WITHOUT REST
Half-way down Fleet Street, on the left-hand side, stands the church of
St. Dunstan-in-the-West. Around its grimy foundations there seethes a
struggling, toiling race of men--not only from morning till night, but
throughout the twenty-four hours. Within sound of this church bell a
hundred printing-presses throb out their odorous broadsheets to be
despatched to every part of the world. Day and night, week in week out,
the human writing-machines, and those other machines which are almost
human (and better than human in some points) hurry through their
allotted tasks, and ignore the saintly shadow cast upon them by the
spire of St. Dunstan. This is indeed the centre of the world: the hub
from whence spring the spokes of the vast wheel of life. For to this
point all things over the world converge by a vast web of wire,
railroad, coach road, and steamer track. Upon wings that boast of
greater speed than the wind can compass come to this point the voices of
our kin in farthest lands. News--news--news. News from the East of
events occurring in the afternoon--scan it over and flash it westward,
where it will be read on the morning of the same day! News in every
tongue to be translated and brought into shape--while the solemn church
clock tells his tale in deep voice, audible above the din and scurry.
From hurried scribbler to pale compositor, and behold, the news is
bawled all over London! Such work as this goes on for ever around the
church of St. Dunstan. Scribblers come and scribblers go; compositors
come to their work young and hopeful, they leave it bent and poisoned,
yet the work goes on. Each day the pace grows quicker, each day some new
means of rapid propagation is discovered, and each day life becomes
harder to live. One morning, perhaps, a scribbler is absent from his
post--“Brain-fever, complete rest; a wreck.” For years his writings have
been read by thousands daily. A new man takes the vacant chair--he has
been waiting more or less impatiently for this--and the thousands are
none the wiser. One night the head compositor presses his black hand to
his sunken chest, and staggers home. “And time too--he's had his turn,”
mutters the second compositor as he thinks of the extra five shillings a
week. No doubt he is right. Every dog his day.
Nearly opposite to the church stands a tall narrow house of dirty red
brick, and it is with this house that we have to do.
At seven o'clock, one evening some years ago--when heads now grey were
brown, when eyes now dim were bright--the Strand was in its usual state
of turmoil. Carriage followed carriage. Seedy clerks hustled past portly
merchants--not their own masters, _bien entendu_, but those of
other seedy clerks. Carriages and foot-passengers were alike going
westward. All were leaving behind them the day and the busy city--some
after a few hours devoted to the perusal of _Times_ and
_Gazette_; others fagged and weary from a long day of dusty books.
Ah! those were prosperous days in the City. Days when men of but a few
years' standing rolled out to Clapham or Highgate behind a pair of
horses. Days when books were often represented by a bank-book and a
roughly-kept day-book. What need to keep mighty ledgers when profits are
great and returns quick in their returning?
As the pedestrians made their way along the narrow pavement some of them
glanced at the door of the tall red-brick house and read the inscription
on a brass plate screwed thereon. This consisted of two mystic words:
_The Beacon_. There was, however, in reality, no mystery about it.
The _Beacon_ was a newspaper, published weekly, and the clock of
St. Dunstan's striking seven told the end of another week. The
publishing day was past; another week with its work and pleasure was to
be faced.
From early morning until six o'clock in the evening this narrow doorway
and passage had been crowded by a heaving, swearing, laughing mass of
more or less dilapidated humanity interested in the retail sale of
newspapers. At six o'clock Ephraim Bander, a retired constable, now on
the staff of the _Beacon_, had taken his station at the door, in
order to greet would-be purchasers with the laconic and discouraging
words: “Sold hout!”
During the last two years ex-constable Bander had announced the selling
“hout” of the _Beacon_ every Tuesday evening.
At seven o'clock Mrs. Bander emerged from her den on the fourth floor,
like a portly good-natured spider, and with a broom proceeded to attack
the dust shaken from the boots of the journalistic fraternity, with
noisy energy. After that she polished the door-plate; and peace reigned
within the narrow house.
On the second floor there was a small room with windows looking out into
a narrow lane behind the house. It was a singularly quiet room; the door
opened and shut without sound or vibration; double windows insured
immunity from the harrowing cries of such enterprising merchants as
exercised their lungs and callings in the narrow lane beneath. A certain
sense of ease and comfort imperceptibly crept over the senses of persons
entering this tiny apartment. It must have been in the atmosphere; for
some rooms more luxuriously furnished are without it. It certainly does
not lie in the furniture--this imperceptible sense of companionship; it
does not lurk in the curtains. Some mansions know it, and many cottages.
It is even to be met with in the tiny cabin of a coasting vessel.
This diminutive room, despite its lack of sunlight, was such as one
might wish to sit in. A broad low table stood in the middle of the
floor, and on it lay the mellow light of a shaded lamp. At this table
two men were seated opposite to each other. One was writing, slowly and
easily, the other was idling with the calm restfulness of a man who has
never worked very hard. He was rolling his pencil up to the top of his
blotting-pad, and allowing it to come down again in accordance with the
rules of gravity.
This was Mr. Bodery's habit when thoughtful; and after all, there was no
great harm in it. Mr. Bodery was editor and proprietor of the
_Beacon_. The amusing and somewhat satirical article which appeared
weekly under the heading of “Light” was penned by the chubby hand at
that moment engaged with the pencil.
Mr. Morgan, sub-editor, was even stouter than his chief. Laughter was
his most prominent characteristic. He laughed over “Light” when in its
embryo state, he laughed when the _Beacon_ sold out at six o'clock
on Tuesday evenings. He laughed when the printing-machine went wrong on
Monday afternoon, and--most wonderful of all--he laughed at his own
jokes, in which exercise he was usually alone. His jokes were not of the
first force. Mr. Morgan was the author of the slightly laboured and
weighty Parliamentary articles on the first page. He never joked on
paper, which is a gift apart.
These two gentlemen were in no way of brilliant intellect. They had
their share of sound, practical common-sense, which is in itself a
splendid substitute. Fortune had come to them (as it comes to most men
when it comes at all) without any apparent reason. Mr. Bodery had
supplied the capital, and Mr. Morgan's share of the undertaking was
added in the form of a bustling, hollow energy. The _Beacon_ was
lighted, so to speak. It burnt in a dull and somewhat flickering manner
for some years; then a new hand fed the flame, and its light spread
afar.
It was from pure good nature that Mr. Bodery held out a helping hand to
the son of his old friend, Walter Vellacott, when that youth appeared
one day at the office of the _Beacon_, and in an off-hand manner
announced that he was seeking employment. Like many actions performed
from a similar motive, Mr. Bodery's kindness of heart met with its
reward. Young Christian Vellacott developed a remarkable talent for
journalistic literature--in fact, he was fortunate enough to have found,
at the age of twenty-two, his avocation in life.
Gradually, as the years wore on, the influence of the young fellow's
superior intellect made itself felt. Prom the position of a mere
supernumerary, he worked his way upwards, taking on to his shoulders one
duty after another--bearing the weight, quietly and confidently, of one
responsibility after another. This exactly suited Mr. Bodery and his
sub-editor. There was very little of the slave in the composition of
either. They delighted in an easy, luxurious life, with just enough work
to impart a pleasant feeling of self-satisfaction. It suited Christian
Vellacott also. In a few weeks he found his level--in a few months he
began rising to higher levels.
He was an only son; the only child of a brilliant father whose name was
known in every court in Europe as that of a harum-scarum diplomatist,
who could have done great things in his short life if he had wished to.
It is from only sons that Fortune selects her favourites. Men who have
no brothers to share their amusements turn to serious matters early in
life. Christian Vellacott soon discovered that a head was required at
the office of the _Beacon_ to develop the elements of success
undoubtedly lying within the journal, and that the owner of such a head
could in time dictate his own terms to the easy-going proprietor.
Unsparingly he devoted the whole of his exceptional energies to the work
before him. He lived in and for it. Each night he went home fagged and
weary; but each morning saw him return to it with undaunted spirit.
Human nature, however, is exhaustible. The influence of a strong mind
over a strong body is great, but it is nevertheless limited. The
_Beacon_ had reached a large circulation, but its slave was worn
out. Two years without a holiday--two years of hurried, hard brain-work
had left their mark. It is often so when a man finds his avocation too
early. He is too hurried, works too hard, and collapses; or he becomes
self-satisfied, over-confident, and unbearable. Fortunately for
Christian Vellacott he was devoid of conceit, which is like the
scaffolding round a church-spire, reaching higher and falling first.
There was also a “home” influence at work. When Christian passed out of
the narrow doorway, and turned his face westward, his day's work was by
no means over, as will be shown hereafter.
As Mr. Bodery rolled his pencil up and down his blotting-pad, he was
slowly realising the fact that something must be done. Presently he
looked up, and his pleasant eyes rested on the bent head of his
sub-editor.
“Morgan,” he said, “I have been thinking--Seems to me Vellacott wants a
rest! He's played out!”
Mr. Morgan wiped his pen vigorously upon his coat, just beneath the
shoulder, and sat back in his chair.
“Yes,” he replied; “he has not been up to the mark for some time. But
you will find difficulty in making him take a holiday. He is a devil for
working--ha, ha!”
This “ha, ha!” did not mean very much. There was no mirth in it. It was
a species of punctuation, and implied that Mr. Morgan had finished his
remark.
“I will ring for him now and see what he says about it.”
Mr. Bodery extended his chubby white hand and touched a small gong.
Almost instantaneously the silent door opened and a voice from without
said, “Yess'r.” A small boy with a mobile, wicked mouth stood at
attention in the doorway.
“Has Mr. Vellacott gone?”
“No--sir!” In a tone which seemed to ask: “Now _is_ it likely?”
“Where is he?”
“In the shop, sir.”
“Ask him to come here, please.”
“Yess'r.”
The small boy closed the door. Once outside he placed his hand upon his
heart and made a low bow to the handle, retreating backwards to the head
of the stairs. Then he proceeded to slide down the banister, to the
trifling detriment of his waistcoat. As he reached the end of his
perilous journey a door opened at the foot of the stairs, and a man's
form became discernible in the dim light.
“Is that the way you generally come downstairs, Wilson?” asked a voice.
“It is the quickest way, sir!”
“Not quite; there is one quicker, which you will discover some day if
you overbalance at the top!”
“Mr. Bodery wishes to see you, please sir!” The small boy's manner was
very different from what it had been outside the door upstairs.
“All right,” replied Vellacott, putting on the coat he had been carrying
over his arm. A peculiar smooth rapidity characterised all his
movements. At school he had been considered a very “clean” fielder. The
cleanness was there still.
The preternaturally sharp boy--sharp as only London boys are--watched
the lithe form vanish up the stairs; then he wagged his head very wisely
and said to himself in a patronising way:
“He's the right sort, he is--no chalk there!”
Subsequently he balanced his diminutive person full length upon the
balustrade, and proceeded to haul himself laboriously, hand over hand,
to the top.
In the meantime Christian Vellacott had passed into the editor's room.
The light of the lamp was driven downwards upon the table, but the
reflection of it rose and illuminated his face. It was a fairly handsome
face, with eyes just large enough to be keen and quick without being
dreamy. The slight fair moustache was not enough to hide the mouth,
which was refined, and singularly immobile. He glanced at Mr. Bodery, as
he entered, quickly and comprehensively, and then turned his eyes
towards Mr. Morgan. His face was very still and unemotional, but it was
pale, and his eyes were deeply sunken. A keen observer would have
noticed, in comparing the three men, that there was something about the
youngest which was lacking in his elders. It lay in the direct gaze of
his eyes, in the carriage of his head, in the small, motionless mouth.
It was what is vaguely called “power.”
“Sit down, Vellacott,” said Mr. Brodery. “We want to have a
consultation.” After a short pause he continued: “You know, of course,
that it is a dull season just now. People do not seem to read the papers
in August. Now, we want you to take a holiday. Morgan has been away; I
shall go when you come back. Say three weeks or a month. You've been
over-working yourself a bit--burning the candle at both ends, eh?”
“Hardly at both ends,” corrected Vellacott, with a ready smile which
entirely transformed his face. “Hardly at both ends--at one end in a
draught, perhaps.”
“Ha, ha! Very good,” chimed in Mr. Morgan the irrepressible. “At one end
in a draught--that is like me, only the draught has got inside my cheeks
and blown them out instead of in like yours, eh? Ha, ha!” And he patted
his cheeks affectionately.
“I don't think I care for a holiday just now, thanks,” he said slowly,
without remembering to call up a smile for Mr. Morgan's benefit.
Unconsciously he put his hand to his forehead, which was damp with the
heat of the printing-office which he had just left.
“My dear fellow,” said Mr. Bodery gravely, emphasising his remarks with
the pencil, “you have one thing in life to learn yet--no doubt you have
many, but this one in particular you must learn. Work is not the only
thing we are created for--not the only thing worth living for. It is a
necessary evil, that is all. When you have reached my age you will come
to look upon it as such. A little enjoyment is good for every one. There
are many things to form a brighter side to life.
Nature--travelling--riding--rowing----”
“And love,” suggested the sub-editor, placing his hand dramatically on
the right side of his broad waistcoat instead of the left. He could
afford to joke on the subject now that the grass grew high in the little
country churchyard where he had laid his young wife fifteen years
before. In those days he was a grave, self-contained man, but that
sorrow had entirely changed his nature. The true William Morgan only
came out on paper now.
Mr. Bodery was right. Christian had yet to learn a great lesson, and
unconsciously he was even now beginning to grasp its meaning. His whole
mind was full of his work, and out of those earnest grey eyes his soul
was looking at the man who was perhaps saving his life.
“We can easily manage it,” said the editor, continuing his advantage. “I
will take over the foreign policy article. The reviewing you can do
yourself, as we can always send you the books, and there is no pressing
hurry about them. The general work we will manage somehow--won't we,
Morgan?”
“Of course we will; as well as and perhaps better than he could do it
himself, eh? Ha, ha!”
“But seriously, Vellacott,” continued Mr. Bodery, “things will go on
just as well for a time. When I was young I used to make that mistake
too. I thought that no one could manage things like myself, but in time
I realised (as you will do some day) that things went on as smoothly
when I was away. Depend upon it, my boy, when a man is put on the shelf,
worn out and useless, another soon fills his place. You are too young to
go on the shelf yet. To please me, Vellacott, go away for three weeks.”
“You are very kind, sir--” began the young fellow, but Mr. Bodery
interrupted him.
“Well, then, that is settled. Shall we say this day week? That will give
you time to make your plans.”
With a few words of thanks Christian left the room. Vaguely and
mechanically he wandered upstairs to his own particular den. It was a
disappointing little chamber. The chaos one expects to find on the desk
of a literary man was lacking here. No papers lay on the table in
artistic disorder. The presiding genius of the room was
method--clear-headed, practical method. The walls were hidden by shelves
of books, from the last half-hysterical production of some vain woman to
the single-volume work of a man's lifetime. Many of the former were
uncut, the latter bore signs of having been read and studied. The
companionship of these silent friends brought peace and contentment to
the young man's spirit. He sat wearily down, and, leaning his chin upon
his folded arms, he thought. Gradually there came into his mind pictures
of the fair open country, of rolling hills and quiet valleys, of quiet
lanes and running waters. A sudden yearning to breathe God's pure air
took possession of his faculties. Mr. Bodery had gained the day. In the
room below Mr. Morgan wrote on in his easy, comfortable manner. The
editor was still thoughtfully playing with his pencil. The sharp little
boy was standing on his head in the passage. At last Mr. Bodery rose
from his chair and began his preparations for leaving. As he brushed his
hat he looked towards his companion and said:
“That young fellow is worth you and me rolled into one.”
“I recognised that fact some years ago,” replied the sub-editor, wiping
his pen on his coat. “It is humiliating, but true. Ha, ha!”