MR. WILLIAM BEATTIE ACTS LIKE A CHRISTIAN.
After leaving Mr. Lindsay’s house, Mr. Beattie went first of all to the
Law Courts in the Strand. But he did not remain there long. He took the
draft affidavit to a law stationer’s, and then, leaving instructions
for Alec with the junior clerk who had been waiting in the Judge’s
chambers, he left the case Walter v. Walter to take care of itself,
called a hansom, and told the cabman to drive to King’s Cross. Arrived
there, he dismissed the cab, and plunged into a nest of squalid,
airless streets, not far from the railway terminus.
After some difficulty, he found the one he was in quest of--Milton
Street--and then a further search ensued for No. 76. When this, too,
was found, he made some further inquiries, and, obeying the directions
he obtained, made his way to the top of the house, and knocked with his
umbrella at a rickety door.
A faint voice bade him enter, and there, sitting by the fireplace, was
the man he sought. Mr. David MacGowan did not present an attractive
appearance. Unwashed, unshaven, his shabby clothes in complete
disorder, his hair undressed, his eyes bloodshot, his hand trembling,
he certainly looked a miserable object. The fire, which had been
lighted with damp wood under an overburdening mass of coal-dust and
cinders, was slowly going out, but MacGowan had not sufficient energy
to try to make it burn. His miserable breakfast stood untasted on the
table, upon which lay an open letter. When he saw who his visitor was,
he did not say a word, but turned his face to the smouldering fire, and
gazed at it moodily.
Beattie, without waiting for an invitation, sat down opposite him, and
began to ask him where he had put certain papers which had been in his
charge, and some other questions of a like nature. MacGowan sullenly
answered him, without removing his eyes from the fire.
‘When I looked over the letter-book this morning,’ said Beattie, when
these matters had been discussed, ‘I was sorry to see a letter of Mr.
Hatchett’s telling you that you need not come back again.’
‘Ay! I dare say ye ken a’ aboot it,’ said the other.
‘If you mean that it was my doing, you are quite mistaken,’ said
Beattie hastily. ‘Mr. Hatchett decided upon it himself; and really, you
know, MacGowan, you can’t be very much surprised at it.’
MacGowan gave an indifferent kind of sigh, as much as to say that it
mattered little from whose hand the blow had fallen, and that he did
not very much care.
‘Will they give me a character?’ he asked suddenly, turning his eyes
for the first time on his visitor.
Beattie shook his head mournfully.
‘You might write me one yoursel’,’ suggested the ex-clerk.
Beattie shook his head still more decidedly.
‘Unless I used the firm’s name, it would be of no use,’ said he; ‘and
if I did, it might be as much as my place is worth.’
The gleam of hope died out in MacGowan’s watery eyes, and he turned
once more to contemplate the dying fire.
‘What are you thinking of doing?’ asked Beattie after a pause.
‘Nothing.’
‘But you must do something, or starve.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Oh, nonsense, man! I’ll tell you what you ought to do--emigrate! In
a new country, where there are fewer public-houses than there are in
London, and no temptations to spend money, you might make a fresh
start, and end by becoming a rich man.’
MacGowan made no answer.
‘Come, now; wouldn’t it be the most sensible thing to do?’
‘May be; but how can I go abroad? I haven’t enough to pay fare to
Aberdeen, let alone America.’
‘Get your friends to lend you enough to pay your passage-money, and to
start with.’
MacGowan gave a scornful laugh.
‘Where may they be, I wonder?’ said he.
‘Well, MacGowan,’ said Beattie, speaking very slowly and deliberately,
‘you know we Scots should help one another in a difficulty; and if I
thought you would pay me back again, I wouldn’t mind giving you the
means of making a fresh start.’
‘Would you really, man?’ exclaimed MacGowan, looking up eagerly in
Beattie’s face.
‘I would, if I thought you would really make an effort to repay me.’
‘I would pay you back, as sure’s death,’ said MacGowan earnestly.
‘I wouldn’t advise any young man to go to America,’ said Beattie.
‘There are more men there than there is work for. Australia--Western
Australia--that’s the place for a young fellow of talent and energy.’
‘It’s a long way off,’ said MacGowan doubtfully.
‘Not in these days of big steamers,’ said Beattie in a cheerful tone,
taking a newspaper from his pocket as he spoke. ‘See here, man,’ he
added, running his eye over the shipping advertisements, ‘here’s your
chance: “Steam to Australia. The _Tasmania_. Third-class passage, £13.
Superior accommodation.” Sails to-morrow. What do you say to that?’
‘It would be cheaper to go to the States,’ said MacGowan, reaching out
his hand for the paper.
‘But you would have no chance in the States,’ answered Beattie. ‘It
would be throwing away money to go there.’
‘I would want an outfit,’ said MacGowan.
‘Not very much. I’m told you can buy most things as cheaply out there
as in this country. If you like to go to Western Australia, which
is the country I recommend, decidedly, I’ll lend you enough for the
passage-money and some clothes, and twenty pounds to start with. What
do you say to that?’
MacGowan was astonished.
‘Man, Beattie, you’re acting like a Christian,’ he said solemnly, as he
stretched out his hand.
Then he began to weep.
Beattie took the outstretched hand, though it was not a very clean one,
and shook it.
‘Look here, now,’ said he, ‘this is what you’ll do. Make yourself as
smart as you can, and meet me at the King’s Cross Metropolitan Station
in an hour’s time. I will have half the money--twenty pounds--ready
for you then. Thirteen of that will be for your passage-money, and the
rest for clothes. Go to the owners’ office in Fenchurch Street, and
take your ticket this afternoon. Bring it to my lodgings any time this
evening, and I’ll see you off to-morrow afternoon, and give you the
other twenty pounds. Will that suit you?’
‘Couldn’t be better, Mr. Beattie; couldn’t be better. But if the same
firm should have a boat for Canada, for example----’
‘I thought we had settled that,’ said Beattie quietly. ‘Why should I
throw away my money in helping you to emigrate to a country where I
feel convinced you would starve?’
Whereupon MacGowan protested his perfect readiness to go to Australia,
and Mr. Beattie departed.
Once or twice during the interview Beattie had been tempted to make
distant references to what had passed at the tavern the preceding
night, with a view to ascertaining how much or how little of it
MacGowan remembered. But he wisely refrained from doing so. The clerk
seemed to have forgotten the piece of extra work which Beattie had
persuaded him to do, or, if he remembered it, he apparently thought
it was not worth alluding to. To refer to it now, Beattie considered,
might only have the effect of refreshing his memory, whereas, if
nothing happened to recall the incident which had taken place when he
was half tipsy, it would probably fade altogether from his recollection.
An hour later, MacGowan presented himself at the rendezvous at King’s
Cross. He had evidently made a great effort to look respectable; but
he still had the appearance of a man who was just recovering from a
debauch. Beattie did not detain him long.
‘Here’s the money,’ he said, slipping a roll of sovereigns into his
hand, ‘and you’ll repay me out of the first money you can conveniently
spare.’
‘I’ll work my fingers to the bone; I’ll live on bread and water----’
began MacGowan.
‘I don’t ask you to do that,’ said Beattie quietly, as a satirical
smile crossed his face. ‘You have plenty of time to go to Fenchurch
Street and take your ticket, before the office closes. I will expect
you at eight, at my lodgings, to hear how you have got on.’
At a few minutes past eight MacGowan made his appearance at Beattie’s
rooms. He was sober, but to Beattie’s shrewd eye it was evident that
he had been taking something in honour of the impending change in his
fortunes. This, however, was only what might have been expected.
‘Have you got your passage-ticket?’ began Beattie, rather sharply.
‘Yes, sir,’ answered MacGowan, handing over a piece of paper. ‘I took
it----’
‘Why, how’s this?’ exclaimed Beattie; ‘this ticket is in the name of P.
Macartney!’
‘I was telling you, sir,’ answered MacGowan in an injured tone, ‘that
I thought it better to take another name, and----’
‘And make a completely fresh start? Quite right. You showed great good
sense in doing that, MacGowan. Much better to break with the past
altogether. But why on earth did you take an Irish name, when everybody
can see you are a Scotchman?’
‘It’s a Scotch name, too,’ answered MacGowan, in a slightly offended
tone. ‘It was my mother’s name. And my grandfather was called Peter.’
‘Oh, very well; I don’t suppose it very much matters,’ said Beattie,
handing him back the ticket. ‘When does the steamer sail?’
‘To-morrow afternoon or evening, sir. We are to be on board by four
o’clock.’
‘I’ll come down and see you off. St. Margaret’s Dock, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir; but it’s an awkward place to get to, and a long way. I could
call on you, Mr. Beattie, at any place and hour you choose to appoint.’
‘No, no,’ said Beattie, smiling. ‘I’ll meet you at the ship. Will you
take a glass of wine before you go?’
‘Nothing, Mr. Beattie; nothing for me,’ said MacGowan, with a
deprecatory wave of the hand, turning away his head, as if to avoid the
very sight of temptation. And so he took his leave.
‘Arrant humbug!’ exclaimed Beattie, as his visitor left the house.
‘He’ll go straight to a public-house. And he’ll drink himself to death
within a month after he lands. Perhaps it would have been better if I
had given him a little money; but sooner or later it comes all to the
same thing.’
David MacGowan was waiting for his benefactor, as the latter drove down
to St. Margaret’s Dock the following afternoon.
‘That’s the steamer, is it?’ said Beattie; ‘and a fine ship she is. I
almost wish I were going to Australia too, by Jove!’
MacGowan grinned faintly, as if the treat of having Mr. Beattie as a
companion were too good to hope or pray for; and Beattie plunged his
hand into his pocket.
The hoarse cry of the steam fog-whistle was already sounding for the
last time.
‘There’s the money I promised to lend you,’ said Beattie. ‘Count it,
and see that it’s all right.’
‘No need to do that, sir,’ murmured MacGowan.
‘I hope you’ll make a good use of it, and--prosper, you know. Good-bye.’
MacGowan, after many expressions of gratitude, went on board, and the
steamer, which was already crawling at a snail’s pace past the wharf,
slowly worked her way to the entrance at the further end of the dock.
With the help of her tug she got quickly through the dock-gates, and
Beattie stood watching her as she glided out into the river, until she
was hidden in the sea-mist and the gathering darkness.