Who would have thought, when Biver began to take the brandy-bottle to bed with him, that the whole future of two English lads would have been affected by so simple an act, so common, too, in thirsty climes? Such a natural accompaniment to so many colonial careers!

     When Biver went out to Shanghai as representative to the House of Brimage and Waring, he was not a thirsty young man at all; he was, on the contrary, a young man who held strong moral objections to thirstiness except at tea-time, and was great in commonplace about the ruin caused by drink, He was, in short, one of those young men who regard speech as merely a vehicle for the commonplace, and the brain as devised merely for learning the commonplace. There are a good many such young men, not only in the City but outside it. It was partly because Biver was so good at commonplace, both commercial and moral, that he was sent out. Yet, sad to say, in five or six years Biver had actually arrived at taking the brandy-bottle to bed with him, and the meal called tea existed for him no longer.

     That was the beginning of the end. It mattered very little so long as Biver went to bed drunk and got up sober; a man may go on so for a great many years; but when Biver began to go to bed drunk, and to get up drunk, and to be drunk all day long, he entered upon a path which quickly leads to deterioration of the finer instincts of business.

     I do not know exactly what it was that Biver did at last; it was something which not only broke the camel’s back, but made the cup run over, and, at the same time, put all the fat in the fire. I believe he sat down and began to buy right and left all the silk in the market at five-and-twenty percent. above its possible selling value, just as if he had been representing the Government of England instead of a mercantile firm. This magnificence was stopped by telegraph before he had lost many millions, and he was deprived of the power to do any more harm to the Firm. Biver was ordered home; he hugged his
brandy bottle and went on board the next mail. But he had either overrated his own strength or underrated the strength of the brandy, and when the ship was still in the Narrow Seas he had to be dropped overboard, while the passengers stood in a semicircle and the captain read the service, and the youngest steward cried aloud, using one of the ship’s napkins for a handkerchief, not because he loved and lamented the deceased at all, but because it was the first time he had seen the handiwork of Death the Conqueror.

     This is the tragical history of Biver, and, indeed, of many a gallant vouth who seeks his fortune abroad.

     And this is the reason why Brimage and Waring wanted a new representative in Shanghai.

     The partners considered their office and its occupants, and their eyes fell upon the two lads. They were both of good character; they both knew two modern languages; they were handsome young men, of good bearing and good address, presentable anywhere. It does a house good to be represented
abroad by, young gentlemen of pleasing manners.

     But they only wanted one, and they hesitated which to take. For the appointment, though it led to such risks as that which proved fatal to Biver the bibulous, was great promotion; a handsome salary was attached to the post; there was no telling what might not follow — even partnerships had followed — for successfully representing the house in Shanghai.

     The partners finally decided on Allen. He was intelligent, though perhaps, they thought, knowing nothing about the poetry, not so intelligent as the other lad; he could be safely trusted to carry out instructions with discretion, which means, in commercial matters, with alacrity in perceiving when dis-obedience is best. Moreover, which finally decided them, he was the son of an old servant of the House whose unmerited disasters and tragic ending had not yet been quite forgotten.

     They sent for Allen: they communicated with great solemnity the decision they had arrived at; the senior partner even began an exhortation on the responsibilities of the position, when, to everybody’s astonishment, the young man, who had been blushing painfully, interrupted him with the astounding information that he was obliged to decline the offer.

     ‘Are you afraid to go? ’ asked the senior partner bluntly.

     ‘Are you unable to leave your mother alone?’ asked a junior partner kindly.

     ‘Are you anxious about the duties?’ asked another.

     ‘Gentlemen,’ said Allen, holding his head very erect, ‘I am not afraid to go, and my mother will be very angry and disappointed with me, at least I fear so, because I refuse the honour of this post. But I cannot go.’

     ‘You have perhaps formed ties; yet you are young,’ said the senior.

     ‘Come, Engledew,’ said the other, ‘we would gladly befriend your father‘s son; we have offered the place to you because we would help you if we could. Do not trifle with your fortune.’

     ‘I cannot go, sir, thank you.’

     ‘We give you till tomorrow. Go home at once; consult your mother. Such a chance may never happen to you again. Go now, and meet us here tomorrow at noon.’

     Allen retired. He went home and told his mother of the offer which had been made him. The widow clasped her hands and began to shed tears of joy.

     ‘I must lose you, Allen,’ she said; ‘but that is nothing, for your foot is on the ladder at last, and all you have to do is to climb. My dear boy you will retrieve the name; you will wipe out your poor father’s disgrace.’

     ‘Mother,’ said her son, ‘that is already retrieved; it was never lost. Not a man who knew my father but knows that he had nothing to do with his partner’s evil practices. You wish me to wipe out a disgrace which never took place. What has been done cannot be undone; let us cease to make it worse by supposing the worst.’

     ‘But he was bankrupt, Allen, and he committed ——’

     ‘I know, I know. Yet there was no disgrace. Mother, I have my own name to think of, more even than the honourable name of my father. I must think of that first.’

     ‘Surely, Allen, surely.’ She began to tremble, because her son looked so determined. What did he mean? What was he going to say? ‘Your success will be your own, my son; and yet — oh! — doubt not that your dead father will rejoice in it.’

     ‘Yes, mother, if I succeed. But if I do, it will not be’ — he laid his hand on hers and looked her in the face — ‘it will not be in the City.’

     ‘Not in the City?’ She knew of no success possible out of the City. What did he mean?

     ‘No, mother, the time has come — it has been coming a long time — when I can go to the City no more. The work has long been intolerable to me.’

     ‘Oh! Allen, you mean that you are glad to go to China.’ But she knew very well that he meant nothing of the sort. ‘You mean that you are rejoiced to have a change. Well, dear, boys are so. If you are pleased, I am pleased.

     ‘I mean, mother, that I am going to give up my post at Brimage and Waring’s and that I shall try another line of life altogether. I shall try to live by literature.’

     She only understood one way in which money could be made. There were doctors and clergymen, but they did not seem to make any money. The City was the only place.

     ‘Letters? You mean by writing things? But you can’t make your fortune by writing.’

     ‘Mother, I am not going to try to make a fortune. I am going to live simply. I shall probably always be a poor man. But I shall try to make a name — and — and to do good work.’ His voice trembled a little, because this kind of work seemed to him so sacred a thing — which it undoubtedly is.

     ‘A name — without money? Allen, you are mad. Oh! your head is turned with your book-reading and your writing. Allen! Allen! I implore you. I will go on my knees to you.’

     ‘Mother!’

     ‘Yes, Allen, if you will only give up this wild design.’ She wept, she implored; but he was obstinate. ‘You are mad — you are mad.’ she repeated. ‘You will only starve in such a life.’

     ‘I shall not starve, mother,’ he said gently, ‘and you have enough for your own wants. I shall go to London and make, somehow, enough for my own. Only do not send me away in anger.’

     If he had left her that night, she would certainly have sent him away in anger and bitterness. What was literature in her eyes? What was anything compared to the City? And her boy had the fairest prospects, and he was going to throw all away — the dream of twenty years, that he would ‘retrieve’ his father’s name, and be respected in the City, was suddenly shattered.

     In the morning Allen again presented himself before the partners. His resolution was unshaken. He declined the China appointment and resigned his situation in the house.

     ‘May we ask,’ said the senior partner, ‘if you will give us any reason — what you intend to do?’

     ‘I am going to follow literature,’ he replied, with the deepest blush possible.

     ‘The senior partner turned his back upon him. and said no more. His time was too valuable to be wasted upon a fool — a mere fool. One of the juniors asked him if he knew — if he had considered — the kind of life he was about to choose.

     Allen said that he supposed it would be a life of poverty and, perhaps, hardship. But there would be compensations.

     ‘What compensations are there?’ asked the partner, who belonged to three good clubs, lived in the Cromwell Road, dined every day like Dives, and saw a doctor twice a week, in order to keep himself and his digestion in good order. ‘What possible compensations are there for poverty and hardship?’

     ‘Art,’ said Allen proudly, ‘compensates for everything.’

     ‘Good morning, young man,’ said the partner.

     In this way did Allen leave Brimage and Waring’s, and turned his back upon the City.

     Then they sent for Will, and made him the same offer.

     He accepted with an eagerness which contrasted favourably with Allen’s hesitation.

     ‘You are not afraid to go?’ asked the senior. ‘There are always dangers in foreign countries.’

     ‘To get promotion, sir,’ said Will, ‘I would cheerfully go to the Gold Coast.’

     ‘Good. You shall have promotion. If you do well you shall have more promotion. But remember Biver; we must have no more drunkards.’

     ‘I shall not drink, sir.’

     ‘That is also good. I am informed that there is a good deal of loo and baccarat and other games of chance going on out there. We must have no gamblers.’

     ‘I shall not gamble, sir. ’

     Then they went on to give him instructions. He was to start at once — that very week, if possible; he was to follow certain lines laid clown for his guidance: on occasion he was to act for himself. This independent action would determine his future.

     ‘We can trust you, I think,’ said the senior partner, watching the young man’s resolute look and quick intelligence. ‘Go now. Your outfit will be given you and your passage, of course. Go and begin your preparations.’

     *
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     ‘So, young man,’ said Sir Charles, ‘you are going to China, I hear. Money has been made in China before now, and lost. There have been several most interesting failures connected with the China trade.’

     ‘You are wrong, Massey,’ said Mr. Colliber solemnly. ‘You are wrong; you should stay where the money is. Never go away from the money.’

     ‘And young Engledew, his mother tells me,’ continued Sir Charles, ‘has positively given up his place at Brimage and Waring’s, and means to become a common writing person — a writing person; sad! sad!’

     ‘Deplorable,’ murmured Mr. Skantlebury.

     ‘He will not listen to reason. His mother, who has been to me about it, is broken-hearted. Pitiable, indeed,’ said Sir Charles. ‘A common writing person! After enjoying our society and actually possessing the privilege of knowing a man of your colossal failure, Colliber. Wonderful!’

     ‘The boy is a fool.’ said Colliber; ‘let him go.’

     ‘We shall lose all our young men at once,’ said Sir Charles. ‘That will be a blow. Young Gallaway finds that he must live nearer his office, in order to push the business. There is a lad for you — a freeman of the city, member of a Livery, and an
ambitious heart! Massey, hold Olinthus Gallaway up as a bright example and pattern. He will be Lord Mayor yet — he will — ha! ha! ha! A noble young man, indeed! But, my friends, I fear we shall not ourselves live to see his bankruptcy.’

     *
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     Yes, the evening of the banquet was almost the last that they were to spend together at the Cottage. The last was the night before Will went away. Allen was to go too, and they were all three sad and silent.

     ‘Let us go,’ Will said, ‘into the Forest.’

     ‘They walked, the three — Claire between the two young men — along the well-known broad way of grass, between the trees; they passed the amphitheatre where they had played so many games together and held so many talks; their silent footsteps led them into the leafy lanes where the evening sunlight coloured the green branches above them and the grey trunks and the underwood, and made them all glorious; they came to the place where the old fallen tree lay on the ground. And there Claire sat down and fell a-weeping because both her friends were going to leave her.

     ‘Allen,’ said Will, ‘you are going away too. Say something to Claire.’

     ‘No, Will,’ Allen replied, ’what I have to say is to you. But I want Claire to hear it.’ He hesitated for a moment, and then went on with a firm voice. ‘I have this to say, Will: You are going away for a long while, it may be more than three years; it may be four or five before you come back, Claire knows that we both love her; and that we shall always love her — all our lives. But I shall never ask her to choose between us, till the day when we can stand together before her as we do now, and say again what we have already said.’

     ‘Thanks, Allen.’ Will held out his hand, but he said no more.

     ‘You are too good to me,’ said Claire; ‘you think too much of me. I am only a girl ——’

     ‘Only a girl!’ Allen repeated.

     ‘And you are men — strong men. How could I ever choose between you? You have always been in my heart — both of you — from the beginning. You are always in my thoughts — together. And this is our last evening. Will — dear Will….’ She laid her hand in his. He stooped and kissed it, and turned away his head. ‘How can we live without you? Write to my father — and to me — and tell us all that you do. Allen will sometimes come to see me. You will rejoice when he succeeds, will you not, Will? And oh! you must not let any thought of me bring a shadow between you. Promise me that.’

     They took hands, but neither spoke.

     ‘Now I can do nothing,’ she said, ‘nothing at all but wait and hope and pray. Come, now, and comfort my father, who will have nobody to talk to except myself. I think we shall talk about nothing at all, every evening, except you two.’