Chapter XVI

IN LONDON.

Who has not tried to put into words his first impressions of London? And who has not failed? Probably, if people were quite careful not to impose upon themselves, they would feel bound to confess that, after the first feeling of bewilderment was over, their chief impression was one of a vague disappointment. They knew that they had set foot in the Metropolis of the Empire, and they could not help forgetting that London is not to be seen in half an hour.

This, at least, was Alec Lindsay’s experience. When he emerged from the railway-station and found himself in the Euston Road, he could hardly believe that he had at last reached the city of his dreams. With his overcoat over his arm and his bag in his hand (avoiding, like a thrifty Scot, the needless expense of a cab), he trudged slowly eastwards, taking mental notes as he went. He was surprised at the comparative stillness around him. He had often heard of the bustle in the streets of London; but the Euston Road was quieter than many a street in Glasgow. Then the houses offended him. They were much lower in height than those to which he had been accustomed, and much uglier. He gazed with contempt on the tumble-down buildings of wood, or of brick not much more durable than wood, projected from the houses to the pavement. He was surprised at the absence of hurry, at the street children playing about (as much wrapped up in their play as if they had been on a village-green), at the half-intelligible Cockney dialect.

After reaching King’s Cross Alec made his way to a small street lying to the north of Gray’s Inn, where there was a private boarding-house, and there he established himself till he should find suitable lodgings. As soon as he had had a cup of tea he sallied out again into the streets; for the roar of London was in his ears, and he could not keep still.

‘I wish Cameron were going to hunt for diggings with me,’ he said to himself, as his mind flew back to the time when his friend had compelled Mrs. Macpherson to admit him to her house.

Then suddenly the sense of loneliness descended upon him, almost like a tangible thing. He was standing at the crossing, close to the Metropolitan Railway Station, where the crowd was thickest. Half mechanically he noted one and another come and go, and vanish in the crowd, like autumn leaves on a swollen river. They came and went, and he was alone. In this great swarm of human creatures none knew his face, not one knew even his name.

The air was thick and tainted, heavy with a thousand offensive odours; and the yellow sunshine from the sinking sun seemed to be struggling in vain to teach the dwellers in this unlovely city something of the peace and beauty in the great world beyond. And Alec, looking up, saw its radiance. He saw the rose-colour in the air. He saw a few unconsidered dirty panes of glass, high up in the gable of a warehouse, flashing like gems on the wall of the city that hath no need of the sun—and he remembered that the same sunlight was lighting up the wide moors and the bare slopes of Ben Ime, and playing on the green seaweed and the gray rocks, where none but angel-eyes were looking on.

Afterwards Alec came to know London well, for he was never tired of wandering about the streets. He came to know that Cheapside and the Strand were not ‘London,’ nor even Westminster or Piccadilly. He lost himself, over and over again, in labyrinths of small, grimy streets, each twenty feet of which made a separate home. He found that in the East End there were miles and miles of land covered with manufactories, warehouses, and houses of repulsive ugliness filled with hardworking people. He came to the conclusion at last that the one thing in which London was unique was its unsearchableness. In other towns there were half a dozen, perhaps a dozen, important thoroughfares; here they were numberless. And no sooner had he studied one neighbourhood till he knew it very well, than he found another inhabited by people who had totally different habits and modes of life, different interests; speaking, perhaps, a different language.

On the morning after his arrival Alec presented himself at the office of Messrs. Hatchett, Small, and Hatchett, in Theobald’s Road. He was shown into a large, well-furnished, but not very clean room, lined with calf-covered volumes, which were kept more for show than for use. Here, early as it was, the senior partner was seated, busy over his correspondence. He looked up as Alec entered, showing a face which expressed less than any human countenance which Alec had ever beheld. It was the face of a man who had trained himself to say the correct thing, and not a word more—who had schooled himself for thirty years to allow nothing of such feelings or sentiments as he might possess to appear in his face. His hair was well brushed; his coat fitted perfectly; his boots were all that boots could be; his tie was of exactly the proper hue, neither sombre nor brilliant; his manner—to those whom he considered his equals—was unexceptionable.

‘So you are Mr. Lindsay—eh? Glad to see you. Take a seat. A connection of a client of ours in Scotland, I believe. A nephew? Yes—just so——’

(Dictating to a clerk at his side:)

‘Butler and Smith, solicitors. Dear Sirs,—We beg to acknowledge your letter of yesterday’s date. Your offer of £300 and costs is quite inadequate. We have briefed Mr. Bussel, and the case will come on for hearing, we expect, in three days’ time. Yours, etc.——Major-General Potts. Dear Sir,—Yourself v. Brown. The defendant has offered £300 and costs, which is more than we expected, and we advise you to accept it. The costs, of course, are very heavy; and in the event of an adverse verdict they would fall entirely upon you. We are, dear sir, yours faithfully.——By the way, Mr. Tibbets, see that that brief in Brown and Potts’ case goes over to Mr. Bussel this forenoon.—And now, Mr. Lindsay, what can I do for you? You want to see a little of our business, try what it is like before taking articles, I believe?’

As he spoke, Mr. Hatchett opened another envelope, glanced over its contents, and placed them on a little heap of papers at one side of the table.

‘I am not sure yet that I shall take articles,’ said Alec. ‘It is very probable I may not do so.’

‘We never take pupils,’ said Mr. Hatchett, his eyes on a fresh letter as he spoke. ‘It is our invariable rule. But we have no objection to your being here a few months, to oblige Mr. Lindsay—none at all.’

Then he seemed to forget all about the new clerk and his affairs, and remained plunged in thought for some seconds. Finally, he laid aside the letter without speaking, and went on to open another.

Before him was a pile of letters which had yet to be got through; and on one side lay a bundle of deeds and documents which had just come up from the law-stationer. At his right hand stood two baskets, one being a deep one for the envelopes and waste paper, the other a shallow one for the letters themselves. On a table was a tray for the documents which came by the post.

Before Mr. Hatchett had finished his correspondence the door opened, and a tall, thin young man, with a pale face, black hair, large features, and a keen, shrewd expression of countenance, came into the room.

‘Ah! Mr. Beattie—a little late, eh?’—and the lawyer began to discuss with his manager in a low tone the details of the business before them. It was not until that was over that Alec’s existence was remembered. Then his fellow-countryman came up with a smile and shook hands with him.

‘Yes; I think you had better take charge of Mr. Lindsay for the present,’ said Mr. Hatchett. ‘I dare say you will be able to make him useful. And as to that mortgage of the Waste Paper Utilization Company, you had better write at once and refuse their offer. That’s all, I think.’

Alec followed his new acquaintance up two flights of stairs into a small room crowded with tables, every one of which was covered with bundles of papers.

‘This is my den,’ said Beattie, ‘but I thought you would like a room to yourself, so I told them to clear out a little place for you across the passage;’ and he led the way to another room on the same floor.

It was small, dusty, and, what was even worse, dark, as a tall building opposite the only window obscured the light. There was no carpet on the floor. In one corner stood an old bookcase with cupboards underneath for papers; and in another there was a dilapidated fireplace.

‘Sorry to put you into such a poor place, but perhaps we’ll be able to get you a better room by-and-by,’ said Beattie with a smile; and Alec assured him that he wanted nothing better.

‘What sort of work would you like to begin with?’ asked the managing clerk, with another smile. ‘Conveyancing? or common law? or chancery practice?’

‘Really, I don’t know. Whatever department I can be of most use in. I shall have to learn something of all of them, I suppose.’

‘Conveyancing is my own branch,’ said Beattie. ‘Suppose you begin with that.’

He left the room, and soon returned with an armful of deeds and papers.

‘This,’ he said, touching a blue paper, ‘is an abstract of that deed. Compare it with the deed, and you will see how it is done. Then copy it on these large sheets. Here is one you may use as a model. And then you may try to draw an abstract of this deed,’ and he touched another one as he spoke, ‘in exactly the same way. If you are not sure of anything, come and ask me;’ and, with another smile, Mr. Beattie left the room.

Alec could not help admiring the clearness and precision with which the directions were given. He found the work interesting from its novelty, and by no means difficult.

He had been busy for an hour or two, when the door slowly opened, and a shabbily-dressed little man with red hair sidled into the room, and, hardly looking at its occupant, began to hunt for a volume among the bookshelves.

Alec merely glanced up, and bent again over his work. When he looked up a second time, the little man was standing with a book in his hand, pretending to consult it, but evidently using it as a pretext for taking stock of the new clerk.

‘Good-morning,’ said Alec.

‘Guid-day to ye, Mr. Lindsay,’ replied the other, extending a not very clean hand across the table. ‘I’m glad tae see ye. It’s a pleasure to see ony ane frae the auld country.’

‘You’re in the office, I suppose,’ said Alec.

The other nodded, put his hands in his trousers-pockets, and stared at Alec from the other side of the table.

His appearance was certainly not prepossessing. His hair was long and untidy, his eyes bloodshot and shifty; and his chin was covered with an ill-shaved beard. He was evidently not a young man, but he had the manners of an ill-bred boy. His expression was a mixture of shrewdness, meanness, and presumption. Alec wanted to get rid of him, but he hardly knew how to do it.

‘You’re from Glasgow?’ said the red-haired man.

‘Yes.’

‘And I’m from the Mearns. That’s no far from Glasgow. I used to ken the place weel. My name’s MacGowan. Ye’ve maybe heard o’ my uncle, Dr. MacGowan of Strathbogie?’

‘Not that I remember;’ and Alec turned again to his papers.

But the other took no notice of that.

‘An’ to think that you were in Glasgow but yesterday!’ exclaimed MacGowan.

‘Is it long since you came to London?’ asked Alec, by way of being civil.

‘Fifteen years; fifteen weary years, come Martinmas,’ answered MacGowan with an emphatic nod. ‘And, though I ken mair o’ what they ca’ law—though it’s a poor thing compared wi’ Scottish Jurisprudence—than either Mr. Hatchett, Mr. Small, or Mr. Beattie—and that’s no sayin’ muckle—I’m just where I was fifteen years ago, a clerk, wi’ thirty-five shillin’s a week.’

Alec murmured something by way of sympathy, and the other went on:

‘Paid monthly, Mr. Lindsay, paid monthly. And it’s sometimes very inconvenient to wait till the first o’ the month for the sma’ monthly steepend.’

Alec murmured something still more indistinct.

‘And the cashier here has a heart like the nether mill-stone. Precious little o’ the milk o’ human kindness in his carcass. He’d see ye driven oot to dee on the street—he’d see a man wantin’ his denner, before he’d advance him a poor five shillings on his next month’s screw. An’ that minds me, Mr. Lindsay. Next Wednesday is the first o’ the month. If you could lend me a sma’ sum till that time—say five shillings.—Thank ye, sir. I look upon you as a true Scotchman, who will not see a brother Scot in extremities without extending the helping hand.’

He stopped suddenly, and had barely time to pocket the coins when the door opened, and Beattie came into the room. At the sight of his cold, impassive face, MacGowan shrank back, and turned in confusion to the bookcase. Beattie fixed him with his eye; and MacGowan, not daring to meet it, slipped past his superior into the passage.

‘An idle, drunken, good-for-nothing vagabond,’ said Beattie, as soon as he had disappeared. ‘I advise you not to speak to him. He will take all sorts of liberties with you if you allow him.’

Then he looked over the abstracts, explained one or two points, and ended by asking Alec to dine with him that evening at the Holborn Restaurant.

Of course Alec accepted the invitation; but he did so without any feeling of pleasure. Beattie had been civil, and even friendly; but somehow Alec could not bring himself to like him. He smiled too often, and his smile was a purely conventional one, from the teeth outwards, fading away in a moment and leaving his face as stern and cold as before. His features were harsh, and his long upper lip gave an unpleasant look to his face. But most of all Alec disliked his accent. It smacked strongly of affectation. The Scotch intonation was still there and refused to be effaced, while the English manner of speaking had evidently been laboriously grafted upon the original stock. The result was not satisfactory to anyone but Mr. Beattie himself.

Soon after Alec and his host had taken their seats at table that evening, Mr. Beattie elicited the fact that Mr. James Semple was virtually at the head of his uncle’s oil-works, and that in all probability he would be the old man’s heir; and from that moment Alec became a very secondary person in his eyes. The two had not much in common, and the conversation languished till it seemed at one point as if it would die out altogether. As the evening proceeded, however, and the wine in the bottles diminished, matters improved; and by the time the two young men had lit their cigars, Beattie was giving his views on the state of society and the general scheme of things with considerable freedom.

‘There’s no place in the world,’ said he, with much emphasis, ‘where there’s so many beggars on horseback, as there are in and about this city of London. Go out on the streets, or go to any of the fashionable suburbs, and see the kind of people who roll past in their carriages. If you were to take the master out, put on his coachman’s livery, and set him on the box, put his overcoat and hat on the coachman and get him inside, no one would notice the difference.’

‘But there is the aristocracy.’

‘True; but it is the rich parvenus, the nobodies, that make London. And, after all, I fancy a long purse and a lavish hand will win a man’s way into any house in this country. Look at Baron Brand, as he calls himself! I remember when that man came to our office ready to do any dirty work we liked to put him to. And see where he is now.’

‘But there are surely circles of men of letters, of artists,’ began Alec.

‘No doubt; but who knows or cares anything about them? They might be swept off the face of the earth to-morrow, and London would never miss them.’

It occurred to Alec that the same thing might be said of a good many other social institutions in London, but he held his tongue.

‘Wealth is the great power, after all,’ resumed Beattie, ‘even in politics. Name ten famous men in the country who are not rich, or at least rich enough to live as wealthy people do. You can’t.’

‘There’s Ruskin.’

‘Ruskin was rich, rich enough, at least, to travel and spend his time as he liked, or he never could have become famous. Years ago, with diligence and some ability, a man could push his way to the front. But the crowd is too thick for that now.’

‘But, surely, eminence in one’s profession——’

‘Ay, but how is that attained?’

‘By learning it thoroughly, and——’

Beattie burst into a hoarse laugh.

‘My dear fellow, you have the simplest notions. Never mind; you’ll know better in time. Learning! Now, look here. Take our own profession. That little drunken beggar in our office, MacGowan, knows more law than most men with wigs on their heads I have come across—more than many a Q.C. I dare say he told you as much himself.’

‘He did,’ said Alec, with a laugh.

‘And he gets eighty or ninety pounds a year. Take my own case. I know as much, and am as good a man of business (though I say it myself) as any of my governors. They give me three hundred a year, while young Hatchett has as many thousands. And what then? His tailor has more than twice as much as he has. I know it for a fact.’

‘I never thought it mattered very much what a man has,’ said Alec serenely.

Beattie looked at him curiously, and went on:

‘You are ambitious, then? And you think learning, diligence, and so on, will help you up the ladder?’

‘That’s what I mean to try,’ said Alec with a laugh, and something of a blush.

‘It is impossible, or next to it. How many men, able men, well-educated men, do you think there are in London, grinding away at law, or writing books, or painting pictures, or designing buildings till their hair is gray? Who ever hears of them, or thinks of them? They will never reach even the first rung of the ladder. Never.’

‘How, then, do men get on?’

Beattie lifted his eyebrows.

‘Some, a few, have exceptional gifts, and when they do get a chance they let it be seen. But, as a rule, those who come to the front don’t push their way through the crowd; they climb over other men’s heads. They hang on to what men they do know, and flatter or bother them into giving them the opportunity they want. Then, when they have got it, they make the most of it. They never lose a chance of advertising themselves. Better, they say, be spoken of as a cad or a fool, than not be spoken of at all. They never lose an opportunity of sticking a spoke in a rival’s wheel; and they will half ruin a man one minute, and meet him with a “Well, old man,” the next, as if they were the greatest friends in the world.’

Alec’s face wore an expression of deep disgust.

‘And the beggars on horseback, having filled their purses out of some tobacco-shop, or grog-shop, or shoddy-shop, put their thumbs in the arm-holes of their waistcoats, lean back in their carriages, and think themselves the pick of mankind, till a lord comes their way, and then they bow down in the dust before him—that is, if he’s richer than they are.’

Alec was getting a little tired of his friend’s cynicism, so he rose to go.

‘I don’t believe it,’ said he to himself, as he made his way home. ‘There are plenty of fellows, fellows who have got on too, who wouldn’t do a dirty thing to save their lives. If it is impossible—well, so be it.’

William Beattie was soured by disappointment. He would not allow for the natural advantages which those before him in the race derived from wealth and business connections. He hated his employers, because they showed no disposition to ‘give him his articles,’ and make him a member of the firm. He greatly longed to throw up his post and try to find a nearer road to wealth, but this he did not dare to do. As for his sneers at ‘beggars on horseback,’ they were simply due to envy.