Henry Charles had certainly altered in a bewildering variety of ways since we first made his acquaintance. Then a tall, sallow youth of sixteen, ungainly in limb and not well-featured, his nose unshapely, his mouth too large, but a pair of dark eyes gleaming with spirit to light up the homeliness of the face. Now, a man—oh, the few short years, the tiny bridge across the chasm, the bridge we never pass again!—a man: tall as a dragoon, leggy, it is true, as the shrewd eye of his father had judged; but no longer thin to veritable lantern jaws, rather a promise of ample fleshing, and a nose that had sharpened itself into an organ not uncomely of outline. This changing of the nose is one of the most curious of our few tadpole resemblances. His mouth might still be large, but a glossy moustache hides many an anti-Cupid pair of lips, which a few passes of the razor would unmask to set the dear boy flying. Henry's hair was raven black and ample—perilously near to disaster for a hero. Butwe must have the truth in this narrative, cost what it may.
As he stood in the bedroom, brushing his hair and bending carefully to avoid knocking his head against the ceiling, which sloped steeply to the dormer window, where stood the looking-glass on its old mahogany table with the white linen cover, Henry presented the picture of a wholesome young Englishman, proud of brain rather than muscle, and differing therein from the ruck of his fellows, but joining hands with them again in the careful touch to his hair, the neat collar, the pretty necktie.
Now, the moment a young man begins to look to his neckties, unless he is a mere dude, there is a reason for it. Henry Charles was impossible miles from dudeism;ergo, there was a reason for his lingering at the looking-glass.
He had been slower than the average young man to awaken to the fact that for most male beings still unmated, there is some young lady deeply interested in his neckties and the cut of his coat. But he had awakened, and now the difficulty was to know which young lady: there seemed to be so many in Laysford who took an interest in the clever young assistant editor of theLeader. To be on the safe side, it was well to be observant of the sartorial conventions, even while in the inner recesses of the literary mind disdaining them.
That is Henry's state of mind when we see him after tea at the mirror in the camceiled bedroom. If it surprises you, remember that it is four years since you met him last, and many things can happen in that time. How do we know what has happened to him? His necktie tells us something, doesn't it?
WhenHenry was seated alongside the carrier that fateful morning long ago—Henry, you must be more than twenty-two!—he had to pass the cottage of old Carne the sexton, and a sweet face, jewelled with a pair of violet eyes, looked out between the curtains, a girl's hand rattled on the window-pane. The owner of these eyes had been playing with a caterpillar when Henry went round the village telling everybody he met that he was going away to Stratford—her among the rest. But surely that was ages ago! "I could never have been such a young ass," Henry would say to a certainty if you were to ask him at the mirror.
Well, here is Eunice Lyndon in proof of the fact that it was almost six years since. At all events, she says she is just nineteen, and she was thirteen then. She doesn't play with caterpillars now; but her eyes are certainly violet, though Henry probably thought they were blue, if he thought of them at all.
The six years have wrought wonders in the girlwho rattled on the window when Henry went forth to the fray.
For one thing, Eunice, who was the chum of Dora, and thus a frequent visitor in the Charles household, had discredited the croakers by continuing to live and even to strengthen, despite the fact of her mother's consumptive end. Poor Mrs. Charles, who had seldom a chance of opening her mouth on any topic, never avoided stating, as an article of her faith, that all children of consumptive parents were doomed as clearly as though their sentence had been passed by a hanging judge. It was positively an insult to her and to many another anxious mother for the progeny of consumptive parents to go on living. For such to wax strong was against Nature, and in the teeth of medical experience.
Eunice had offended Nature, diddled the doctors, and looked all the better for the offence. The pasty whiteness of her girlhood had given place to a creamy freshness, which blended perfectly with her high colour—so you see her red cheeks were not the flame of consumption, but the bloom of health. Her colour was of that intensity which seems to come from the atmosphere around the face, and to shine upon the skin as a shaft of ruby light, carried by the sunbeams through a cathedral window, glows on a marble statue.
Her features were pretty, but with no mereprettiness. They were marked by character. The nose would have been a despised model for a Grecian; the mouth not dollishly small, yet small, firm-set, the firmness being saved from shrewish suggestion by an upward ending of the lips. Eunice had a chin; a most essential quality in man and woman, sometimes unhappily omitted. A chin that said: "Yes, I mean what I say; and I mean to say what I mean." Eyes that—well, they were violet eyes, and what more can one say? A forehead not high, but wide, to carry a wealth of lustrous dark hair.
Eunice was no Diana in stature, for she had scarcely grown an inch in all those years since we saw her with the caterpillar. She had sprung up suddenly as a girl, and remained at the same height for womanhood to clothe her. Perhaps five feet four. But do not let us condescend upon such details. She was small, she was dainty; enough is said. Violet eyes—more than enough!
It is not to be supposed that Eunice and Henry had ever been sweethearts. That is altogether too rude a suggestion. What does a girl of thirteen think of sweethearts? A lad of sixteen? They pick up the conventional phrase, with its suggestion of friendship more intimate than everyday acquaintance, from their elders; that is all. There may possibly be a liking for each other, a liking morethan for any other playmates. That is rare. The most that could be guessed about Eunice and Henry before his leaving home was that he had been more inclined to talk with her than with any other girls who came to the house, and as he, in his cubhood, had a sniff of contempt for most girls, that counted for very little. Perhaps, on second thoughts, it might be held to count for a good deal.
When Henry had been home two summers ago, Eunice was away on one of her rare visits to an aunt in Tewksbury—in a sense, at the world's end. So Henry had rarely seen her since that peep she took at him long ago in Memoryland. He had heard of her frequently, we will suppose, in the letters from his sister Dora, and she of him from her chum.
Meanwhile, an important event had happened in her life. Old Edgar Carne, Eunice's grandfather, had died a year ago, and left his orphan grand-daughter at eighteen with the tiniest little fortune, equal to probably twenty pounds a year. For a time it seemed likely that she would leave the village and go to reside with her aunt at Tewksbury, as she had now no blood relations in Hampton Bagot, though many warm-hearted friends. Simple in her tastes, educated only to the extent of a village curriculum, which did notbreed ambition, fond of domestic duties and the light work of a garden, Eunice had no clear-cut path ahead, and would have preferred to stay on among the people who had been planted around her by the hand of friendship.
It so fell out that Fate pinned her to Hampton yet awhile. The housekeeper of the Rev. Godfrey Needham had left, and it was suggested to him by Mr. Charles that Eunice and a young serving-maid would do wonders in brightening up the vicarage, where an elderly housekeeper had only fostered frowsiness. Besides, the vicar had recently to the amazement of his parishioners, taken a little lass of nine to live with him, the orphan child of a relation of his long-dead wife. Eunice could thus be of double service to him in mothering the little one, and her sympathy could be relied upon, since she herself had been robbed of a mother's love so early. It was even whispered that the coming of little Marjorie had something to do with the old housekeeper giving notice to leave; she was "no hand wi' childer," as she herself confessed.
Mr. Needham fell in with Edward John's proposal; Eunice was delighted; and a year had testified to its wisdom. The vicarage had never been so bright in the memory of the oldest inhabitant, the vicar himself had come under thetransforming hand of Eunice, and now, within hail of seventy, he was a sprucer figure than he had been since the days of his brief married happiness—forty years before. His collars were always spotless, his white ties—white. His trousers reached to his shoes at last. Perhaps his step had lost its springiness, his coat its breezy freedom; but he had gained in dignity what was lost in quaintness.
As for Eunice herself, this one short year had carried her well into womanhood, and though only nineteen she was the counsellor of many who were older. There is a wonderful reserve of domestic gold in every young woman whose bank is run upon. At an age when a young man is watching his moustache's progress, many a young woman is grappling heroically, obscurely, with the essential things of life. Yet Eunice was doing no more than thousands of womenkind had done.
But her position as housekeeper at the vicarage, as teacher in the Sunday School, conferred certain advantages, and brought her more prominently into the life of the little village. From being "Old Carne's little girl," she had been translated into "Miss Lyndon at the vicarage." Her daily pursuits, the refining influence of her duties, quickly developed and ripened her own excellent qualities of heart and mind, and in twelve fleetingmonths she stood forth a woman; discreet of tongue, yet bright with happiness, resourceful, heart-free.
Henry noted, with a thrilling interest he could scarce account for, these changes in his little friend of long ago, when she came under his eyes again at church on the Sunday following his arrival.
"How do you do, Miss Lyndon?" and "How are you, Mr. Charles? It seems a lifetime since you went away," did not suggest the sputtering fires of kindling passion.
"Yes, it takes an effort of mind sometimes to recall my Hampton days." One was almost suspicious of affectation.
"Really! That's scarcely kind to Hampton and—us."
"Ah, I am not likely to forget old friends; but I mean that the years of almost changeless life here are only the impression of a morning sky, compared with the crowded day that has followed."
Was the suspicion well founded?
"Then you've been bitten by the dog Town, and go hunting for a hair of him!"
Eunice smiled at her conceit, and Henry laughed with rising eyebrows, that said: "This young lady has improved wonderfully."
"Good, Eunice; very good! You have a turn for metaphor, I see." The "Eunice" slipped out,and immediately brought a deeper tinge of colour to the girl's cheek. The man was sallow, but his eyes looked away from her after it was out. "Do you read much, or are your duties at the vicarage engrossing?" was said with an air of friendly interest only.
"Engrossing, yes. You see, I've to play little mother. One of my charges is ten and the other nearly seventy. So I feel a centenarian. But I don't get much time for reading, what with visiting in the parish and keeping the vicarage in order. No; I'm not a bit clever, and I have only a dark idea of what a metaphor is."
"Ah, you should tell that to the marines," was all that Henry could say by way of comment.
He had made obvious conversational progress in the outer world, but there was an artificial touch about his talk—a literary touch—that was not quite equal to his swimming dolphin-like, in a sea of talk, around this child of Nature.
"You are liking Laysford, I hear," the little mother said, after some paces in silence.
"Immensely! The place teems with life. You've just to stir it and behold a boiling pot of human interest."
"And how is the stirring done?"
"Ah, there you have me! That's the worst of metaphors. I must rid myself of the habit; itcomes, I fancy, of too much Meredith on an empty head."
"Dear me! And what is Meredith?"
"It is a man that writes things."
"Like you?"
"Not like me, I hope. He writes for all time; I for an hour—literally. But don't let's talk of writing. There are greater things to do in this world. Unless one were a Meredith."
"You didn't always think so."
"No; but I've learned young, and that's a good thing. When I read Meredith I hide my face at the thought of writing anything. But you've done very well, so far, without books, if I'm to believe your own story."
"I suppose folk lived before printing was invented?"
"I used to wonder how they did; but now I am willing to believe it possible."
"You will come and see Mr. Needham at the vicarage, while you are here, I hope? He often talks about you."
"I shall be delighted.... And you? You will give us a peep at the old house?"
"Oh, yes! Dora and I are bosom friends."
"Early next week you can look for me to have a chat with ... Mr. Needham."
"I'll be in soon ... to see Dora."
They shook hands at the field path to the vicarage, and Eunice went up the hill hand-in-hand with Marjorie, whom Henry had never deigned to notice. She looked back when a few hundred yards had been covered, but the young man was stepping briskly after his father and his two younger sisters, who had gone ahead.
"How Eunice Lyndon has improved," said Henry to Dora when they sat at dinner.
"Isn't she bright? I think she is the sweetest girl I know."
"But you don't know many, Dora."
"She's made a wonnerful change on the passon. An' it was all my own idea," Edward John declared with satisfaction, as he scooped up a mouthful of green peas with his knife.
"Her mother—poor thing—died o' consumption," Mrs. Charles remarked, and sighed as though she were placing a wreath on Eunice's coffin.
"But she's the very picture of health, mother," Henry protested.
"Still, there's consumption in the family," she murmured.
"Nothing to do with her case. Doctors are now giving up the idea that the disease is hereditary," Henry said, with unnecessary emphasis, as it seemed to Edward John.
"But doctors don't know everythink, 'Enry, my boy," his father remarked.
"And neither do mothers."
Whereat one of them sighed again.
The meal went on in silence for a while, and the pudding was at vanishing point when Henry broke into talk again.
"By the way, Dora, did I ever tell you that the Wintons have come to Laysford? You remember them? My old friends at Wheelton."
"You never mentioned it."
"Funny that I had forgotten. Edgar joined theLeadernearly six months ago as second reporter, and the whole family have removed to Laysford, when Mr. Winton got a post as cashier in a large hosiery factory."
"There was a sister, I think?"
"Yes; Flo—a jolly, dashing sort of girl."
"Pretty?"
"Extremely! One of your blonde beauties. Almost as tall as I am, and nearly my age."
"Indeed!"
"A fine puddin', mother, but just a trifle too many o' them sultanas," said Edward John.
Mrs. Charles sighed once more.
WhenHenry'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 seesthem 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 sometimes 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 thatHoffnung 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 thelie. 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 suppositionthat 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 theLeader!"
"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 theLeadercannot 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 theLeader, 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 theLeader, 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 newenthusiasm 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 theLeaderCompany, 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 theLeaderhad 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 therewas 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 whichhe 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 couldhave 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.
Theremoving of the Wintons to Laysford had been a distinct change for the better in the fortunes of the family. Mr. Winton's situation furnished him with a comfortable income, and Edgar was now contributing appreciably to the domestic funds, while Miss Winton's music-teaching brought an acceptable addition beyond furnishing her with an ample variety of dress, in which she always displayed a bold, though a cultivated taste.
Their house was a great improvement on the little home in which Henry had lodged six years ago, though it was still a poor substitute for the luxurious residence Mr. Winton had maintained before his business failure, when Flo and Edgar were children. The old horse-hair furniture had disappeared from the dining-room, and in its place stood an elegant leather suite. Henry would find the former still doing duty in a room upstairs, which Edgar called his study. The drawing-room was the most notable indication of changedfortunes, and bore many traces of Flo's adorning hand, Edgar proudly drawing Henry's attention to some of her paintings, and thus affording her excellent excuse for becoming blushes.
"Why, Henry, it is quite like old times to have you among us again," said Mrs. Winton, when he had entered the drawing-room.
She retained the right to his Christian name, although Flo, who had been in the habit of addressing him familiarly at Wheelton, had surrendered that, as Henry noticed, and was annoyed at himself for noticing. Mr. Winton joined in the welcome, and Henry expressed his pleasure to be among them again.
"I need not ask whether you had a good time while you were away," Mr. Winton continued. "You are looking extremely well; brown as a berry."
"Quite like a gipsy," suggested Flo, and she decided at that moment that she had always entertained a distinct preference for the Romany type of manly beauty.
It was not altogether to her mind that the conversation swiftly drifted into the uninteresting channels of public life in Laysford, touching even the state of the hosiery trade, in which Mr. Winton was engaged. At the tea-table, however, Flo had Henry by her side, and made thetalking pace with some spirit and, it must be granted, vivacity.
It is the most natural thing in the world for a young gentleman visitor at a small family table like the Wintons' to be placed alongside the daughter of the household, but there are young ladies who contrive to make the most natural situation seem exceptional. Perhaps Miss Winton was one of these, as Henry felt when he sat down that the arrangement had more of artifice than nature in it. But while having the sense to suspect this, he was rather flattered than otherwise in his suspicion, and as with most young men of his age, a show of friendliness from a young lady reached home to that piece of vanity which we all have somewhere concealed, and sometimes, maybe, not even hidden.
He noticed in a sidelong glance, and possibly for the first time, that the profile of Miss Winton's face was distinctly good. The nose was almost Jewish, and all the better for that; the mouth perhaps too small, but that was not seen in the side view; the chin neat, and sweeping gracefully into a neck of which the owner was doubtless proud, as she had not been at pains to hide it. Nor could a fault be found with her endowment of fair hair, displayed low-coiled, and decorated with a glittering diamond clasp. The diamonds were paste, of course, but what of that? They sparkled.It must be accepted as proof of Henry's opening eyes that he noticed these things, and found himself wondering if a certain other young lady possessed such good looks. For the life of him he could not say; and he took that, foolishly, as evidence in favour of the girl by his side. His thoughts were immediately turned on himself, when Edgar exclaimed:
"By the way, dad, I'm the first to tell Henry that he is likely to be my new boss."
"Edgar, you're hopeless," put in Flo.
"If you mean your new editor," said Mr. Winton sententiously, as he finished the carving of the cold roast, "then I'm glad to hear it, and I hope he will boss some of his good sense into you."
"Then it is really true that Mr. Macgregor is leaving?" said Mrs. Winton, with a look towards Henry.
"So Edgar tells me, but I have heard nothing official, and I have purposely kept away from the office to-night."
"You can take it from me that his going is a dead cert," resumed the irrepressible young man; adding with a glance at his father, whose philological strictness was a source of sorrow to the son, "That is, there seems to be very little doubt about the matter. And if old Mac goes,Henry is well in the running for the editorial chair, and a rocky bit of furniture that is."
"I wonder," said Flo, leaning forward with a quizzing glance to catch Henry's eye, "if you would be a hard taskmaster, Henry?" It was difficult for the girl to go on Mistering when the others Henried to their heart's content. "I am sure you could put your foot down firmly if you liked."
Henry laughed, pleased at the interest taken in him, and conscious that he was made much of in this house.
"There may never be any occasion for me to try it," he replied; "even if a vacancy does arise, my age may bar me."
"Not at all; the great Delane was scarcely twenty-four when he got the editorship of theTimes," Edgar remarked, with the conviction that he had displayed a deep knowledge of journalistic history and settled this point.
"Besides," added Flo, "you are one of those men whose age is not written on their face. I'm sure no one could guess whether you were twenty or thirty. You could pass for any age you like to name."
"There's something in that," said Henry musingly; "but I'm afraid I must confess that I was only twenty-two last birthday."
"Great Scott! and you'll soon be bossing some chaps old enough to be your pater. The snows of four-and-twenty winters have fallen on my own cranium. It makes me sick to think of it."
From Edgar, obviously.
All this was very sweet to Henry. At twenty-two the average man tingles with pleasure when it is suggested that he would pass for thirty, and at thirty he is secretly purchasing hair-restorers for application to the crown of his head, and plying a razor where he had been wont to cultivate a moustache. He is charmed then beyond measure when his age is guessed at twenty-two.
Mr. Winton settled down in an arm-chair in the dining-room for his after-supper snooze, and while Mrs. Winton had to turn her attention for a little to household affairs, superintending the inefficient maid-of-all-work—whose presence in the house was another mark of prosperity—the others withdrew to the drawing-room. Edgar lounged about aimlessly for a time, and then suddenly pleaded the urgency of a letter he had to write. Henry and Flo were left alone.
This sort of thing occurs often in the lives of young men who are "eligible," but it is not until they have ceased to be in that blissful condition that they suspect a woman's hand had some partin arranging these accidental openings for confidences. Flo looked certainly as innocent as a dove when Edgar withdrew to his study; but if Henry's eyes had been wide open he might have noticed that Edgar's recollection of his urgent letter was preceded by a meaning look and a contraction of the brows from his sister.
"Now," she said softly, turning to Henry with an air of eager interest, "do tell me all about your visit to Hampton. The name of the place sounds quite romantic to me. Is it on the map?"
"I'm afraid you would search your atlas for it in vain. At best it could only be a pin-point; like that very tiny German duchy which the American traveller said he would drive round rather than pay toll to pass through. It is smaller than the Laysford market-place."
"So small as that! Then it's all the more interesting to me."
"But there's really nothing to tell about it. One day is the same as another there. Nothing ever happens. It is a veritable Sleepy Hollow."
"But there were interesting folk there. You see, I know my Washington Irving."
Flo had the shrewdness to judge this to be an effective touch, and it did not matter that her knowledge of the American author was limited tothe bare fact that he had written something about a place of that name.
"I am glad to find you have read one of my favourites," Henry replied, and the echo of an absurd "What is Meredith?" rang in his ears. It prompted him to ask, without apparent reason:
"By-the-by, have you read Meredith? He is one of the least known and greatest of living writers."
"Oh, yes, isn't he perfectly lovely?" She had a vague recollection of hearing the name somewhere.
"I am just in the middle of his latest novel, 'Beauchamp's Career.' It is positively Titanic."
"I am sure it must be interesting, and I should love to read it. But really you must tell me about this Sleepy Hollow of yours. Who did you see there?"
"My own folk, of course, and a handful of old friends."
"Anybody in par-tic-u-lar?"
Flo smiled roguishly. She had practised the smile before, and could do it to perfection.
"N-o; nobody—worth mentioning."
Henry had a suspicion that he was being teased, and he rather liked the operation.
"Really! I can scarcely believe you. But all the same, I have a fancy to see this birthplace ofour budding editor. I imagine it must be a sweet little spot."
"Perhaps it is best in imagination. You would find the actual thing deadly dull."
He felt himself drifting rudderless before a freshening breeze of talkee-talkee.
"No, no, no; I am sure I wouldn't, though you do not paint it with purple. Do you know," she went on, resting her pretty head upon her hand and glancing up sideways at him, "I'm beginning to think that they don't appreciate you properly in Hampton Bagot. A prophet has no honour in his own country, they say. But we are proud of you here."
"Perhaps that maxim is not always true, although it is biblical. In my own case, I fear there is at least one at Hampton who thinks too much of my ability."
"Ah, now you have said it. And who is that one, pray?"
"My father."
"Oh! No one else?"
"My mother and sisters, perhaps."
"I should so much like to meet your sisters. I almost feel as if I knew them already. Who knows but some day I may have a peep at your Sleepy Hollow, and tell your sisters all about you!"
The prospect was an alarming one to Henry, and for the first time in his life he felt himself ashamed of that little home behind the Post Office door. But on the whole, the chatter of this young lady was pleasant in his ears. By no means vain of his abilities, he was still hungry for appreciation, and he had not yet learned the most difficult of all lessons: to recognise sincere admiration. It seemed to him that in Flo Winton he had found one who understood him, whose sympathetic interest in his work and ambitions could brace and hearten him in the discharge of the important duties to which there was every likelihood of his being called before he was a day older.
The return of Mrs. Winton to the drawing-room sent the talk off at an obtuse angle, and Edgar, having finished that important letter, came in to render the remainder of the evening hopeless to Flo; but when Henry parted from her in the hall with another lingering hand-shake, he had the feeling that something like an understanding had been established between them; and it was with a springy stride and a light heart he passed out to the nearest tramway station.
The next afternoon he looked in at the office, and found the manager anxious to speak with him. It was even as Edgar had prophesied. Sir Henry Field was understood to think so highly ofHenry's work that he agreed with Mr. Jones in offering him the editorship at a commencing salary of £250 a year. A bright young member of the reporting staff was named as his assistant. "If Sir Henry should ask your age," Mr. Jones advised, "you are getting on for thirty. You would pass for that, and I have confidence in you."
Henry found himself returning to his rooms as one who walked on eggs, murmuring to himself, with comic iteration: "Two hundred and fifty a year! two hundred and fifty a year!" And he saw arising in Hampton Bagot a fine new villa, the pride of the place, to be inhabited by Edward John Charles and his family circle. Yet he had once been so proud of that quaint old house with the Post Office in front.
Thenews was round theLeaderoffice like a flash of summer lightning. The most secret transactions in the managerial room of a newspaper seem to have this strange quality of immediately becoming the common knowledge of the office-boy, without any one person being accusable of blabbing. Not only so; but in a few hours there was no journalist in Laysford, from the unattached penny-a-liner, who wrote paragraphs for London trade papers, to the editors of the rival dailies, that did not know who was the new editor of theLeader. Almost as soon as the news had been confirmed, Edgar had penned a flowery eulogium and posted it to that mighty organ of journalism, theFourth Estate, which has whimpered from youth to age that journalists will not buy it, although they have never been averse from reading—or writing—its personal puffs. Edgar showed herein either a better judgment of Henry's character than one would have expected from him, or a little touch of innocence in one so fain to be a man of theworld. It is seldom that the subjects of these gushing personal notices in theFourth Estatewait for others to sing their praises; they can and do sound the loud timbrel themselves. Shyness has no part in journalism, and even the bashful young junior, who has been trying quack remedies for blushing, leaves his bashfulness outside the door of the reporters' room after his first week on the press.
But somehow, a thick streak of rustic simplicity remained in Henry's character despite all the eye-opening and mental widening which had resulted from his City life. If Edgar had not sent that paragraph Henry never would, and if we could but peer into the inmost corner of Edgar's heart we might find that the impulse behind the writing of the absurd little puff about "a rising young journalist" was to stand well with the man who had come to greatness—as greatness was esteemed in the journalistic world of Laysford.
The news was conveyed in characteristic style to a quarter where it was eagerly hoped for.
"It's happened just as I expected," Edgar announced, when he returned home that evening. "Old Mac has got the shoot direct; no humming and hawing, but 'Out you go!'"
"I suppose you mean he has been discharged?" said Mr. Winton quietly.
"Yes, dad, that's the long and short of it; and Henry is to be our new boss. You remember I told him we all expected it."
"So far as I recollect," his father observed sententiously, "that was how you put it."
"I am so glad to hear it," said Mrs. Winton. "Henry has got on," with an emphasis on "Henry has" and a motherly look towards Edgar, who gave no sign that the implied comparison was present in his mind.
The one whose interest was most personal had given least sign, but Flo's heart was fluttering in a way that was known only to herself. Following on the heels of her first thrill of satisfaction stepped something resembling irritation. She would have preferred that Edgar had been less eager with the news, and had left it for Henry to convey in person. What a splendid opportunity that would have been for unaffected congratulation! Out of her momentary irascible mood she threw a taunt at Edgar.
"And you, I suppose, have been appointed Henry's assistant—that would be the least they could do for such a brilliant young man."
Edgar flushed and winced. This flicked him on the raw; but his well-exercised powers of denunciation were equal to the occasion.
"No such luck for me; that Scotch ass Tait hasgot Henry's crib. He is one of those sly, slaving plodders, without a touch of ability."
"I have noticed, Edgar," put in his father, "that it is the plodders who steadily push ahead."
"Oh, that's all right; but I don't like Tait." Perhaps this explained a good deal.
A sudden sense of the value of Edgar's services in her love affair with Henry filled Flo with regret for having been spiteful to her dear brother, and she at once endeavoured to save him from further unfavourable criticism by expressing the belief that Henry would doubtless help to advance him all he could. When the first opportunity offered, Flo drew Edgar again to her favourite topic, and had quite smoothed away any ruffles in her brother's temper before she reached this diplomatic point:
"Now that Henry has so much in his power, you must keep on the best of terms with him. Get him to come and see us as often as you can. Why not ask him to dine with us on Sunday next? He could stay until required at the office."
"Not much use of that, I fancy; Saturday is about the only day he is likely to come."
"Nonsense! Sunday should suit as well," with a touch of impatience.
"But you must remember, Flo, that Henry isn't like us. Unless he has changed more than I know, there is a big chunk of the go-to-meeting youngman left in him; you never know when you may bump up against some of his religious principles. You remember that he used to go to church with as much pleasure as an ordinary chap goes to a music-hall. In fact, he did the thing as easily as take his dinner."
"Yes, yes; but he is getting over those narrow-minded country ways."
"Perhaps you are right. You don't find much of that antiquated religious nonsense among us gentlemen of the Press—hem, hem!—Henry's is the only case of the kind that I have seen. But there is hope for him yet," and Edgar laughed heartily at his own wit, while Flo rewarded him with a smile as she pushed home the one point she wished to make.
"Then you think you may be able to induce him to spend Sunday with us?"
"I'll do my best. Can't say more. Usual dinner hour, I suppose?"
"Two o'clock. That gives him time for forenoon church—if he really must go."
Much to Edgar's surprise, and more to his satisfaction, the editor of theLeaderconsented with unusual readiness to honour the Wintons the following Sunday, and when the day came Henry was not at the forenoon service. He was not even annoyed at himself for having lain abed toolong. His mind was filled with thoughts of the importance he had suddenly assumed in the eyes of many who had previously seemed unaware of his existence. Even the church folk, among whom he had moved for years almost unfriended, were now curiously interested in him, and the vicar had done him the remarkable honour of inviting him to dinner to meet several gentlemen prominent in the religious and social life of the city, an invitation which it had given Henry a malicious pleasure to refuse, as the memory of his cold entrances and exits through the door of Holy Trinity contrasted frigidly with this unfamiliar friendliness.
Yet the vicar was a good man, and the church folk were in the main good people too. Henry's experience was no unusual one, nor unnatural. It was but the outcome of that pride of youth which, while one is hungry for friendship, restrains one from any show of a desire to make friends. He was not the first nor the last young man who coming from a small town or village where the church life has an intimate social side, expects something of the same in the larger communion of the city, and is chilled by what seems frosty indifference. The fault, however—if any fault there be—lies nearly always with the individual, and not with his fellow-Christians. So, or not; religionis no matter of hand-shaking and social smirks. The truth is that Henry had at last been touched by that dread complaint of Self-importance, from which before he had appeared to be immune.
A swelling head, from the contemplation of one's importance in the great drama of life, and a heart swelling with thoughts of one young woman, are two phenomena which make the bachelor days of all men remarkably alike at one stage or another.
If "the youngest editor of any daily newspaper in England" (videtheFourth Estate) let the church slide that Sunday morning, he devoted as much care to his personal appearance as the least devout of ladies to her Easter Sunday toilet. When he arrived at the Wintons, arrayed in a well-fitting frock-coat and glossy silk hat, there was no least lingering trace of the outward Henry we knew of old.
The dinner was very daintily served indeed; there was a touch of pleasant luxury about the meal which contrasted most favourably with the homely cuisine of Hampton Bagot, to say nothing of his lonely bachelor dinners. He knew that the hand which had set this table and superintended that meal was Flo's, and assured himself he was on the right tack. What a charming hostess she would make! How well she would entertain his friends, and do the honours of his house!It was in pure innocence of heart, and merely with a desire to agreeably tease the visitor, that Mr. Winton remarked during the meal:
"Well, Henry, you are quite an important personage now; the next thing we shall hear is that you have blossomed out with a fine villa in Park Road, and—a wife!"
From the mother—any mother—such an observation would, in all likelihood, have been prompted by thoughts of a daughter; but not from the father—not from any father.
Flo tried not to look conscious; though under cover of her apparent indifference she stole an anxious glance at Henry, who only laughed. The laugh was not convincing of the indifference which his speech suggested:
"Plenty of time for that, Mr. Winton. I have a lot to do before I turn my thoughts to the domestic side of life. Besides, it means a year or two of saving."
Flo imagined that for one brief second the eye of their interesting visitor rested upon her as he delivered himself so to her father.
It was the first occasion since the old days at Wheelton that Henry had engaged to spend more than an hour or two at the Wintons, and the drawing-room conversation seeming to flag a little after dinner, Flo suggested a walk. The weatherwas alluring, and Laysford on an autumn day is one of the most lovable towns in England. Henry was nothing loth, and for the sake of appearance, Edgar was included; but before they had reached the green banks of the River Lays the obliging fellow had suddenly remembered an appointment with a friend who lived in an opposite direction, and Flo and Henry were bereft of his company for the remainder of the walk, which now lay along the grove of elms by the river-side.
"It's really too bad of Edgar," said Flo, with a fine show of indignation when he had gone. "One can't depend on him for five minutes at a time; he's always rushing away like that."
"Never mind," replied Mr. Henry Innocent, glancing at his companion in a way that showed the situation was by no means disagreeable to him. "He will very likely be home before we get back."
"But I am afraid you will find me dull company," she said, although shining eyes and an arch smile gave flat contradiction to the words.
"I don't think you need be afraid of that."
"Really! Why?"
"Because you must know it is not the case."
Thus and thus, as in the past, now, and always, your loving couples. The gabble-gabble reads tame in print, and we will listen no further. Letthem have their fill of it; their giggles, their tiffs if they may; why should the stuff be written down? But this must be said: Flo had reason to believe that the affair of her heart was making progress. She thought that Henry was coming out of his shell, and the process was of deep interest to her.
Edgar had not returned when the couple reached home, and he was absent from the tea-table. The day had been rich indeed to Flo, and Henry was almost in as high spirits as his companion. When the evening bells pealed out for church he still dawdled in the undevotional atmosphere of the Wintons' drawing-room. Yet even for him they did not ring in vain. At their sweet sound the shutter of forgetfulness was raised from his mind, and he saw again a tiny country church perched on a green hill; a ragged file of homely folk trailing up the path and through the lych-gate, familiar faces all in the long-ago; and from the vicarage, with failing step, the grey-haired pastor of the flock, and by the old man's side the figure of a sweet woman, on which for a moment his mental vision lingered, to be rudely broken by—"A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Editor," from Flo.
The shutter came down with a rush.