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."