"Next week?" he said interrogatively.
"Yes--on Tuesday."
"Thank you."
The butcher here rose and ostentatiously dragged out a watch from the depths of his blouse.
"I must go," he said. "I have committee at seven o"clock. And I shall dine first."
"Yes," said Morot gravely. "Dine first. Take good care of yourself, citizen."
"Trust me."
"I do," was the reply, delivered with a little nod in answer to Lerac"s curt farewell bow.
The butcher walked noisily through the shop--heavy with responsibility--weighted with the sense of his own importance to the world in general and to France in particular. Had he walked less noisily he might have overheard the soft laugh of the old priest.
Citizen Morot did not laugh. He was not a laughing man. But a fine, disdainful smile pa.s.sed over his face, scarce lighting it up at all.
"What an utter fool the man is!" he said impatiently.
"Yes--sir," replied the old man, "but if he were less so it would be difficult to manage him."
"I am not sure. I always prefer to deal with knaves than with fools."
"That is because your Highness knows how to outwit them."
"No t.i.tles--my father," said the Citizen Morot quietly. "No t.i.tles here, if you please. Tell me, are you quite sure of this sc.u.m--this Lerac?"
"As sure as one can be of anything that comes from the streets. He is an excitable, b.u.mptious, quarrelsome man; but he has a certain influence with those beneath him, although it seems hard to realise that there are such."
"Ha! you are right! But a republic is a social manure-heap--that which is on the top is not pleasant, and the stuff below--ugh!"
The manner of the two men had quite changed. He who was called Morot leant back in his seat and stretched his arms out wearily. There is no disguise like animation; when that is laid aside we see the real man or the real woman. In repose this Frenchman was not cheerful to look upon.
He was not sanguine, and a French pessimist is the worst thing of the kind that is to be found.
When the door had closed behind the departing Lerac, the old priest seemed to throw off suddenly quite a number of years. His voice, when next he spoke, was less senile, his movements were brisker. He was, in a word, less harmless.
Mr. Jacquetot had finished his dinner, brought in from a neighbouring restaurant all hot, and was slumberously enjoying a very strong-smelling cigar, when the door of the little room opened at length, and the two men went out together into the dimly-lighted street.
CHAPTER III
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 compa.s.s 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-pa.s.sengers 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 f.a.gged 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 bra.s.s 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 pa.s.sage had been crowded by a heaving, swearing, laughing ma.s.s 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 subst.i.tute. 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 amus.e.m.e.nts 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 f.a.gged 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 pa.s.sed 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.