THE WORLD'S BEST OFFER--A PRISON
After a walk in the sweet April sunshine the following morning, a hearty
breakfast, and a general rallying of the elastic forces of youth,
Haldane felt that he had not yet reached the "brink of dark despair."
Indeed, he had an odd sense of pride that he had survived the ordeal of
the last two days, and still felt as well as he did. Although it was but
an Arab's life, in which every man's hand seemed against him, yet he
still lived, and concluded that he could continue to live indefinitely.
He did not go out again, as on the previous day, to seek employment, but
sat down and tried to think his way into the future somewhat.
The first question that presented itself was, Should he in any
contingency return home to his mother?
He was not long in deciding adversely, for it seemed to him to involve
such a bitter mortification that he felt he would rather starve.
Should he send to her for money?
That would be scarcely less humiliating, for it was equivalent to a
confession that he could not even take care of himself, much less
achieve all the brave things he had intimated. He was still more averse
to going to Mrs. Arnot for what would seem charity to her husband and to
every one else who might hear of it. The probability, also, that Laura
would learn of such an appeal for aid made him scout the very thought.
Should he go away among strangers, change his name, and commence life
anew, unburdened by the weight which now dragged him down?
The thought of cutting himself off utterly from all whom he knew, or who
cared for him, caused a cold, shivering sense of dread. It would, also,
be a confession of defeat, an acknowledgment that he could not
accomplish what he had promised to himself and to others. He had,
moreover, sufficient forethought to perceive that any success which he
might achieve elsewhere, and under another name, would be such a slight
and baseless fabric that a breath from one who now knew him could
overturn it. He might lead an honorable life for years, and yet no one
would believe him honorable after discovering that he was living under
an _alias_ and concealing a crime. If he could build himself up in
Hillaton he would be founded on the rock of truth, and need fear no
disastrous reverses from causes against which he could not guard.
Few can be more miserable than those who hold their fortunes and good
name on sufferance--safe only in the power and disposition of others to
keep some wretched secret; and he is but little better off who fears
that every stranger arriving in town may recognize in his face the
features of one that, years before, by reason of some disgraceful act,
fled from himself and all who knew him. The more Haldane thought upon
the scheme of losing his identity, and of becoming that vague, and, as
yet, unnamed stranger, who after years of exile would still be himself,
though to the world not himself, the less attractive it became.
He finally concluded that, as he had resolved to remain in Hillaton, he
would keep his resolution, and that, as he had plainly stated his
purpose to lift himself up by his own unaided efforts, he would do so if
it were possible; and if it were not, he would live the life of a
laborer--a tramp, even--rather than "skulk back," as he expressed it, to
those who were once kindred and companions.
"If I cannot walk erect to their front doors, I will never crawl around
to the back entrances. If I ever must take to keep from starving, it
will be from strangers. I shall never inflict myself as a dead weight
and a painfully tolerated infamy on any one. I was able to get myself
into this disgusting slough, and if I haven't brains and pluck enough to
get myself out, I will remain at this, my level, to which I have
fallen."
Thus pride still counselled and controlled, and yet it was a kind of
pride that inspires something like respect. It proved that there was
much good metal in the crude, misshapen ore of his nature.
But the necessity of doing something was urgent, for the sum he had been
willing to receive from his mother was small, and rapidly diminishing.
Among the possible activities in which he might engage, that of writing
for papers and magazines occurred to him, and the thought at once caught
and fired his imagination. The mysteries of the literary world were the
least known to him, and therefore it offered the greatest amount of
vague promise and indefinite hope. Here a path might open to both fame
and fortune. The more he dwelt on the possibility the more it seemed to
take the aspect of probability. Under the signature of E. H. he would
write thrilling tales, until the public insisted upon knowing the great
unknown. Then he could reverse present experience by scorning those who
had scorned him. He recalled all that he had ever read about genius
toiling in its attic until the world was compelled to recognize and do
homage to the regal mind. He would remain in seclusion also; he would
burn midnight oil until he should come to be known as Haldane the
brilliant writer instead of Haldane the gambler, drunkard, and thief.
All on fire with his new project, he sallied forth to the nearest
news-stand, and selected two or three papers and magazines, whose
previous interest to him and known popularity suggested that they were
the best mediums in which he could rise upon the public as a literary
star, all the more attractive because unnamed and unknown.
His next proceeding indicated a commendable amount of shrewdness, and
proved that his roseate visions resulted more from ignorance and
inexperience than from innate foolishness. He carefully read the
periodicals he had bought, in the hope of obtaining hints and
suggestions from their contents which would aid him in producing
acceptable manuscripts. Some of the sketches and stories appeared very
simple, the style flowing along as smoothly and limpidly as a summer
brook through the meadows. He did not see why he could not write in a
similar vein, perhaps more excitingly and interestingly. In his partial
and neglected course of study he had not given much attention to
_belles-lettres_, and was not aware that the simplicity and lucid
purity of thought which made certain pages so easily read were produced
by the best trained and most cultured talent existing among the regular
contributors.
He spent the evening and the greater part of a sleepless night in
constructing a crude plot of a story, and, having procured writing
materials, hastened through an early breakfast, the following morning,
in his eagerness to enter on what now seemed a shining path to fame.
He sat down and dipped his pen in ink. The blank, white page was before
him, awaiting his brilliant and burning thoughts; but for some reason
they did not and would not come. This puzzled him. He could dash off a
letter, and write with ease a plain business statement. Why could he not
commence and go on with his story?
"How do those other fellows commence?" he mentally queried, and he again
carefully read and examined the opening paragraphs of two or three tales
that had pleased him. They seemed to commence and go forward very easily
and naturally. Why could not he do the same?
To his dismay he found that he could not. He might as well have sat down
and hoped to have deftly and skilfully constructed a watch as to have
imitated the style of the stories that most interested him, for he had
never formed even the power, much less the habit, of composition.
After a few labored and inconsequential sentences, which seemed like
crude ore instead of the molten, burning metal of thought left to cool
in graceful molds, he threw aside his pen in despair.
After staring despondently for a time at the blank page, which now
promised to remain as blank as the future then seemed, the fact suddenly
occurred to him that even genius often spurred its flagging or dormant
powers by stimulants. Surely, then, he, in his pressing emergency, had a
right to avail himself of this aid. A little brandy might awaken his
imagination, which would then kindle with his theme.
At any rate, he had no objection to the brandy, and with this
inspiration he again resumed his pen. He was soon astonished and
delighted with the result, for he found himself writing with ease and
fluency. His thoughts seemed to become vivid and powerful, and his story
grew rapidly. As body and mind flagged, the potent genii in the black
bottle again lifted and soared on with him until the marvellous tale was
completed.
He decided to correct the manuscript on the following day, and was so
complacent and hopeful over his performance that he scarcely noted that
he was beginning to feel wretchedly from the inevitable reaction. The
next day, with dull and aching head he tried to read what he had
written, but found it dreary and disappointing work. His sentences and
paragraphs appeared like clouds from which the light had faded; but he
explained this fact to himself on the ground of his depressed physical
state, and he went through his task with dogged persistence.
He felt better on the following day, and with the aid of the bottle he
resolved to give his inventive genius another flight. On this occasion
he would attempt a longer story--one that would occupy him several
days--and he again stimulated himself up to a condition in which he
found at least no lack of words. When he attained what he supposed was
his best mood, he read over again the work of the preceding day, and was
delighted to find that it now glowed with prismatic hues. In his
complacence he at once despatched it to the paper for which it was
designed.
Three or four days of alternate work and brooding passed, and if various
and peculiar moods prove the possession of genius, Haldane certainly
might claim it. Between his sense of misfortune and disgrace, and the
fact that his funds were becoming low, on one hand, and his towering
hopes and shivering fears concerning his literary ventures, on the
other, he was emphatically in what is termed "a state of mind"
continuously. These causes alone were sufficient to make mental serenity
impossible; but the after-effects of the decoction from which he
obtained his inspiration were even worse, and after a week's work the
thought occurred to him more than once that if he pursued a literary
life, either his genius or that which he imbibed as its spur would
consume him utterly.
By the time the first two stories were finished he found that it would
be necessary to supplement the labors of his pen. He would have to wait
at least a few days before he could hope for any returns, even though he
had urged in his accompanying notes prompt acceptance and remittance for
their value.
He went to the office of the "Evening Spy," the paper which had shown
some lenience toward him, and offered his services as writer, or
reporter; and, although taught by harsh experience not to hope for very
much, he was a little surprised at the peremptory manner in which his
services were declined. His face seemed to ask an explanation, and the
editor said briefly:
"We did not bear down very hard on you--it's not our custom; but both
inclination and necessity lead us to require that every one and
everything connected with this paper should be eminently respectable and
deserving of respect. Good-morning, sir."
Haldane's pre-eminence consisted only in his lack of respectability; and
after the brave visions of the past week, based on his literary toil,
this cool, sharp-cut statement of society's opinion quenched about all
hope of ever rising by first gaining recognition and employment among
those whose position was similar to what his own had been. As he plodded
his way back to the miserable little foreign restaurant, his mind began
to dwell on this question:
"Is there any place in the world for one who has committed a crime, save
a prison?"