Three years have passed; years to which in later life Edward Beaumont
looked back with loathing and with wonder, wonder that in so short a
time he should have not merely fallen from that fair place he had filled
in the eye of what was to him the world, but worse, infinitely worse,
have fallen from his purer, better, nobler self; years in which, merged,
well-nigh submerged, in London’s restless, ruthless sea, he had
struggled to keep body and soul together by the use of his pen. When
first he had come to town he could, doubtless, have obtained employment
as a managing clerk. There are hundreds of men of his profession who are
glad to earn the bread of dependence in that capacity; but a false pride
forbade him to serve as clerk, who had so recently kinged it in his own
office. So he had turned to that refuge of the educated
out-of-work—literature—to find, as thousands have found before, that
literature is, perhaps, the hardest of all professions. And yet it seems
so easy a thing to start in life as a writer; all you need is a J pen, a
few sheets of foolscap, and, yes, there’s the rub, something to write
about that people want to read about; and, given all that, he’s a
lucky man that does not find someone else has forestalled him and has
written on the same theme infinitely better than he can write himself.
Beaumont, in those days, often recalled the three ways in which,
according to the traditions of the Bar, a young barrister may rise
rapidly: by writing a book on some legal subject, by huggery—_id
est_—by marrying an attorney’s daughter, or by a miracle. For the
man who must needs write daily for his daily crust it is not easy to
write a book, certainly not easy to find an appreciative publisher; as
for huggery, or marrying an editor’s daughter editor’s daughters
look far beyond the out-at elbows penny-a-liner; and as for miracles,
well, he had never believed in them. Indeed, in these days he had ceased
to believe in anything or anybody, even in himself. It was the worst of
his misfortunes that he had lost, as it were, at one fell swoop,
everything, even the desire to succeed. If he could earn enough to keep
life within him, though why he should care even to do that he would have
been hard put to it to say, that would suffice. He who loses fortune
loses much, who loses friends loses more, but who loses courage loses
all. And Beaumont’s heart was dead within him.
It was a dark, dreary night of March. The rain beat fitfully against the
window of a bedroom in a small by-street off the Holloway Road. The room
is Edward’s sleeping room, his eating-room, and his workshop. A tiny
fire burns dully in a tiny grate and emits rather less heat than the gas
that blares with a sickly flame above Beaumont’s head. It is close
upon ten of the night, and Edward has thrown down his pen, collected the
sheets of “copy” that he hopes to turn into money if editors prove
kind on the morrow, and is now, pipe in mouth and book in hand, trying
to find a comfortable place in the rickety, horse-hair armchair, called
by his landlady in some fit of uncanny humour, an easy chair, and
trying, too, to so focus his book as to catch the rays from his solitary
gas-jet. A very different Edward this from the easy, debonair youth whom
men had envied and maidens smiled upon. His clothes are well cut, but
woefully white at the seams, his linen is frayed, his boots down at
heel, the watch he glances at is manifestly a Waterbury, its chain of
steel; and before he lights his pipe he is compelled to cut a pipeful of
unmistakeable Limerick. Upon the small table are a jug of water, a
tumbler, and a bottle labelled “Pride of the Glen.” Edward holds it
to the light and measures its contents with his eye.
“Still three-parts full. Behold the rewards of abstinence. Had I not
been frugal last night I must have been frugal to-night; but, heaven be
thanked, there are two or three hours’ quiet soaking in three-quarters
of a 3s. 6d. bottle of the ‘Pride of the Glen,’ and by that is drunk
this dingy hole will be a palace and Edward Beaumont its prince; my tea
of bread and margarine, with a bloater, will look in the retrospect a
Guildhall banquet; this very angular, grid-iron like chair will be as
cosy as a divan; the cheap prints that adorn my walls will show as the
works of Watteau and Greuze; my rags will fall away, and I shall be clad
in purple and fine linen; my whiskey will be imperial Tokay; my twist
Havanas; and, in fine, it will be Edward Beaumont and not the bottle
that will be three-parts full. It is true that tomorrow my mouth will be
parched and I shall crave for a hair of the dog that bit me, and have to
crave unless the landlord of the ‘Jolly Dogs’ is in confiding mood;
my gorge will rise at the streaky, sickly slice of bacon and the ghastly
‘shop-’un’ and the leathery bread that will be served for
breakfast; it is also true my eye ill be bleared, if not blood-shot, my
head will ache fit to split, and my hand tremble till I can scarce lift
to my lips the cup of wash-up water my landlady calls tea. All these
things I verily believe. It is doubtless also true that I am shortening
my life, true as gospel, oh! most sapient Sir Wilfrid Lawson. But is it
not written that man shall take no thought for the morrow and that
sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. Here, benign deity at 3s.
6d. the bottle! here, thou offerest three hours’ oblivion, and
they’re well purchased by tomorrow’s reckoning.”
And he poured from the bottle a generous measure of the _elixir mortis_,
puffed his pipe to a vigorous glow, and with a sigh of something like
content, set himself to the reading of his well-thumbed “Omar
Khayyam.”
“Ah, my Beloved, fill the cup that clears
TO-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears—
_To-morrow?_ Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n Thousand years”
“Good old Omar,” the reader mutters, as he drains his goblet, and
replenishes it from bottle and jug, “good old Omar, thine is the only
true philosophy. _Carpe diem_, pluck the passing hour, let us eat and
drink for to-morrow we may die, and who cares?
“Into this Universe, and why not knowing,
Nor _whence_, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not _whither_, willy-nilly blowing.
What, without asking, hither hurried _whence?_
And, without asking, whither hurried _hence!_
Another and another Cup to drown
The Memory of this Impertinence.”
“Now, talk of Impertinence, who the deuce is this coming up my stairs
at this hour of the night, and such a night? It can’t be the
printer’s devil, besides, the step’s a man’s at that. If his
thirst’s as big as himself, God help the bottle or what’s left of
it. Oh! come in, whoever you are, and be hanged to you!” and in
response to this not very pressing invitation the door opens, and in the
doorway stands, peering into the room, dazzled in the transition from
the gloomy staircase, a tall, erect figure, closely draped in a heavy
Inverness cape, sodden with the rain.
“It is Mr. Beaumont, is it not?” asks a manly, pleasant voice.
“Why, of course it is, now I can see you. How are you, Beaumont?”
and a white but strong firm hand is outstretched and grasps the hand
that not too gladly meets it.
“Denis Caird, by all that’s holy!”
“Of course, it’s Denis Caird, and glad to see you, Beaumont. Been
hunting for you everywhere this month or two back. Was up in the West
Riding lecturing, inquired about my old pupil we all prophesied such
great things from, expected to find you in the Mayor’s parlour at
least, till such times as you could follow Chamberlain’s lead heard
you’d gone under, been seen in London, made up my mind to find you by
hook or crook, and here I am and there you are. I say, what’s this,
and this?” And the speaker, who had thrown off his cape, took up the
little volume of verse, glanced at the title, and shook his head at the
tall bottle. “‘Omar Khayyam’ and a whiskey bottle; bad food for
mind, worse food for the body, my friend; the apostle of
self-indulgence, and the worst, or nearly the worst, way to gratify it.
This won’t do, Beaumont; this won’t do, my lad.”
Edward moved uneasily in his chair.
“_Dulce est_” he began.
“_Dulce est_ be hanged,” quoth his visitor.
“I’m a clergyman or I’d say something stronger than that. What’s
a young fellow like you want cooped up in a garret reading that rubbish,
beautiful rubbish, if you like, but still rubbish, and making matters
ten thousand times worse by drinking liquid damnation at three-and-six a
bottle; up here, I say, in a garret, mooning over a lot of verses and
soaking yourself with poison, when all around you there’s work to be
done, man’s work, God’s work, and none too many to do it. What’s
wrong with you, Beaumont, what’s wrong, say?”
“Everything’s wrong. You know, of course, how I came a mucker up
yonder. Well, I’ve cared for nothing since, but just to get a crust of
bread, and as much of that stuff as the money’ll run to.”
“Wasn’t there a girl in the case. Hadn’t you her to live for if
nothing and nobody else?”
“Oh! yes, there was a girl, if it comes to that. But when the smash
came she very promptly declined to permit me to ‘live for her,’ as
you put it. See, look here, you can read my letters of dismissal, if you
care to. Short and sweet, like a donkey’s gallop, I call ’em.”
And Beaumont took from a drawer and threw upon the table two letters:
“The Vicarage,
Caistorholm,
Lincs.
February, 188
“DEAR MR. BEAUMONT,—
I am exceedingly distressed to learn of your misfortune. You will
do me the justice to remember that I gave only a reluctant and
conditional assent to my daughter’s engagement to you. Of course
that must now be absolutely and finally broken. I trust the dear
girl may be given strength to bear this fearful trial, and I hope
that your future may be brighter than present prospects indicate.
Yours faithfully,
HUGH ST. CLAIR.”
“The Vicarage,
Caistorholm.
“DEAR EDWARD,—
Papa insists that I endorse his words. What else can I do? I am so
sorry, but there seems no other way. And, after all, I’m sure I should
not have made you the wife you ought to have. With best wishes,
ELEANOR ST. CLAIR.”
“Humph!” said the Rev. Denis Caird.
“There’s nothing lacking on the score of lucidity anyway. Anything
else?”
“Merely this,” said Edward, bitterly, as he handed a newspaper to
his visitor.
“A marriage has been arranged, and will shortly be solemnised, between
Mr. George Wright, of Thoresby Manor, Lincs, and Eleanor, only child
of the Very Reverend Archdeacon St. Clair, of Caistorholm Vicarage,
Lincs.”
“Ah, well!” said Mr. Denis; “there’s an end of that chapter
anyway.”
“With your permission we’ll drop these precious letters carefully
into that not very cheerful fire of yours. It’s simply mawkish
sentimentality keeping them by you to gloom over. I don’t know the
lady, but it seems to me she knew what she was talking about when she
said she wasn’t quite the kind of wife you want. A fair-weather sort
of mate isn’t quite the sort of mate for a shipwrecked mariner. And
so, because you’ve got two nasty slaps in the face from that fickle
jade, Dame Fortune, you coop yourself up in this dingy hole, read Omar
Khayyam and that rot, and drink yourself into a fool’s paradise or a
sot’s oblivion, by way of mending matters. I thought you were made of
better stuff, Beaumont, and that’s a fact. Why, man alive, if you’ve
no more backbone in you than that comes to Eleanor St. Clair’s well
rid of you, or any other decent woman for that matter.”
“Oh, yes, I’m down, jump on me,” said Beaumont, savagely.
“It’s time somebody did jump on you to some purpose. I’ve no
patience with you, man. Why, it’s just such nasty knocks as those that
test a man. Life’s a fight for the best of us, a stand-up fight,
shoulders squared, knees braced, fists clenched, lips tight-pressed, and
eyes intent and steadfast. A fight not with your fellow-man, to see
which can down the other, that’s a poor business, but with the world,
the flesh, and the devil. What sort of a fighter do you call the man
who, on the first knockout, lies grovelling in the saw-dust, bleating
for mercy? he’s not the man you put your money on. No, it’s the
little game one who never knows when he’s beaten, that takes his gruel
kindly, and is up on his feet after a breathing space, bruised and
stricken, if you like, but eager for another round, and another, and
still another, so long as he’s a leg to stand on. Now, you’ve had
your breathing space. Look on me, if you like, as the man who brushes
the saw-dust off your clothes, sponges your brow, gives you a knee, and
bucks you up generally for another set-to. I want to see you in the ring
again. Are you willing, or is it to be whiskey and Omar Khayyam, till
the inevitable end, a leap over Westminster Bridge into the Thames, or
the Workhouse? I could almost quote Scripture to you: ‘See, I have set
before thee this day life and good, death and evil. Therefore choose
life, that both thou and thy seed may live.’”
For a long time there was silence between the men. Edward leaned with
his elbows upon his knees, gazing into the dull embers of the fire, the
minister watching him anxiously. Then Beaumont rose and stretched out
his hand.
“I choose life,” he said. “Show me the way.”
“There is only one way, Beaumont. There never has been, never will be,
anyway but one. It is the _Via Crucis_—the way of the Cross. It is a
way that was before Gethsemane, though men knew it not as they may know
it now, if they but will. And you may put your foot on that way
to-night, this very moment. What are you going to do with that whiskey
bottle? You can’t carry that sort of luggage on the _Via Crucis?”_
“There’s the sink,” said Edward.
“Precisely, there’s the sink, and here goes for the sink and the
sewer and the rats. And those letters?”
“There’s the fire.”
“Exactly. Let the dead past bury its dead, or as burial is not
convenient for letters, here’s for cremation. And Omar Khayyam?”
“In with him.”
“Now we breathe a purer air. Now put on your hat and coat and come
with me to a place I wot of where you can get the juiciest steak in all
London town, with fried onions and roast potatoes and a cup of very
decent coffee, piping hot. And then we’ll talk of things, and I may be
able to put you in the way of doing a bit of useful work and earning a
modest shilling or two by doing it. And that’s something to be
thankful for in this vale of tears, I can tell you.”