"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 the _Leader_ nearly 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.

CHAPTER XI

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. G.o.dfrey Needham, whom he found still swimming, though with weakening stroke, in his sea of sc.r.a.ppy 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt 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 a.s.sured 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 a.s.sociation 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.