was a beginning a man wanted. Given that beginning,
and what had he to do but follow it to the ultimate success which must
come? It was in itself a foolish idea, common to the novice in every
department; but perhaps in Ben’s case it was less foolish than in that
of most men, for it was his nature to hold by anything he took up
desperately, until success of one kind or another rewarded him. He was
intense in everything, taking what happened to him not lightly, but very
seriously,--and such men are not apt to fail.
It was still early, when fresh from his long walk, and with his
faculties all cleared up and awakened by the withdrawal of the presence
which had absorbed him, he went to Hillyard’s rooms to breakfast, as his
friend had invited him to do. It was in one of those dingy parlours in
Jermyn Street, which to so many young men are radiant with that freedom
from domestic restraints, and privilege of having things their own way,
which makes the long, unlovely street into a succession of palaces.
Hillyard was sitting in his dressing-gown, over the same papers which he
had carried to the club the night before. He was not less eager, not
less excited than Ben,--or, indeed, it would be safe to say he was more
excited. It was the end only Ben was looking at; but the means, with
which he was so much better acquainted than his assistant was,--the work
itself, with its difficulties and obstacles,--had inflamed the
mind of the adventurer. Of course there would be a great many
difficulties,--there would be schemes to lead the line, one way or
another, through this man’s grounds or that man’s, by this village or
away from that; and Hillyard felt, with a little thrill of delight, that
he was the man who could solve all these difficulties. It was not a work
of the first importance, and yet he had never had such an opening
before. He was to be chief engineer, and have everything in his hands.
It was to an American, who had travelled home part of the way with him
from Australia, that he owed this preferment; and the new chance was as
precious to Hillyard as to Ben, though not perhaps of so much supposed
importance in his life.
‘I will run down and see my mother before I go,’ he said; ‘and I
suppose, so will you: but we must meet at Liverpool on the 1st, and go
out in the _Africa_. If I do not keep the ball in my hands now I have
got the thread, never trust me! Ben, you will think it strange when I
say it, but it is this I have been trying for all my life.’
‘I don’t think it the least strange,’ said Ben; ‘though, if I were to
say it was the same thing with myself----’
‘Oh, you!’ said Hillyard, ‘you have not been so many weeks on the world
as I have been years; and, besides, you don’t know what awaits you at
the end of your probation. The money must come to some one,--and, even
if it were divided among the three of you, your share would be more than
enough to make a man happy;--whereas, for me this is the only chance in
life.’
‘I wonder what made you think of me,’ said Ben, simply. ‘It was very
good of you. I was at the end of my resources and my hopes when I came
out last night.’ Hillyard looked at him keenly, and in spite of himself
a little colour rose to Ben’s face. ‘It was kind of you to think of me,’
he added hastily. ‘I do not know,--had it been me----’
‘That you would have been so forgiving?’ said his friend; ‘but I had
done you no injury, Ben,--unless in taking you there. I suppose I must
not ask what you have been doing with yourself all this time, nor what
they are to you now, these--ladies?’
‘The railway is a safer subject,’ said Ben, clearing up his countenance
with an effort; and then he added, after a little pause, ‘Mrs. Tracy and
her daughter have just gone off to one of the German baths.’
Hillyard eyed his companion with a curious look, restraining with
difficulty the whistle of wonder which rose to his lips. He,
much-experienced man, had seen through the mother and daughter at a
glance; though, to be sure, he had been pre-instructed by his
acquaintance with Fitzgerald Tracy. He could not understand how it was
that they had allowed Ben to slip through their finders. ‘If he had but
a third of the property he would still be a prize,’ he said to himself,
casting a rapid engineering glance, as it were, along the line of his
friend’s life, and jumping over the intervening seven years. ‘It was
strange they should have let him go.’ But the news of their departure
explained how it was that he found Ben so disengaged, so ready to enter
into his plans; and curious as he was, he could go no farther. A certain
preoccupation that came into the young man’s eyes, a wavering breath of
colour on his face, and, at the same time, a strain of the lines about
his mouth, his lips shutting, as it were, upon his secret, warned
Hillyard off the unprofitable inquiry. He went back to the paper on the
table, and began to describe the new life they would lead,--the
voyage,--all the novel circumstances before them. He was himself so much
of an adventurer that the sudden change of scene from St. James’s to
Ohio excited him, and gave a zest to his good fortune. But, curiously
enough, this did not tell on Ben. His interest was in the work, and
nothing else,--the work as a means to his end. The small excitement of
the journey, or the new world which he was about to enter, Ben at this
moment of exaltation contemplated almost with contempt. After all,
crossing the Atlantic, except in the mere point of duration, was little
more than crossing the Channel; and that naturally he would do without
even thinking of it. And what was America to him? There was not even
the difficulty of a new language to contend with. He was not moved by
that; at least, not now. What did excite him was the new profession he
was going to enter; the necessity of knowing it and mastering the tool
which was to carve out his fortune;--a necessity which Hillyard, to tell
the truth, had not realised.
‘I know all that is necessary for both of us,’ he said, with a laugh.
‘As for you, of course I consider it only a momentary occupation that
will fill up your time while you are waiting. I should never have
thought of offering it as more than that.’
‘I am not waiting,’ said Ben,--‘I am beginning. Do you think I am going
to build my expectations now upon my father’s will, whatever it may be?
How can I tell what it may be? Perhaps I am going about the very best
way to disinherit myself completely. That is not my concern. I mean to
work my own way. And if you can teach me enough to make me of real
use----’
‘I’ll see to that,’ said Hillyard, with a cordial grasp of his hand.
But, nevertheless, the chief engineer was not quite so sure that he
liked it as well on this ground. What he wanted had been a
gentleman-assistant, whom to guide as he pleased, and of whom to boast a
little, ‘A fellow with I don’t know how many thousands a-year to fall
back upon.’ He had rather intended to dazzle his American acquaintances
with Ben; but a man who meant to learn his trade, and practise it,
might turn out rather a stumbling-block, and come in his master’s way.
However, all was settled ere they parted, and Ben supplied with lists of
books and instruments, and various unthought-of necessities which must
be provided for somehow. His face lengthened perceptibly, as Hillyard
perceived, when he heard of them, and he was for some minutes lost in
thought. ‘Considering how to raise the money,’ his friend thought, but
did not offer any help, wisely considering that Ben had friends much
more able to help him than he--Hillyard--was. Perhaps he was rather
pleased, on the whole, that the new-born professional zeal of his
companion should receive a check in the bud. Ben went away very
thoughtful with those lists in his pocket, and not very much more than
his uncle’s fifteen pounds to rely upon, but very resolute not to be
damped in his ardour. It gave him plenty to think of for the rest of
that day,--a day which was of feverish, interminable length, begun, as
it was, hours too early. And Guildford Street had a gloom upon it as of
the very grave when in the evening he went back to it.
They were to sail in the _Africa_ on the 1st of June, so that he had but
ten days for all his preparations. So close an approach to ruin had
quickened Ben’s powers, and his return to the realities of practical
life, and to reasonable hopes and prospects, made the business of
providing for his new wants less appalling than had been that first
tragical symptom of destitution, Mrs. Barton’s little bill. There was no
despair in the business now, but hope, and all the possibilities of
active life. He had never been addicted to ornament, but yet had a
little store of bijouterie which was of some value; and being no longer
ashamed of his needs, he had the heart to go back to Messrs. Christie’s,
to inquire after his buhl and china, and drive a final bargain. The
result of all these proceedings was, that Ben found enough in his pocket
to stock himself with instruments and books for the profession he had
taken up so hastily, substituting them for the pretty toys which had
been the luxuries of his youth. To be sure, his Sèvres and his cabinets
went for half, or less than half, their value; but of what value were
such dainty articles to him at this point of his career? And as the
natural spring of feeling came back, no doubt his new theodolite
awakened a little pleasure in Ben’s mind, which was still young, and
could not but respond to the pleasant thrill of novelty in the long run.
The very possession of the implements of a trade brought him nearer to
practical work. He began to think such work was worth doing, after all,
for its own sake; primitive work--making roads, building bridges--the
first necessities of man. Had it not been the hackneyed iron way--the
railroad, on which we have all heard so many big words wasted that its
wonders have become a vulgar brag--Ben might actually have been seized
with a young man’s passion for his work, and thought it superior to
every other occupation under the sun. As it was, it loosed his lips, and
restored him to the common intercourse of men. ‘I am going to make a
railway in America,’ he said to the friends whom he no longer avoided at
his club, and it was regarded as a very good joke among them. Some of
them delivered a decided opinion--by Jove, that it was a capital idea.
And the announcement of Ben Renton thus taking to work, after having
been under a cloud, was like a brisk breeze blowing through the languid,
gossiping community for one evening at least. He was able himself to see
the humour of it, and discuss the subject freely in the course of a few
days. He had touched the earth, like the giant in the story, and got new
vigour. He was even able to go home--to that house which, in his first
disgust, he had felt as if he never could enter again. He had found an
independent standing apart from the past, in which he belonged to his
family, and was now no more the embittered, disappointed, ruined heir of
Renton, but a man erect in the world by himself, and with a work and
life of his own.