Beauchamp's Career. Complete

It was (she dared to recollect it in her anguish) Jenny’s choice to go home in the yacht that decided her husband not to make the journey by land in company with the Lydiards.

The voyage was favourable. Beauchamp had a passing wish to land on the Norman coast, and take Jenny for a day to Tourdestelle. He deferred to her desire to land baby speedily, now they were so near home. They ran past Otley river, having sight of Mount Laurels, and on to Bevisham, with swelling sails. There they parted. Beauchamp made it one of his ‘points of honour’ to deliver the vessel where he had taken her, at her moorings in the Otley. One of the piermen stood before Beauchamp, and saluting him, said he had been directed to inform him that the Earl of Romfrey was with Colonel Halkett, expecting him at Mount Laurels. Beauchamp wanted his wife to return in the yacht. She turned her eyes to Dr. Shrapnel. It was out of the question that the doctor should think of going. Husband and wife parted. She saw him no more.

This is no time to tell of weeping. The dry chronicle is fittest. Hard on nine o’clock in the December darkness, the night being still and clear, Jenny’s babe was at her breast, and her ears were awake for the return of her husband. A man rang at the door of the house, and asked to see Dr. Shrapnel. This man was Killick, the Radical Sam of politics. He said to the doctor: ‘I ‘m going to hit you sharp, sir; I’ve had it myself: please put on your hat and come out with me; and close the door. They mustn’t hear inside. And here’s a fly. I knew you’d be off for the finding of the body. Commander Beauchamp’s drowned.’

Dr. Shrapnel drove round by the shore of the broad water past a great hospital and ruined abbey to Otley village. Killick had lifted him into the conveyance, and he lifted him out. Dr. Shrapnel had not spoken a word. Lights were flaring on the river, illuminating the small craft sombrely. Men, women, and children crowded the hard and landing-places, the marshy banks and the decks of colliers and trawlers. Neither Killick nor Dr. Shrapnel questioned them. The lights were torches and lanterns; the occupation of the boats moving in couples was the dragging for the dead.

‘O God, let’s find his body,’ a woman called out.

‘Just a word; is it Commander Beauchamp?’ Killick said to her.

She was scarcely aware of a question. ‘Here, this one,’ she said, and plucked a little boy of eight by the hand close against her side, and shook him roughly and kissed him.

An old man volunteered information. ‘That’s the boy. That boy was in his father’s boat out there, with two of his brothers, larking; and he and another older than him fell overboard; and just then Commander Beauchamp was rowing by, and I saw him from off here, where I stood, jump up and dive, and he swam to his boat with one of them, and got him in safe: that boy: and he dived again after the other, and was down a long time. Either he burst a vessel or he got cramp, for he’d been rowing himself from the schooner grounded down at the river-mouth, and must have been hot when he jumped in: either way, he fetched the second up, and sank with him. Down he went.’

A fisherman said to Killick: ‘Do you hear that voice thundering? That’s the great Lord Romfrey. He’s been directing the dragging since five o’ the evening, and will till he drops or drowns, or up comes the body.’

‘O God, let’s find the body!’ the woman with the little boy called out.

A torch lit up Lord Romfrey’s face as he stepped ashore. ‘The flood has played us a trick,’ he said. ‘We want more drags, or with the next ebb the body may be lost for days in this infernal water.’

The mother of the rescued boy sobbed, ‘Oh, my lord, my lord!’

The earl caught sight of Dr. Shrapnel, and went to him.

‘My wife has gone down to Mrs. Beauchamp,’ he said. ‘She will bring her and the baby to Mount Laurels. The child will have to be hand-fed. I take you with me. You must not be alone.’

He put his arm within the arm of the heavily-breathing man whom he had once flung to the ground, to support him.

‘My lord! my lord!’ sobbed the woman, and dropped on her knees.

‘What ‘s this?’ the earl said, drawing his hand away from the woman’s clutch at it.

‘She’s the mother, my lord,’ several explained to him.

‘Mother of what?’

‘My boy,’ the woman cried, and dragged the urchin to Lord Romfrey’s feet, cleaning her boy’s face with her apron.

‘It’s the boy Commander Beauchamp drowned to save,’ said a man.

All the lights of the ring were turned on the head of the boy. Dr. Shrapnel’s eyes and Lord Romfrey’s fell on the abashed little creature. The boy struck out both arms to get his fists against his eyelids.

This is what we have in exchange for Beauchamp!

It was not uttered, but it was visible in the blank stare at one another of the two men who loved Beauchamp, after they had examined the insignificant bit of mudbank life remaining in this world in the place of him.