Part 3

Alfred Roberton was too politic to make known the full extent of his discomfiture. He made light of the matter: most authors had had their difficulties at first, and why should he expect to escape? He made himself very agreeable to the old gentleman. The short experience he had had of trying to earn money had led him to reflect that a man having a snug going business and a farm worth four or five thousand pounds might not be such an undesirable father-in-law after all, even though he _was_ an innkeeper. He threw greater fervour than ever into his manner towards Anne, and talked in a gay and hopeful way of the future. But she was too keen-sighted to be deceived; she read the secret of his crushed hopes in his sunken eyes and cheeks, and was not at all misled by his forced cheerfulness of manner. She forbore to annoy him with prying questions, and affected in the meantime to see as roseate a prospect as he himself did. When the colour came back to his cheeks and he began to look more like his former self, she spoke to him seriously. Would he allow her to see the returned manuscripts?

‘You know, Alfred,’ she said, ‘I have been a great reader of what is called “light literature” in my day, and perhaps I might—from a reader’s point of view, you know—happen to light on the secret of your want of success. Give me two or three of your stories, and I will have a look at them before I go to bed to-night.’

He was astonished! To think of this simple country girl proposing to criticise his literary work!

‘Well, Nan, I’ll select two or three of my best,’ he said; ‘but I fear you will prove far too indulgent a critic to be a just one.’

‘No, Alfred,’ the girl replied gravely; ‘you need not fear that. You may depend that any faults that I may perceive will be carefully pointed out to you. Don’t look for any kidglove treatment at my hands; and be prepared, in any case, to keep your temper.’

The next morning, after breakfast, she handed him his papers back. He could not possibly guess from her countenance what her impression had been. Her face had an earnest, but not an altogether unhopeful look about it; certainly, it did not show any signs at all of a wondering admiration for his genius.

‘Well, sir, I’ve read your stories, as I promised I would. I will say all my disagreeable things about them first. To begin: I think they lack the narrative power which leads a reader on, once he has commenced a story, and almost compels him to read it to the finish. Of course he is disappointed at the denouement; but he is equally ready to be cheated again by the next book he takes up, provided the author has the same power to lure him on. I think the first aim of a magazine writer should be to make his stories readable.’

‘And are not mine readable?’ he said, biting his lips and a frown overshadowing his brow.

‘Ah, I see you are wincing, Alfred! But didn’t I warn you I would be a severe critic? No; I did not say your stories were _not_ readable; but they might be made much more so.’

And to his amazement, this young girl launched into a critical analysis of the plots, characters, and treatment of his three stories; and her remarks, strange to say, pretty closely agreed with those expressed by the ignorant London editors! Nan had verily profited by her old lover’s literary conversations; but Alfred knew nothing at all of that. She was then graciously pleased to say a few words of commendation.

‘Your style of composition is far too even for that sort of work. It lacks eccentricity’——

‘Pardon, Nan!’ he interrupted; ‘but are you serious? I have hitherto understood eccentricity was considered a blemish in any author’s style.’

‘Nonsense!’ she said. ‘If not overdone, it lends a piquancy to writings that without it would attract no attention and be passed by as prosy. When an author happens to hit on a good original phrase, he should “ring the changes” on it. The reader recognises it as an old friend met under new circumstances, and is not at all displeased. An author who can originate a few phrases, put them in his mental kaleidoscope, so to speak, and sprinkle the resulting combinations through his book, is said to have acquired “a style,” and his books are sought after.’

‘By Jove, Nan, but you surprise me!’ he cried, looking at her with a puzzled air. ‘What, then, would you advise me to do?’

She was prepared for this question, and had been framing an answer to it in her mind for some days past. Obviously, the most sensible advice was for him to abandon his literary dreams, and settle down to the pursuit of his profession. But then sensible advice is rarely palatable, and still more rarely adopted. That he was determined to make a mark of some kind in literature, was evident, and she rather admired her lover’s indomitable pluck, in refusing to accept as final the unfavourable criticisms of London editors. If he hadn’t been her lover, she would probably have called it ‘stupid obstinacy.’ She therefore determined to urge him on in his literary projects; he was undoubtedly clever, and was certain, sooner or later, to see his productions in print. When he reached that goal, the glamour which possessed him would probably vanish; and he would then most likely return to his profession, as a surer road to success and distinction.

‘Did you ever try the _Olympic_, Alfred?’ she said.

‘O no,’ he rejoined. ‘You see, it is more of a review. Besides, it is a very high-class, exclusive magazine, and one not at all likely to encourage beginners like me.’

‘I know they don’t publish stories,’ continued Nan; ‘but they have often short descriptive articles. Now, I was thinking if you were to send the editor a short sketch of some kind in your very best style, he might perhaps put it in.’

‘And what kind of sketch would you propose?’ he inquired.

‘What would you think of “A Summer Ramble in Kirkcudbright?” she replied. ‘The editor belongs to that quarter; and if the description of the scenery and folks were well done, I think he might put it in.’

‘A capital idea, Nan. Why, I’ll set about it at once,’ he said impetuously.

Alfred went to work with renewed hope and vigour. After ten days’ alternate rambling and writing, he one evening announced that his paper was finished, and read it over to Nan in the parlour. On the whole she gave a favourable verdict on its merits; and it was sealed up and duly addressed to the editor of the _Olympic_. She had insisted on him using a _nom de plume_. He chose that of ‘Ariel;’ and the address was: ‘Post-office, Glenluce.—To lie till called for.’

The evening passed pleasantly in chat and song; and when Nan rose to bid good-bye for the night, she said: ‘By-the-bye, Alfred, you had better give me your letter with the manuscript. I will see the postman as he passes in the morning, and hand it to him.’

‘Nonsense, Nan!’ he returned. ‘Why, the mail-gig passes before six o’clock. There’s no use in disturbing you so early. I will hand it to him myself.’

She was inexorable in her request, however, and ended the dispute by playfully seizing the letter, and tripping up-stairs before he could prevent her. Once in the privacy of her own room, a strange change came over her. With knitted brow and compressed lips, she slowly paced the apartment. Evidently, she was making up her mind on some important resolve. At last she clasped her hands and whispered to herself: ‘Yes; I’ll do it—but is it fair?’

She had a tired and drowsy look next day; and when Alfred asked if she had been in time to give the postman the all-important letter, she answered somewhat petulantly in the affirmative. After a time he took to walking to Glenluce daily to see if there were any letters for ‘Ariel.’ For ten days he came back empty-handed and dispirited; on the eleventh he bounced into Nan’s private parlour in a state of wild delight.

‘I knew it—I was sure of it, Nan!’ he cried, ‘that the moment my writings came before a competent judge they would be fully appreciated. Look! here is a bank draft for twenty pounds. It only took me ten days to write the sketch. Why, it is payment at the rate of six hundred a year!’

‘Was there a note with it?’ she asked quietly.

‘Yes; a precious short one, though. “The editor of the _Olympic_ acknowledges receipt of Ariel’s manuscript, which he accepts, and begs to inclose bank draft for twenty pounds as an honorarium.” That is all.’

‘The editor has remunerated you very handsomely, I think,’ she said, continuing her sewing. ‘But mind that one swallow does not make a summer. Don’t be too sanguine. Other editors may not be so generous to you.’

‘Stuff!’ he replied loftily. ‘Do you mean to say he would have sent so much unless he knew he had got value, good value for it too? Do you know, Nan, I made up my mind, after getting the letter, to start for London to-morrow? I’ll call on the editor of the _Olympic_—perhaps he may’——

‘On no account must you do that, Alfred!’ she cried, dropping her sewing, and with a terrified look in her face. ‘Go to London, if you think proper; though I think you would be foolishly spending money in doing so. But you mustn’t call on the editor.’

‘And why mustn’t I call on him?’ he said in a displeased tone of voice.

‘I have reasons—private reasons of my own, Alfred, to wish you to refrain from doing so,’ she replied a little awkwardly. ‘I cannot explain them to you just yet; perhaps I may again. Meantime, you must promise me solemnly not to call on him, or send him any more contributions, unless you choose to do so in your own name. On no account must he be made aware that you are “Ariel.” Remember, it was through my advice you scored this first success; continue to follow it, for I can assure you it is for your own good.’

He grumbled a good deal, but in the end agreed to the restriction imposed on him. He held firm, however, to his intention of going to London; and Anne did not press her objections further. He could not understand why she was not more elated at this auspicious beginning of his literary career. In fact, he fancied he saw a pained expression passing over her countenance, when, in the exuberance of his spirits, he enlarged on the brilliancy of his prospects in the metropolis. Somehow or another, the success of ‘A Summer Ramble in Kirkcudbright’ detracted from rather than added to the happiness of the lovers. The slightest possible degree of coldness sprung up between them. He was annoyed, and even felt some distrust at the prohibition put on him regarding the _Olympic_. That Nan was annoyed at something, was apparent; but whether it was his anxiety to leave her and be off to the scene of his future triumphs, or what it was, was not very apparent. The only one who enjoyed unalloyed satisfaction from the event was old Mr Porteous. The bank draft convinced him more than a thousand arguments that there was money in literature, and that his proposed son-in-law possessed the Open Sesame to its stores. He had far too high an opinion of his old friend the editor’s sense than to suppose he would have given twenty pounds for a short sketch unless it was of real merit. These reflections made him a trifle more cordial to Alfred than he had yet been; and when he and Nan drove him to the railway station, they all parted the best of friends, the lovers promising to correspond punctually as before.

A HUMBLE SPRIG OF NOBILITY.

A RED RIVER STORY.

Towards the close of the last century, Mr Beauchamp, a young Englishman of good family—a friend of Pitt, Fox, Burke, and Sheridan—entered a large mercantile house in London with a view, it was supposed, of ultimately becoming a partner therein. With this firm he passed the earlier years of his manhood. With the single exception of having lost both his parents in his youth, he was regarded as a singularly fortunate individual; and at the age of nineteen he formed a matrimonial engagement with Julia Middleton, a young lady of considerable prospective wealth, and of remarkable personal attractions. But just at the time when an announcement of the marriage was expected by the friends on both sides, Mr Beauchamp disappeared in a mysterious manner; and neither the parents nor Miss Middleton had any explanation of the cause of his disappearance, or whither he had gone. It was, however, but a nine days’ wonder; and all minds, but one, ceased to trouble themselves further about the matter. _That_ one was the poor girl herself, who was deeply attached to her lover. Whenever any hint was thrown out which cast a doubt over the moral rectitude of Henry Beauchamp’s character, she indignantly repudiated the idea, and would believe no evil concerning him that originated in mere conjecture on the part of the speaker.

It must be borne in mind that at the period of which we are writing, international communication was not carried on with the same speed and facility as in these days, and a considerable time elapsed ere it became known that Henry Beauchamp had embarked for Canada. But of his real whereabouts nothing was known for years. The facts we are about to record were divulged to us by a lady to whom we shall hereafter refer. He had, it appeared, entered into business with a Fur Trading Company, and with them he passed many years in a country called ‘The Kepigong,’ between Lake Superior and James Bay. Half a century ago, traders were often men of low type, who led lax and vicious lives. As ill-luck would have it, it was amongst such a class that the young adventurer chanced to fall. Out in that wild territory, with no sort of restraint on his actions, in the midst of lawless and strange companions, he often fell a victim to their evil influence and example, and his very weakness and ignorance made him an easy prey to their wiles and cupidity. If he made money, they cheated him out of it. He was often reduced to the brink of starvation; and at one period he subsisted for two months on a miserable species of fish called ‘suckers.’

After countless trials and vicissitudes, he obtained employment at Lake Winnipeg, where he passed another decade; but even there his evil genius seemed to pursue him, for he received accidentally the contents of a loaded gun in his leg, which wound caused him at times great suffering throughout his whole life. But he was a man of pluck and courage, and would never yield to any obstacle which perseverance could overcome. Having resolved to try his fortunes on his own account in a district involving several hundred miles of travel, he provided himself with a couple of horses, and set out attended by one serving-man. On they went till nightfall through a wild uninhabited region, where nature asserted her right to repose in their wearied limbs and failing spirits. So, having first picketed their horses, they lay down to rest in the best shelter they could find. Feeling amply refreshed by daybreak, they determined to continue their journey with no further halt till eventide. But alas for their horses! The animals had either decamped or been stolen, probably the former. After some cogitation as to the next step to be taken, Mr Beauchamp decided to send his servant in quest of the animals, whilst he remained at his post. The day passed, the night pressed onwards, and morning dawned without either horses or man having appeared. Unprovided with a compass, chart, or guide of any description, Mr Beauchamp then felt how futile his hopes must prove—that the poor man had probably lost his way, and that there would be no more meeting between them.

For a while utterly disconsolate, the solitary traveller bethought him of retracing his steps; but when he attempted to walk, he found himself so broken down by fatigue and over-exertion that he could only limp along, or drag his wearied body on all-fours. Finally, ‘worn out,’ as he himself expressed it, ‘both in body and mind,’ and when within but ten miles of his trading-post, he lay down with the fervent hope that death would put an end to such torture; but not liking the idea of his body being devoured by wild animals, he crawled about to get together branches of trees wherewith to cover himself. But in spite of all the man had suffered, death was still to be balked of its prey. Some Red Indians fortunately came upon him, and by his discoverers he was kindly cared for and nourished, and taken to his post, where, after some weeks, he gradually recovered.

Was it retribution or destiny, or what, that made him again such a cruel martyr to circumstances in the next episode of his career? After Lord Selkirk began to colonise the Red River, Mr Beauchamp gave up his prospects in the Fur Company and turned settler. In opposition to the Hudson’s Bay Company, another had been formed, called the North-West Company. Between the two there was great rivalry and jealousy. At the instigation of some of its people, Mr Beauchamp was made prisoner, thrown into a dungeon in Fort-William, and from thence taken to Montese, where his alleged trial was to take place, without his ever having been told of the crime whereof he was accused. After weeks of weary waiting and dread expectation, he was set at liberty without a single question having been put to him, the sole object of his oppressors having been to detach him from Lord Selkirk’s interest, which they considered was synonymous with that of the Hudson’s Bay Company.

Lord Selkirk’s agents having meanwhile discovered that a plot was hatching at M‘Gillivray’s house in Montreal—and the nucleus of the North-West Company—to upset altogether the infant settlement at Red River, Mr Beauchamp volunteered to set off at once and convey the first intelligence of this Guy Fawkes business to the poor unsuspecting colonists. To this end, he started for Moose Factory, in James Bay, in an Indian canoe. When about midway, he was overtaken by the rigours of a Canadian winter, with all its impediments to continued and safe travel. He had to walk to the above-named Factory, and thence along the coast of Hudson’s Bay to Albury, Severn, and York factories, and on to Red River—a journey of two thousand miles, a feat which only a nature inured to privation and hardship such as we have described, together with the substratum of an iron constitution, could possibly have performed.

On the night of Mr Beauchamp’s arrival at his destination, there happened to be some kind of bacchanalian revelries going on in true military style, got up by the commandant at Fort Douglas, Red River. In these our adventurer took part, but in a way that did not greatly redound to his credit. Nothing, it may be presumed, was known there of his antecedents, and as he was heart and soul devoted to Red River, he was advised to find a wife amongst the native women of Caledonia residing on the spot. The choice was soon made of a widow, and in the absence of any clergyman, the knot was tied by the civil magistrate. Shortly after, his pecuniary affairs being now in a satisfactory condition, he resolved to return to England. Whilst there, a longing came over him to see once more the love of his youth and to ask her forgiveness for the past and the boon of her friendship in his declining years. More than thirty years had elapsed since they parted, but the lady had never married. After the death of her parents, she had come into possession of a fortune, and had a handsome establishment in Portman Square. There she resided for the rest of her life, and there, too, she saw again the friend of her youth, and received his explanation. What that explanation was, never passed her lips. We may be sure that no man of birth, fortune, and social position would have sacrificed all for a trifle, and become to all intents and purposes an outlaw.

It was during this sojourn in England that he formed the plan of a ‘Buffalo Wool Company,’ making himself the managing partner. It turned out a miniature South Sea Bubble, for it left Mr Beauchamp minus six thousand pounds. He had returned to Canada in 1820, and an occasional interchange of letters with Miss Middleton followed. In his perfect diction and finished phrases there was still much to remind her of the fascinating polished friend of her youth, from whose pen she had received an unvarnished account of his strange career. In testimony of this, a touching record was found amongst her papers at her decease, which took place some years after that of Mr Beauchamp. When the news reached him in 1826 of the failure of his last venture, the shock it gave him reduced his fine athletic form in a few weeks to a shadow. He was first attacked by delirium, and then fell into a state of absolute despondency. But his mental faculties completely recovered their power; and just at the most critical period of his illness, he was received and cared for by the English chaplain and his wife. When sufficiently restored, he sought some new means of employment which involved neither risk nor outlay. His last occupation was the mastership of a private boarding-school for the families of the Company’s officers at the Red River. In this way he managed to support himself and his family until his death. He used to speak of himself to the clergyman’s wife as ‘a humble sprig of nobility,’ and had ingeniously drawn out a genealogical tree—still in the possession of this lady’s family—tracing his descent from Richard Cœur-de-Lion.

A1 AT LLOYD’S.

A1 at Lloyd’s is a sufficiently familiar expression; it meets our eye in the newspaper paragraph; it stares at us from the wall-placard; and it haunts us in Fenchurch Street, E.C., Water Street, Liverpool, and other chosen homes of shipowners. Every one recognises in it a nautical equivalent for ‘first quality;’ but here information on the subject usually ends. As Lloyd’s Register of British and Foreign Shipping, the institution granting the title in question, has not long since celebrated its jubilee, we believe a short account of the origin of that undertaking and of the work in which it is engaged may prove of interest.

The business of underwriting or insuring against marine risks is of very ancient date; to say that it existed among the Phœnicians takes us back a long way in the world’s history; and as a necessary preliminary to legitimate underwriting, as distinguished from mere chance-work, lies, and must ever have lain, in knowing that the vessel proposed to be insured is seaworthy, we may also claim for the business of the ship-surveyor a respectable antiquity.