One Man's View — Reading Companion

Eastbourne was depressing, he reflected, as he strolled towards the dumpy Wish Tower. He was almost sorry that he hadn't gone to Sandhills and quartered himself on his brother for a week or two instead. Francis was always pleased to meet him of recent years, and no longer remarked early in the conversation that he was "overdrawn at Cox's." On the whole, Francis was not a bad fellow, and Sandhills and pheasants would have been livelier.

He stifled a yawn, and observed with relief that it was near the dinner-hour. In the evening he turned over the papers in the smoking-room. He perceived, as he often did perceive in the vacations, that he was lonely. Vacations were a mistake: early in one's career one could not afford them, and by the time one was able to afford them, the taste for holidays was gone. This hotel was dreary, too. The visitors were dull, and the cooking was indifferent. What could be more tedious than the meal from which he had just risen?--the feeble soup, the flaccid fish, the uninterrupted view of the stout lady with the aquiline nose, and a red shawl across her shoulders. Now he was lolling on a morocco couch, fingering the _The Field_; two or three other men lay about, napping, or looking at the _The Graphic_. There was a great deal of tobacco-smoke, and a little whisky; he might as well have stopped in town and gone to the Club. He wondered what they did in Belle Vue Mansion after dinner. Perhaps there was music, and the girl sang? he could fancy that she sang well. Or they might have impromptu dances? Personally he did not care for dancing, but even to see others enjoying themselves would be comparatively gay. After all, why should he not remove to Belle Vue Mansion if he wished? He had attached a significance to the step that it did not possess, making it appear absurd by the very absurdity of the consideration that he accorded it. He remembered the time when he would not have hesitated--those were the days when Francis was always "overdrawn at Cox's." Well, he had worked hard since then, and anything that Francis might have lent him had been repaid, and he had gradually acquired soberer views of life. Perhaps he might be said to have gone to an extreme, indeed, and taken the pledge! He sometimes felt old, and he was still in the thirties. Francis was the younger of the two of late, although he had a boy in the Brigade; but elder sons often kept young very long--it was easy for them, like the way of righteousness to a bishop.... A waiter cast an inquiring glance round the room, and, crossing to the sofa, handed him a card. Heriot read the name with astonishment; he had not seen the man for sixteen years, and even their irregular correspondence had died a natural death.

"My dear fellow!" he exclaimed in the hall. "Come inside."

In the past, of which he had just been thinking, he and Dick Cheriton had been staunch friends, none the less staunch because Cheriton was some years his senior. Dick had a studio in Howland Street then, and was going to set the Academy on fire. In the meanwhile he wore a yellow necktie, and married madly, and smoked a clay pipe; he could not guarantee that he would be an R.A., but at least he was resolved that he would be a bohemian. He had some of the qualifications for artistic success, but little talent. When he discovered the fact beyond the possibility of mistake, he accepted a relative's offer of a commercial berth in the United States, and had his hair cut. The valedictory supper in the studio, at which he had renounced ambition, and solemnly burned all his canvases that the dealers would not buy, had been a very affecting spectacle.

"My dear fellow!" cried Heriot. "Come inside. This is a tremendous pleasure. When did you arrive?"

"Came over in the _Germanic_, ten days ago. It _is_ you, then; I saw 'George Heriot' in the Visitors' List, and strolled round on the chance. I scarcely hoped---- How are you, old man? I'm mighty glad to see you--fact!"

"You've been here ten days?"

"Not here, no; I've only been in Eastbourne a few hours."

"You should have looked me up in town."

"I tried. Your chambers were shut."

"The hall-porter at the Club----"

"What club? You forget what an exile I am!"

"Have a drink? Well, upon my word, this is very jolly! Sit down; try one of these."

"Would you have recognised me?" asked Cheriton, stretching his legs, and lighting the cigar.

"You've changed," admitted Heriot; "it's a long time. I've changed too."

They regarded each other with a gaze of friendly criticism. Heriot noted with some surprise that the other's appearance savoured little of the American man of business, or of the man of business outside America. His hair, though less disordered than it had been in the Howland Street period, was still rather longer than is customary in the City. It was now grey, and became him admirably. He wore a black velvet jacket, and showed a glimpse of a deep crimson tie. He no longer looked a bohemian, but he had acquired the air of a celebrity.

"Have you come home for good, Cheriton?"

Cheriton shook his head.

"I guess America has got me for life," he answered; "I'm only making a trip. And you? You're still at the Bar, eh?"

"Oh, yes," said Heriot drily; "I'm still at the Bar." It is not agreeable, when you have succeeded in a profession, to be asked if you are in it still. "I've travelled along the lines on which you left me--it doesn't make an exciting narrative. Chambers, court, and bed. A laundress or two has died in the interval. The thing pays better than it used to do, naturally; that's all."

"I should have called it 'doing well' once; but we are all Olivers in our hearts. To-day----"

"Mistake!" said the elder man. "You wanted the Bar--you've got the Bar; you ought to be satisfied. Now _I_----"

"Yes?" said Heriot, as he paused. "How's the world used you, Cheriton? By the way, you never answered my last letter, I think."

"It was _you_ who didn't answer _me_."

"I fancy not. You were going to Chicago, and I wrote----"

"I wrote after I arrived in Chicago."

"Well, it must be five years ago; we won't argue. What did you do in Chicago, Cheriton?"

"No good, sir. I went there with a patent horse-collar. Capital invention--not my own, I never invented anything!--but it didn't catch on. They seemed to take no interest in horse-collars; no money in it, not a cent! After the horse-collar I started in the dry-goods trade; but I was burned out. From Chicago I went to Duluth; I've an hotel there to-day."

"That's so. It isn't a distinguished career, running a little hotel, but it's fairly easy. Compared with hustling with horse-collars it's luxurious. Duluth is not ideal, but what would you have! I make my way, and that's all I ask now. If I had my life over again----" He sighed. "If we could have our lives over again, eh, Heriot?"

"Humph!" said Heriot doubtfully; he was wondering if he could make any better use of his own--if he would be any livelier the next time he was eight-and-thirty. "I suppose we all blunder, of course."

"_You_ are a young man yet; it's different for you; and you're in the profession of your choice: it's entirely different. We don't look at the thing from the same standpoint, Heriot."

"You don't mean that you regret giving up Art?"

"Sir," said Cheriton mournfully, "it was the error I shall always regret. I wouldn't say as much to anybody else; I keep it here"--he tapped his velvet jacket--"but I had a gift, and I neglected it; I had power, and--and I run an hotel. When I reflect, man, there are hours--well, it's no use crying over spilt milk; but to think of the position I should have made, and to contrast it with what I am, is bitter!" He swept back his wavy hair impatiently, and in the momentary pose looked more like a celebrity still.

Heriot could see that the cherished delusion gave him a melancholy pleasure, and was at a loss how to reply. "It was uphill work," he said at last. "Who can tell? Luck----"

"I was a lad, an impetuous lad; and I was handicapped--I married." The man with a failure to explain is always grateful to have married. "But I had the stuff in me, I had the temperament. 'Had' it? I have it now! I may keep an hotel, but I shall never be an hotel-keeper. God gave me my soul, sir; circumstances gave me an hotel. I mayn't paint any more, but an artist by nature I shall always be. I don't say it in any bragging spirit, Heriot; I should be happier if I didn't feel it. The commonplace man may be contented in the commonplace calling: he fills the rôle he was meant for. It's the poor devil like myself, who knows what he _might_ have been, who suffers."

Heriot didn't pursue the subject; he puffed his cigar meditatively. After the effervescence subsides, such meetings must always have a little sadness; he looked at the wrinkles that had gathered on his friend's face, and realised the crow's-feet on his own.

"You lost your wife, you wrote me?" he remarked, breaking a rather lengthy silence.

"In New York, yes--pneumonia. _You_ never married, eh?"

"No. Do you stay over here long?"

"A month or two; I can't manage more. But I shall leave my girl in London. I've brought her with me, and she'll remain."

"Of course," said Heriot, "you have a child--of course you have! I remember a little thing tumbling about in Howland Street. She must be a woman, Cheriton?"

"Mamie is twenty-one. I want to see if I can do anything for her before I go back. She loathes Duluth; and she has talent. She'll live with my sister. I don't think you ever saw my sister, did you? She's a widow, and stagnates in Wandsworth--Mamie will be company for her."

"Your daughter paints?"

"No, not paints; she wants to be an actress. I wasn't very keen on it; but she's got the material in her, and I concluded I'd no right to say 'no.' Still, she's not very strong--takes after her mother, I'm afraid, a little; I'd rather she'd had a gift for something else."

"Was it necessary for her to have a gift at all?" asked Heriot, a shade sarcastically. "Couldn't she stop at home?"

"Well," said Cheriton, "she tried it, but it's a hard thing for a girl like Mamie to content herself with the life in Duluth. There isn't much art in that, Heriot; there isn't much anything. There's the lake, and Superior Street, and the storekeepers lounging in the doorways and spitting on the wooden sidewalks. And there's a theatre of a sort--which made her worse. For a girl panting to be famous, Duluth is a hell. She's been breaking her heart in it ever since she was sixteen; and after all, it's in the blood. It would have been odd if my daughter _hadn't_ had the artistic temperament, I suppose!"

"I suppose it would," said Heriot. "Well, why doesn't she go on the stage in America? I shouldn't think she'd find it easy here."

"She wouldn't find it easy there. There's no stock company in Duluth; only the travelling companies come sometimes for a few nights. There's no bigger opportunity for her on the other side than on this. Besides, she wants the English stage. I wonder if you know anybody who could give her any introductions?"

"I'm sorry to hear you say that," said Cheriton blankly; "I was counting on you some."

Heriot looked at him.

"You counted on _me_? For Heaven's sake, why?"

"Well, I don't know many people over here to-day, you see; the fellows I used to knock against have died, gone to the Colonies--fizzled out. You were solid; and you were a swell, with connections and all that. I understand the stage has become very fashionable in London--I thought you might meet actor-managers at dinners and things. That was the idea; I daresay it was very stupid, but I had it. I mentioned your name to Mamie as soon as it was settled we should come. However, we'll fix the matter somehow."

"I'm sorry to prove a disappointment," said Heriot. "Tell your daughter so for me. I'd do what you want with pleasure, if I were able. You know that, I'm sure?"

"Oh, I know that," said Cheriton; "it can't be helped. Yes, I'll tell her. She _will_ be disappointed, of course; she understands how difficult the thing is without influence, and I've talked about you a lot."

"Do you think you were wise to--to----"

"Oh, it was a mistake as it turns out!"

"I don't mean that only. I mean, do you think you were wise to encourage her hopes in such a direction at all? Frankly, if _I_ had a daughter---- Forgive me for speaking plainly."

"My dear fellow! your daughter and mine!--their paths would be as wide apart as the poles. And you don't know Mamie!"

"At all events I know that the stage is more overcrowded every year. Most girls are stage-struck at some time or other; and there are hundreds of actresses who can't earn bread-and-cheese. A man I know has his type-writing done by a woman who used to be on the stage. She played the best parts in the country, I believe, and, I daresay, nursed the expectation of becoming a Bernhardt. She gets a pound a week in his office, he tells me, and was thankful to obtain the post."

"Mamie is bound to come to the front. She's got it--she's an artist born. I tell you, I should be brutal to stand in the way of her career; the girl is pining, really pining, for distinction! When you've talked to her you'll change your views."

"Perhaps," said Heriot, as the shortest way of ending the discussion; "very likely I'm wrong." The budding genius bored him. "Mind you explain to the young lady that my inability, and not my will, refuses, at any rate."

"That's all right," declared Cheriton, getting up. "I told her I was coming round to see if it was you." He laughed. "I bet she's picturing me coming back with a bushel of letters of introduction from you by now! Well, I must be going; it's getting late."

"You brought her down to Eastbourne to-day?"

"Oh, I've been dangling about town a little by myself; Mamie and my sister have been here a week. Good-night, old chap; shall I see you to-morrow? You might give us a look in if you will--say in the afternoon. Belle Vue Mansion; don't forget!"

"Where?" exclaimed Heriot, startled into interest.

"Belle Vue Mansion," repeated Cheriton, gripping his hand. "You can't miss it: a big pink house on the Esplanade."

Heriot betook himself there on the following day with a curious eagerness. If the girl he had noticed should prove to be Cheriton's daughter, how odd it would be! He at once hoped for the coincidence, and found the possibility a shade pathetic. It emphasised his years to think that the ill-kept child of the dirty studio might have become the girl he had admired. His progress during the interval appeared momentarily insignificant to him; he felt that while a brat became a woman he ought to have done much more. He was discouraged to reflect that he had not taken silk; for he had always intended to take silk, and had small misgivings that he would have cause to repent it. His practice had indicated for some time that he would not suffer by the step, and yet he had delayed his application. His motto had been, "Slow and sure," but it seemed to him suddenly that he had been too slow; his income as a Junior should not have contented him so long.

He pulled the bell, and was preceded up the stairs by a maid-servant, who opened a door, and announced him to the one occupant of the room. Heriot saw that she was the girl of the balcony and the terrace, and that she moved towards him smiling.

"I am Mamie Cheriton," she said. "My father is expecting you."

Her intonation was faintly American, but her voice was full and sweet. He took her hand with pleasure, and a touch of excitement that did not concord with his countenance, which was formal and impassive.

"I am glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Cheriton."

"Won't you sit down?" she said. "He will be here in a minute."

Heriot took a seat, and decided that her eyes were even lovelier than he had known.

"When I saw you last, you were a child," he remarked inaccurately.

"Yes; it must have astonished you meeting my father again after so many years. It was funny, your being here, wasn't it?... But perhaps you often come to Eastbourne?"

"No," said Heriot, "no, I don't often come. How does it strike you, Miss Cheriton? I suppose you can hardly remember England, can you?"

"Well, I shan't be sorry to be settled in London; it was London I was anxious to go to, not the sea-shore.... Do you say 'sea-shore' in Europe, or is it wrong? When I said 'sea-shore' this morning, I noticed that a woman stared at me."

"One generally says 'seaside' over here; I don't know that it's important."

"Well, the 'seaside' then. The seaside was my aunt's wish. Well---- Well, I'm saying 'well' too often, I guess?--that's American, too! I've got to be quite English--that's my first step. But at least I don't talk like Americans in your comic papers, do I?"

"You talk very delightfully, I think," he said, taken aback.

"I hope you mean it. My voice is most important, you know. It would be very cruel if I were handicapped by having anything the matter with my voice. I shall have difficulties enough without!"

"I'm afraid," he said, "that I'm unfortunate. I wish I could have done something to further the ambitions your father mentioned."

She smiled again, rather wistfully this time.

"They seem very absurd to you, I daresay?"

He murmured deprecation: "Why?"

"The stage-struck girl is always absurd."

Recognising his own phrase, he perceived that he had been too faithfully reported, and was embarrassed.

"I spoke hastily. In the abstract the stage-struck girl may be absurd, but so is a premature opinion."

"Thank you," she said. "But why 'stage-struck,' anyhow? it's a term I hate. I suppose you wanted to be a barrister, Mr. Heriot?"

"I did," he confessed, "certainly. There are a great many, but I thought there was room for one more."

"But you weren't described as 'bar-struck'?"

"I don't think I ever heard the expression."

"It would be a very foolish one?"

"It would sound so to me."

"Why 'stage-struck' then? Is it any more ridiculous to aspire to one profession than another? You don't say a person is 'paint-struck,' or 'ink-struck,' or anything else '-struck'; why the sneer when one is drawn towards the theatre? But perhaps _no_ form of art appears to you necessary?"

"I think I should prefer to call it 'desirable,' since you ask the question," he said. "And 'art' is a word used to weight a great many trivialities too! Everybody who writes a novel is an artist in his own estimation, and personally, I find existence quite possible without novels."

"Did you ever read _Mademoiselle de Maupin_?" asked Miss Cheriton.

"Have _you_?" he said quickly.

"Oh yes; books are very cheap in America. 'I would rather grow roses than potatoes,' is one of the lines in the preface. _You_ would rather grow potatoes than roses, eh?"

"You are an enthusiast," said Heriot; "I see!" He pitied her for being Dick Cheriton's daughter. She was inevitable: the pseudo-artist's discontent with realities--the inherited tendencies, fanned by thinly-veiled approval! He understood.