CHAPTER XIV
FATE AND A FIDDLER
In the life of journalism—many ways the least conventional of callings, in which there remains even in our prosaic day a savour of Bohemianism—there is still the need to observe the conventions of a commercial age. An editor who familiarises with his reporters imperils his authority, for every man of his staff considers himself to be as good a craftsman as the editor; and does not the humblest junior carry in his wallet the potential quill of an editor-in-chief?
A newspaper, moreover, for all the prating about the profession of journalism, is as much a business establishment as the grocer's round the corner. Ergo, if the grocer has his villa, so must the editor. If the editor be a bachelor, then the dignity of his paper demands that he shall take lodging in the most pretentious neighbourhood his means will allow.
Perhaps this had not occurred to Henry until a fairly broad hint from the manager indicated what was expected of him. Perhaps, also, it was the need to move into "swagger diggings" that superinduced the aforesaid attack of "swelled head." Henry justified to himself his removal, and the increased expense entailed thereby, on the ground that his collection of books, mainly review copies, defaced by obnoxious rubber stamps—"With the publisher's compliments"—was rapidly growing beyond the accommodation of his tiny sitting-room. So to the spacious house of a certain Mrs. Arkwright, in the aristocratic neighbourhood of Park Road, he moved with his belongings.
His new apartments were luxurious beyond the wildest dreams of his early youth, and for that reason alone he stood in imminent danger of developing expensive tastes. Ah, these furnished apartments of our bachelor days! At an outlay comparatively small contrasted with the immediate end attained, they lift the young man into an easeful atmosphere he would fain continue when he sets up house of his own; only to find that the hire of two well-appointed rooms is child's play to the maintenance of a house on the same scale. With the more cautious the convenience of first-class apartments makes housekeeping appear formidable. And there you have the secret "love story" of many an easy bachelor.
Mrs. Arkwright's house was filled with well-paying lodgers, but as all had their separate rooms, while the landlady's family occupied the basement, there was not much common intercourse between the paying guests—for it should have been noted that Henry had now passed into a locality where the word "lodger" was taboo, and the evasive euphemism "paying guest" took its place.
At first Henry was too much interested in himself and his regal "we" to concern himself greatly about the other lodgers, and in any case his regular absence at the office every night would almost have served for a "Box and Cox" arrangement. But sometimes, as he had been about to leave in the evening for his editorial duties, he had heard the delicious strains of a 'cello superbly played in the room above him, and although no judge of music, he felt that the unseen player must be a person of some character, for the wailing note of the music bore with it a strong individual touch. It seemed to him that this fingering of the minor chords bespoke a performer whose personality was as distinctly expressed in music as an author's soul is bared in his written words.
The unknown musician piqued his curiosity. Who was the occupant of the room overhead, whose soul gave forth that mournful note? There was something, too, in the music very soothing to him. One night he lingered, listening to the player, following the plaintive cadence of the piece till the music trailed away into silence, when he noticed with a start that it was half an hour behind the time he was usually to be found at his desk. He fancied after this evening that there was something in the room overhead he would have to reckon with.
The identity of the unknown player could easily have been settled by consulting Mrs. Arkwright, but that lady was almost as mournful as the music, and strangly reserved, so Henry refrained for a time from mentioning the subject to her. Besides, there was a pleasant element of mystery in the thing, which appealed to his imagination. But at last curiosity came uppermost, and while she was laying his supper about eight o'clock one evening—the last meal of the day before setting out for his nightly task—he asked the landlady who occupied the room above.
"Well now, Mr. Charles," she answered, almost brightly, as though struck with some coincidence, "it is strange you should speak of him, for only this very day he was speaking to me of you."
"Indeed! Then it's a him?"
"Yes, sir; a gentleman," with a pursing of the lips.
"Young, I suppose?"
"Not much older than you, sir. But he has seen a lot of the world."
This was accepted as an unconscious reflection on his own experience.
"Been here long?"
"About two months, sir, this time. I have had him staying with me before. He belongs to Laysford, you see. He comes and goes as the fancy takes him. Most of his time he spends in London."
"In London," said Henry, who still dreamed dreams, although he was an editor so soon. "Do you happen to know his occupation?"
"He writes, sir, I think, like you do. Leastways, he is often at it in his room upstairs, and is very particular about any of his papers being touched."
"And he was speaking to you of me, you say?"
"Yes, sir. He asked me who you were. I told him you were the editor or something of the Leader. He seemed quite interested, and said he would like to come down and meet you some evening, if you had no objection."
"None whatever. On the contrary, I should be very pleased to make his acquaintance; and perhaps you would be good enough to tell him so."
"I will give him your message, sir. I am sure you would like him, for he has a way of making himself liked by everybody."
"You make me quite anxious to meet him, Mrs. Arkwright. By the way, I don't think you mentioned his name."
"It's a strange name for a gentleman, sir," replied Mrs. Arkwright, the pale ghost of a smile chasing across her worn features—"Phineas Puddephatt. We call him Mr. P. for short. His family used to be very well known in Laysford. You see, he is a gentleman of some fortune."
Henry found himself dangerously near to open laughter at mention of the egregious name, but he succeeded in commanding his features, perhaps from fear of shocking the prim Mrs. Arkwright, who had carried on a longer conversation with him than he could have believed possible from so reserved a lady. The most he could venture by way of facetiousness was:
"Then, until we meet I shall call him 'the mysterious Mr. P.'"
With the flicker of another smile the landlady left her paying guest to the enjoyment of his supper and thoughts of the comic muse who could couple the sobbing of a 'cello with Puddephatt.
A week or more went past with those two sleeping under the same roof, but a series of engagements prevented Henry from hitting off just the moment for meeting. One Saturday evening, when both were at home, the opportunity came. Noticing Henry deep in a book after supper, Mrs. Arkwright asked if he intended to remain indoors all the evening, and being answered in the affirmative, suggested that she would mention the fact to Mr. P., who was also disengaged. Henry assenting, continued with the book, a new novel that was provoking a storm of criticism, and which he had determined to review himself.
Not long after Mrs. Arkwright had left him there came a knock at his door. To the invitation of a cheery "Come in," Mr. Phineas Puddephatt stepped across the threshold, bringing a new and powerful influence into the life of Henry Charles.