"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 Sat.u.r.day 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 a.s.senting, 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.

CHAPTER XV

"THE MYSTERIOUS MR. P."

THE mysterious Mr. P. was revealed to the eye of his fellow-lodger as a man of medium height, well built, almost soldierly in the carriage of his body, with a pale, colourless face, clean shaven as an actor's, his hair, though plentiful, fast turning grey. The velvet jacket which he wore, together with the studied negligence of his necktie, were distinctly marks of affectation, if Henry had an eye for such, and it is more than possible he had. Still, the general effect of Mr. P.'s appearance must have been generally favourable to the young man who rose to greet him as he entered the room. It went some way to support the romantic picture of him which Henry had sketched out in his mind, and nothing is more flattering to our self-esteem than thus to find ourselves antic.i.p.ating Nature. 'Tis easily done, however, given the fact that the unknown sc.r.a.pes a fiddle. Yet why should musicians proclaim their profession in their person as plainly as any stableboy his? The amateur is even more professional in his appearance than the professional himself.

As Mr. P. closed the door and advanced some steps to shake hands with the occupant of the room, his pale features were lit up by a smile that put Henry at his ease forthwith, for there had been a momentary revolt of shyness in the young man's mind after expressing his desire to meet the gentleman from upstairs. It was a worn man of the world and a very provincial young man who shook hands.

"You will pardon this late and informal visit, Mr. Charles," said Mr.

Puddephatt, "but it has seemed so unneighbourly never to have met you before, and you are so much engaged, that I determined to take the first opportunity of pa.s.sing an hour with you."

"I am indeed happy to meet you."

"The fact that you are a man of letters interests me greatly, for I too have dabbled a little with the pen, and Laysford is a dull place for the literary man, as everybody seems bent on money-grubbing."

"My own occupation is, I fear, not unsuited to an industrial town. Pray sit down and make yourself comfortable."

"Still, journalism is at least a province of literature," said the visitor, smiling.

He helped himself to a cigarette, and took the easy-chair Henry had moved forward to the fire.

"A sphere of influence, perhaps, if not quite a province," Henry replied, catching something of Mr. P.'s rather studied conversational manner, as he seated himself and toyed with his cigarette. "I am beginning to think that literature and journalism have less in common than I once supposed. Have you ever engaged in journalism?"

"Only slightly. I have done a little in the reviews, chiefly on musical subjects. My efforts have been in the direction of fiction."

Henry had almost remarked that the name of his fellow-lodger was not familiar to him as a writer of fiction, but congratulated himself on leaving the thought unexpressed; and since the other made no further reference to his own work, Henry fancied he might be one of the rare authors who did not care to discuss their books, and wisely refrained from inquiring too closely as to the nature of these literary efforts at which the still mysterious Mr. P. had so vaguely hinted. The latter also tacked away from the subject, and continued after a pause:

"I see you are well up-to-date, Mr. Charles, in the matter of books,"

his sleepy eyes brightening almost into eagerness while they scanned the heap of new novels for review lying on Henry's desk.

"That in a sense is forced on me," replied the young editor, "although my own personal taste is to blame for the extra work involved. Until I suggested it the _Leader_ had paid practically no attention to books.

You see, it sells for its market reports and local news--far more important things than literature."

"It was always the way; the arts have hung for ages on the skirts of trade."

"The result is that I have to do all our reviews myself."

"I can a.s.sure you of at least one appreciative reader who rejoiced when the _Leader_ took on the literary touch you have given it. It is said that people get the kind of journalism they are fitted for; but for my part, I believe that the colourless writing of most provincial papers is the result of lack of taste in the journalists themselves. You don't find, for instance, that the more literary _Leader_ is less popular than the bald and tasteless production it used to be?"

"On the contrary, I am told it is doing better," Henry replied, with a touch of self-satisfaction which might have been modified if he had inquired more closely into the cause of the increased circulation.

A series of local tragedies, and a heated controversy on the licensing question, had probably more to do with the result than all the editor's literary taste.

"You have a book here, I notice," continued Mr. Puddephatt, singling out the novel Henry had been reading, and had laid down, with the paper-knife between its pages near to the end, "in which I am not a little interested. The critics have been denouncing it so heartily that the publisher has difficulty in keeping pace with the demand."

"I'm sorry to hear it, for I mean to slate it too, and it is small consolation if that only helps to sell the thing."

Henry turned to the table and picked up the red cloth volume. It was ent.i.tled "Ashes," the name of the writer being Adrian Grant. The eyes of his guest followed his movements, and studied his face with unusual sharpness. He made a barely concealed effort to appear only languidly interested when the editor proceeded to denounce the work in good set terms.

"I certainly shall do myself the pleasure of 'letting myself go' when I sit down to give Adrian Grant my opinion of his book."

Henry had entered fully into that most delusive joy of journalism which spurs the young, raw writer on when he imagines he has some unpalatable truths to deliver. But in this case there was a worthier impulse than the common delight of attacking an author in print. Despite the influences that seemed to have been undermining the simple religious faith Henry had brought away from his native village, there still remained in him a strong abhorrence of that paganish cynicism which, expressed in fiction, tends to drag the mind into the sunless dungeons of thought and away from the glorious light of Christian truth. This book, "Ashes," was precisely of that type. Under the guise of a story pretending to reflect the manners of the time, it discussed problems which were in no sense representative of the varied whole of life, and the discussion of which appealed mainly to the morbid taste of readers who cared not a jot for art.

"I shall be most interested to read your review," said Mr. P.; "and might I steal a march on your other readers by asking what impression 'Ashes' has made on you?"

"I can best describe it by saying it leaves a nasty taste in the mouth--clever, but not nice."

"Which might suggest that the author has succeeded in his task,"

rejoined the other, laughing and lighting a fresh cigarette, "since ashes have usually that effect. You know Moore's famous lines:

"'Dead Sea fruits that tempt the eye, But turn to ashes on the lips'?"

"Yes, and I think that 'Dead Sea Fruits' would have been as good a t.i.tle for the book. But happily for mankind, we are not in the habit of making excursions to the Dead Sea to taste its apples."

"There speaks hopeful youth. That is precisely what mankind is ever doing; that is the tragedy of life."

"Surely there is more beauty than ugliness in the world, and even if there were less would it not be n.o.bler to draw man's thoughts to the beauty rather than to the ugliness?"