CHAPTER XI
ONE'S FOLLY, ANOTHER'S OPPORTUNITY
When Henry's holiday had ended and he stepped once again into the outer darkness that lay beyond Hampton Bagot, the words of his which kept ringing like alarm-bells in the ears of his mother and Dora were: "Flo—a jolly, dashing sort of girl." They had been spoken once only; but that was enough. The essential woman in his mother and sister pounced on them like a cat on a mouse peeping from its hole. They turned the phrase over in their mind, put it away, took it down, pecked at it; tossed it afar, and ran after it forthwith, wishful to forget it, but unable to let it go.
It might mean much, it might mean nothing. With some young men it would not have been an excuse for a second thought, but Henry was not like other young men. He was their Henry—or rather, he had been; for Mrs. Charles now watched him with something of that chagrin which must arise in the maternal bosom of the hen that has mothered a brood of ducklings when she sees them going where she cannot follow. As for Dora, she doubted if she had ever known this new Henry who spoke easily of "Flo—a jolly, dashing sort of girl."
The phrase, careless and colloquial though it was, had all the potency of the biograph to project before the mind's eye of Mrs. Charles and of Dora pictures of a young woman who stepped out, smirked, disappeared, and came again in a new dress to do many things they disliked.
But it was not the same young woman that both of them saw, and neither of them mentioned her thoughts to the other. The figure which flashed frequently on to the screen of his mother's thoughts was that of a bold, designing creature—dangerously attractive—whose purpose was to entrap her Henry. Dora recognised her dressed for another part, in which she displayed a tendency to giggle and cast flattering eyes on a gullible young man.
Edward John saw nothing of this figure in the fairy drama of his mind, where Henry always moved close to the footlights and left the other characters in the unillumined region of the stage.
Henry had renewed his acquaintance with the Rev. Godfrey Needham, whom he found still swimming, though with weakening stroke, in his sea of scrappy scholarship, rising manfully some times on a fine billow of Latin, but spluttering a moment later when he breasted a frothy wave of French.
"Ah, my dear Henry, toil on, plod on, and remember always that Hoffnung ist der Wanderstab von der Wiege bis zum grabe, which, as you have no German, means that hope is the pilgrim's staff from the cradle to the grave. We are all pilgrims—always pilgrims—you in the sunshine, I in the frost of life."
This was his benediction; and somehow the innocent vanity of the vicar's borrowed philosophy no longer amused, but fingered tender cords in the soul of the young man.
Eunice, although she had met him several times after that walk from the church, had never said so much to him again; but "Shall we not see you again for two years?" was spoken with a touch of sadness which thrilled him into—"I shall hope to see you often in the future."
Miffin was alone among the village folk in his opinion of the new Henry. The young man's neat-fitting summer suit, his elegant necktie, even his well-made boots annoyed that worthy by their quiet advertisement of prosperity. He was one of those who resented success in others, mainly because he knew himself for a failure. Moreover, no man is pleased to see his prophecies given the lie. The tailor still blandly assured his cronies when they enlarged on the worldly progress of the postmaster's son, that the rising tide of Henry's affairs would yet turn. "Merk moi werds," said he, "them young men what goes into City life seldom do any good. They dress well, p'raps, but there's a soight o' tailors in the big towns as fail 'cause the loikes of 'Enry forgets to pay 'em."
As for Henry himself, his brief reversion to the home of his boyhood had struck a new note in his life: a note that had only sounded falteringly before, but now rang out clear, sharp, alarming. The simple contentment which seemed to breathe in this little village soothed and comforted him, straight from the jangle of the great City, and he felt for the first day or two as if he could submit to have his wings clipped, and flutter away no more.
But soon the dulness of Hampton was the impression which refused to leave the surface of his thoughts, and he understood that, having answered with a light heart to the bugle of the town, he must continue in its fighting line though the heart was heavier. Perhaps he knew in his secret soul that this heaviness of heart followed its opening to the imperious knock of Doubt. But still he held fast to his cherished ambitions, and was as eager again for the fray as the morphomaniac for a new dose of his drug, though it was with a gnawing sense of regret that he journeyed back to Laysford.
On his arrival there, Edgar Winton met him at the station, evidently weighted with news. The contrast between the two young men was more real than apparent. When they first met at Wheelton, Henry had presented the exterior of a raw country lad, with an eye that had only peeped at a tiny corner of life, and a knowledge of journalism that was laughably little. Edgar, on the other hand, had all the pert confidence of the City youth and the quickly-gathered cynicism of the young journalist. But there he had remained, as so many do remain from twenty-one to their last day, while the strain of seriousness in the nature of Henry, and the richness of the virgin soil in him for the City to plough, had produced a growth of character which in the intervening years had shot him far ahead of Edgar in every respect.
Whether Edgar's friendship for Henry sprang from the true root of affection, or was merely the outcome of a desire to stand well in the favour of one whose friendship would be well worth having from a business point of view, cannot be stated with confidence, but there is a fair supposition that it was of the latter quality, since natures like Edgar's are seldom capable of true friendship, though they boil and bubble with good fellowship for all who are brought into relation with them. Perhaps Edgar had learned at an early age the knack of spotting "useful men to know," which accounts for much in the success of those whose endowments are meagre.
In any case, the broad result was the same. Henry and Edgar were friends, and if Henry had long since concluded that Edgar was of the empty-headed, rattling order of mankind, still he tolerated him, if merely because he had been one of the first designed by Fate to intimate association with him when the life-battle began. He could even have tolerated the suggestion of friendship between Trevor Smith and himself for the same reason, while knowing now in his heart that Trevor was a humbug.
The meeting between the two at the station was very cordial, and Edgar let his imp of news leap free to Henry, to work its wild way in his mind.
"You are just in the nick of time, and no mistake. If I hadn't known you would be back to-day, I should have wired you this morning—that is, of course, if a telegram could get to that benighted village of yours."
"The nick of time? Wire? What has happened?"
"A very great deal. Oh, we've had a nice old kick-up at the Leader!"
"Kick-up! Have Macgregor and Jones been squabbling again?"
"The fact is, Mac has had to resign; it only took place last night, and we all suppose that you will get the crib."
"But surely Macgregor has not let one of these wretched bickerings lead to his resignation?"
"Oh dear, no! He has done a giddier thing than that, and will clear out of Laysford like a dog with its tail down. The fact is, he has been caught cheating at cards at the Liberal Club, and the Leader cannot afford to be edited by a cheat, don't y' know."
"What a fool the man has been; and yet something of the kind was bound to happen. Many a time his fondness for the card-playing gang at the Club has meant double work for me."
"That has been the joke since you went away, as old Mac has come rushing into the office about midnight, and vamped up a couple of leaders with the aid of his scissors and the London dailies. We heard Jones and he rowing about the character of his stuff a week ago. It seems that Sir Henry had complained."
"Well, I am heartily sorry for his wife and family. I hope the affair may be patched up."
"No fear of that. He has got to go with a rush; and why should you be sorry if his shoes are waiting for you?"
"Still, I am sorry. As for the shoes, I hope they won't lead my feet the same road."
Just a touch of priggishness here; but remember, Henry was young.
Truly, this was startling news. Mr. Duncan Macgregor, the editor of the Leader, was a journalist of excellent parts; one who had held important positions in London and the provinces, but whose fondness for the whisky of his native land had made his life a changeful one. For nearly five years he had been jogging along pretty comfortably in Laysford, to the great joy of his much-tried wife; but his position as editor of the Leader, which represented the dominant party in local politics, made him much sought after by scheming public men, and in the end brought his old weakness for what is ironically called "social life" to the top.
Duncan Macgregor, indeed, for nearly two years had been scamping his duties, on the pretence that by constant fraternising with the sportive element of the Liberal Club he was representing his paper in the quarter where its influence was of most importance. He had even developed a new enthusiasm for public life, and was scheming to become a Justice of the Peace and to enter Laysford Town Council. He had not been careful to note that Mr. Wilfred Jones, the general manager of the Leader Company, and a more important person than the editor in the eyes of the shareholders, considered that he was the natural figurehead of the concern. Mr. Jones had been elected to the magistrates' bench, and was a candidate for the next municipal election, dreaming even of venturing to contest one of the Parliamentary divisions.
As it was due to the acute management of Mr. Jones that the Leader had been lifted from a languishing condition to a state of financial prosperity, and Sir Henry Field, the chairman of directors, and the other shareholders, were now enjoying an annual return for their money, it was only natural that the general manager was a more important person than the editor in their estimation. He was certainly so in his own opinion, and although a man of no intellectual attainments, he did not hesitate on various occasions to dispute with the editor about the quality of his leaders. One of Duncan Macgregor's favourite stories of these disputes related to his humorous use of the phrase, "A nice derangement of epitaphs," which Mr. Jones pointed out was sheer nonsense, as there was not another word about epitaphs in the leader! The manager had a suspicion that the editor had been looking on the whisky when it was golden, else he could not have written such twaddle. But when it happened, as it did during Henry's absence, that the leading articles were largely made up of clippings from London newspapers, linked together by a few words from the editor, Mr. Jones's criticism was based on sounder grounds.
Edgar accompanied Henry to his rooms, where the news was discussed in all its aspects, and at length Edgar gave him a jerky and stumbling invitation to spend the evening at his home, on the ground that Henry had always been a great favourite of "the mater's," and she would like to see him after his holiday.
Now, the journalist who is engaged on a daily paper has to turn the day upside down. He is generally starting to his work when ordinary folk are enjoying their hours of ease. Like the baker, he sallies forth to his factory when the lamps are glimmering; for the newspaper must accompany the morning roll; but of the two, the printed sheet is the less essential to life, and at a pinch would be the first to go. To that extent the baker's business is the more important. This was often a saddening thought to Henry, when his eye caught the dusty figures at work in an underground bakery which he passed every evening on his way to the office. The result of the daily journalist's topsy-turvy life is practically to cut him off from social intercourse with his fellow-men who are not engaged in the same profession, and consequently he moves in a narrow groove. Even his Sundays are not sacred to him. There was a time when Henry used to hurry from evening service to his desk at the office, and set to work on a leader or some editorial notes for Monday morning's paper. Latterly he was always at his desk, but seldom at the service. Arriving home at two or three in the morning and sleeping until about noon does not put a man into the mood for cultivating friendships between two and eight p.m., supposing there were friendships to be cultivated at such absurd hours of the day.
Thus Henry's life had been ordered since coming to Laysford; his office and his bed eating up the most of it; his afternoons being devoted to a walk in the park, or research at the public library and reading in his rooms. The only house he had ever visited was that of the Wintons, and there he had been but once on the journalist's Sunday, i.e., Saturday.
It was true, no doubt, that Mrs. Winton thought highly of him, and he respected her as a very amiable landlady of past years. But Edgar could have told him—and perhaps the affected suddenness of the invitation did tell him—that it was not the matronly Mrs. Winton who had suggested his coming. Edgar had indeed been prompted by a very broad hint from his sister, whose interest in Henry had varied greatly from the first, but was now rising with the prospect of his becoming a full-fledged editor. Indeed, although there was more that one young man in Wheelton whom Flo had boasted to her girl friends of being able to turn round her little finger, the prospects of a "good match" in that limited sphere were not quite equal to her desires, and she heartily seconded the proposal to remove to Laysford. Henry had developed in interest, and there were possibilities—who knew?
There were many reasons why Henry would have preferred to spend the evening in his own rooms. The fragrance of Hampton came back to him the moment that the train shot into Laysford, with its din of busy life. The impression of village dulness receded, and here, with the rattle of Edgar's irresponsible tongue in his ears, and the squalid story of his editor's downfall to occupy his mind, he was fain to hark back again to the memory of that quiet existence which he felt doomed to renounce for ever. His worldly wisdom told him he need not repine at Macgregor's folly, since it brought Henry Charles his opportunity; but the philosopher in him saw the situation whole, and the squalid side of it could not be ignored. As Edgar seemed bent on carrying him off, and as he was not expected at the office until the following day, he decided to accompany young Winton to his home, hoping, perhaps, that a careless evening would brighten his thoughts.
The chattering streams of life flowing through the main streets of the thronged city, the clatter of the tramcars, and the thousand noises that smote the ear fresh from the ancient peace of a remote village, all frightened the mind back to Hampton, the faces of his friends; and, oddly as it seemed to Henry, the face that looked oftenest into his was not one of his own home circle. None of his womenkind had violet eyes.
On reaching the house, Edgar had his usual hunt for his latchkey, and whether it was the murmur of his conversation with Henry during the operation of finding the key and applying it, or merely chance that had brought Flo in her daintiest dress and archest smile into the hall as the door was opened, cannot be well determined. Certainly there was a look of delighted surprise on her face when she exclaimed:
"Oh, Mr. Charles, is it really you?" surrendering him her hand, and allowing it to remain in his. "When did you get back?"
"Only this evening," he replied, clearly conscious that this was a most attractive young lady, and not a little flattered at the warmth of her reception. "I arrived at six o'clock."
"How very good of you to come and see us so soon! We ought to consider ourselves flattered."
"Oh, I had nothing else to do," he murmured ineptly, and was suddenly conscious that he still held her hand. He dropped it awkwardly.
"I am sure you must have many things to do—a busy man like you."
"It is seldom I have a free evening, so I am glad to use this one in seeing my old friends." He had recovered aplomb.
"And your old friends are charmed to see you," she returned, with a look that told she could speak for one of them at least. "You are like one of the wonders we read about but seldom see. Edgar keeps us posted in news of you."
She cast down her eyes coyly, as if a sudden thought whispered that she had said too much, and led the way to the little drawing-room, Henry pleasantly thrilled with the charm of her voice and the freedom of her greeting. But strangely enough, another face which lingered in his memory glowed there again, and the thought that came to him was that its owner had not been half so cordial in her welcome to him.