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.