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.