Читать книгу The Pursuits of Mr. Peter Pell - Short Fiction - Страница 6

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TO the man who has achieved, a period of relaxation is given. This is one of the customs of modern civilisation that is becoming an unwritten law. Thoughts, somewhat on these lines, occupied Mr. Peter Pell's mind as he strolled along Hay Street West, one fine March afternoon. He had succeeded. In the safe custody of his bank reposed two thousand pounds odd. It had been won by him, if not by the sweat of his brow, certainly by assiduous thought. That the man from whose banking account his present wealth had come had benefited to a greater extent mattered not a jot to Mr. Pell, and when to his memory occurred the time when he sought a hard and airy couch on the Esplanade, he thanked heaven he was not as other men.

It has been recorded that the afternoon was fine and it may be further noted that Mr. Pell's mental condition in every way matched the weather. He was at peace with himself and his fellow men. He had time and to spare on his hands, yet he did not intend to remain long idle. Far from that; already he was on the watch to again raid the wealth of the unwary. Not that he allowed himself to think of any future financial operation in that light; it was business, pure business.

Two thousand pounds is not wealth; Mr. Pell fully realised this. And he realised that into his system had entered a new interest. He desired wealth for what wealth would bring, large meals to sustain his fine commanding figure; wealth to bring to his wardrobe the fine raiment for which his soul longed—the radiant waistcoat, the smooth broadcloth. Then again he desired, as he surely deserved, ornamentation. Across his flamboyant waistcoat stretched a chain of fine gold. Already gold, in his mind, had assumed a minor place in the order of precious things. What was finer than gold? For a moment he thought kindly of a watch chain studded with diamonds. But from such desecration Mr. Pell's artistic soul revolted. A chain of platinum? Yes, that would serve to impress and it was not gaudy, but—

By what process of reasoning Mr. Pell's thought travelled from precious stones to Love (a capital "L" please) it is hard to say. Yet it must be recorded that on the top of the hill Mr. Pell stopped dead in his carefully considered walk, struck with the idea of love.

So far in his life—and Mr. Pell had attained the age of 53, just the prime of life, as he had informed his landlady that very morning—he had not considered the question of Love. There was certainly a fly in that ointment, for Love must be connected with Woman.

Mr. Pell had never taken women seriously in his life. Up to the fatal moment when, stopping in his walk at the top of Hay Street Hill, women had always appeared to be something apart from his life. Other men had sweethearts and wives. Mr. Pell had sung about them at sundry "smokers" when he could induce the organiser to allow him to favour the company with a musical effort, but the thought of women in so intimate a relation to himself quite took away his breath.

Yet there was something in the idea that appealed to him. The successful business man—and Mr. Pell had come to the point when he classed himself as a successful business man—was set off, or it might be said illuminated by, a wife. It would be pleasant to be able to invite some business acquaintance he desired to impress, to dine and spend the evening with himself—and his wife.

The thought quite took away his breath. Once accustomed to the thought of a wife, and it did not take the agile brain of Mr. Pell long to arrive there, the question arose, "Who?" Certain ladies of his acquaintance were swiftly passed under review. Only one of them nearly filled the bill. Mr. Pell had almost decided on the lady—getting to the point of engagement rings, when Cupid revolted. Modern science has quite done away with the belief in the God of Love. Yet the scientists have still to explain why, when a man of a certain age, say 53, determines on love, and a certain lady, something inside of him kicks, and kicks hard. Why is it that big imposing men marry little insignificant women, and large fine women look around them for a man they could squash in a hat box. Yet such is the case. Love is not logical, in fact it is most illogical. Towns are full of love's mistakes, long men and short wives, elderly women and young husbands, and all the variations of the intermediates.

Certain scientists have endeavoured to explain Love as a microbe. Others by a cell that reaches maturity at a definite age and attracts like cells in the opposite sex. Facts are hard things, and while the scientists fool themselves that they have satisfactorily explained the myth of the ancients away, the majority of people are quite content to place all the blame for the misfits on Cupid—it saves blaming themselves.

So, when Mr. Pell had reached the stage when his mind wandered over the ladies of his acquaintance, in the search of a suitable mate, the little god gave a cough and squirm, and another misfit was quickly fitted into human society.

Mr. Pell had stopped in his measured walk. He had also stopped immediately outside an open gate. In his vision of the future Mrs. Pell, he had half turned and faced the roadway. This was the opportunity of the god of Love's misfits!

"Fido! Fido! Come here, you bad dog. Oh, he will be lost!" It was a feminine voice and not by any means an unmusical one. In a moment of sanity Mr. Pell would have flown to the rescue, for gallantry was not the least of his accomplishments. Now, however, he was wrapped in the visions of his brain. But Fido had received his instructions from other than a mortal being, and he proceeded with the utmost promptitude to carry them out. He dived through the gate and between Mr. Pell's legs. That gentleman sat down on the pavement, hardly and emphatically, narrowly missing the cause of his trouble.

Mr. Pell was shocked—in a physical sense. A gentleman of 'fine' figure cannot hastily assume a sitting position without some disturbance of his mental equilibrium also. When he began to realise what had happened to him he also became aware of a lady bending over him. It was a lesson in self-control that should have had a wider audience. Mr. Pell's impulse on reaching the pavement with a certain portion of his anatomy had been to swear—and Mr. Pell had a choice collection of remarks in stock, most of them very suitable for the occasion—but the face of his fair assister caused him to bite them back so quickly that he wondered if he had bitten his tongue by the shock of the descent, or by strength of will.

"Oh, dear! oh, dear! I am so sorry! it was my naughty Fido. I hope you are not seriously injured!"

Mr. Pell gravely assumed an upright position. Even he, with his strict deportment, would not have described his movements as graceful. Gentlemen with 'fine' figures cannot spring to their feet wish the agility of youth, and it is debatable if they can fall with any more grace.

"My dear madam, pray do not distress yourself. I assure you I am in no way discomposed. Your fine terrier—"

"It is a collie," corrected the lady mildly.

Mr. Pell thought that his definition of the—ahem!—dog that had caused his downfall much more appropriate. There is something alike in "terrier' and 'terror' that was almost soothing, but he was too polite to contradict.

"Ah, yes, collie," he replied gently. "I am sorry I did not get a closer inspection of your pet."

"How nice of you to put it like that," cooed the lady. "Some men would have been furious at the poor dear."

"Madam, they would not have deserved the name of 'gentlemen.'"

Peter was himself again. Certainly his fair assistant was all that the heart of a man could desire. But a few words, and Mr. Pell felt a distinct fluttering beneath his pocket book.

"You must come into my house and let me brush you down," insisted the lady with gentle authority.

Mr. Pell now took his first survey of the house. It was certainly a fine house and must have cost at least four figures to buy—Mr. Pell reduced most of the material things of this earth to figures. It was her house. Mr. Pell looked again at his hostess. She was certainly as fine a figure of a woman as he was of a man. They would make a fine couple. Again the fluttering at his heart.

The lady led the way into a handsomely furnished sitting room and relieved Mr. Pell of his hat and stick. The next operation was with a clothes brush, and here there was a small trial of politeness that ended in Mr. Pell brushing his own clothing. The lady had yielded, and he could not but admire the graceful way in which she had bowed to masculine control. A perfect woman—a perfect wife. Again the fluttering!

The operations with the clothes brush having concluded, the lady suggested a glass of wine as a soother and strengthener after the shock. Mr. Pell could certainly not drink unless the lady gave countenance and encouragement. The lady was willing. There ensued a duel of courtesy. The lady went to the sideboard—it certainly was a handsome well-made piece of furniture—and poured out the wine into two generous glasses.

Mr. Pell then escorted her to a chair and returning, served the lady from a silver salver. The salver weighed pleasantly in his hands. Replacing the salver, Mr. Pell bowed gravely to the lady, who rose and returned the salutation. They then seated themselves. It was like a figure of some stately old-fashioned minuet.

The lady looked at Mr. Pell and was immediately struck with his "fine" figure. She sighed. "I am so glad it was no worse."

"Madam, it is the hand of fate that led me to felicity."

"Oh, sir."

Admirers of Mr. Pell must have noted that on no occasion had he been found lacking in speech. With so fair an incentive he considered—in examining the situation later—that he had excelled all former efforts. The lady was willing, and from the usual society small talk became almost confidential. She pleaded the drawbacks of a lonely life. Mr. Pell spoke of the hardships of the wealthy bachelor in lodgings, and the forwardness of landladies was delicately hinted at. The lady was sympathetic. Finally an invitation to call was given and accepted.

Considering the interview over his chop at the Savoy Grill Rooms, Mr. Pell noted the following points. First, the lady was a widow. Secondly, her name was Mrs. Pascoe. Thirdly, she was certainly well-off. Fourthly, she had an evident admiration for the stronger sex. Fifthly, she had most delicately, so very delicately, bewailed her hard fate in not having a masculine intelligence and arm to lean her burdens upon. At the thought of the masculine arm Mr. Pell's curved instinctively—and the waitress edged away quickly, and tried to look scandalised.

Men of commerce have many and devious paths to knowledge. Mr. Pell, as a shining light of commerce, soon attained a true knowledge of the circumstances in which the late Mr. Pascoe had left his widow. They were very satisfactory. Mrs. Pascoe lived in her own house. The furniture was her own. There were no Bills of Sale or other such uncomfortable legalities. And there were satisfactory and substantial gilt-edged securities to which the lady could lay undivided and unencumbered claim. Altogether Mr. Pell felt that Mrs. Pascoe was a lady that could be loved not only for herself, but for all she had. Again the fluttering behind his pocket book.

The first visit was followed by others. Gradually Mr. Pell lay siege to the fortress of the widow's heart. Carefully he encompassed her with the siege lines of his love. Valiantly he attacked the outworks, and one by one entered them and raised the standard of the Pells. Only the main bulwarks so far resisted. The lady was coy. She allowed her admirer certain small favours. The pressure of her hand at meeting and parting. The intimacy of the divided sofa. Once, joyful day, he was permitted to retain that small plump hand in his for five minutes, while the lady described with remarkable exactitude the last moments of the late lamented, never-to-be-replaced, Horace Pascoe. At the end of the pathetic recital he was privileged to offer his fine cambric handkerchief, with the neat, if somewhat prominent monogram, to catch the soft-shed tear.

That afternoon he walked home on air—at least he thought he did. Mr. Pell had well laid his campaign against the forlorn heart of the widow. But two months had gone and he had established his footing in the house of Pascoe. Already he looked upon a certain vacant peg on the hat stand as peculiarly his own.

It was while he was brushing his hair one morning, he determined that Mrs. Pascoe's coyness must be stormed. The lady liked him, nay, in the privacy of his bedchamber, Mrs. Pell dared to declare that she loved him. What were his feeling towards her? From the moment he had first seen her face bending over him with commiseration, and sympathy for his fall, he had considered himself a lost man—lost in the mazes of Love's wilderness. He could congratulate himself that he had in no way, in the siege of the widow, departed from the strict canons of courtship as be understood them. He must put his fate to the test.

A careless sweep of the brush, that revealed the fact that the bald spot he so carefully concealed from the public gaze was steadily enlarging, also reminded him that time stood still for no man. Could a bald man woo? Never! Then he must woo and marry before his baldness became too apparent.

Full of resolve, he waited until four o'clock that afternoon and then set out for the widow's residence. He knew he would be expected, for a decided hint had been given that all callers but himself would be denied that afternoon. As he entered the hall and gave his hat and stick to the comely maid in attendance, he eyed the hat-stand peg with a friendly eye. Perchance, when again he called, he would have a definite future right to, not only the peg, but the hat-stand as well. He did not intend to pander to widowly coyness once the fatal 'Yes' was spoken.

"So you have come—at last." The last two words fell very softly from the lady's lips.

"Dear lady!" Mr. Pell had once been a student of Charles Garvise. He raised the plump hand of the widow to his lips.

"I expected you." The lady was making the running with some vigour thought Mr. Pell, but one glance round the room stifled all doubts.

"I am in trouble and wanted so much the support of your business intellect. I wondered if you would call."

Mr. Pell led the lady to the accustomed sofa and bowed her to the seat. Then majestically he seated himself beside her.

"Would I allow the fairest lady in Perth to be troubled? Tell me what you desire and it shall be done." Mr. Pell had some idea this was a quotation, but it fitted very neatly.

"I have some money idle in the bank," continued Mrs. Pascoe with some hint of business ability, "and I thought of investing it in 'Great Fallgalls.'"

"No, no, certainly not." Mr. Pell's words came rushing out in a manner that quite startled the widow.

"Why, I thought the mine was quite safe. Do you know anything against it?"

By this time Mr. Pell had recovered his composure. The mention of the Great Fallgall G. M. had been something of a shock to him. It would never do for the future Mrs. Pell to have any shares in the mine he had once owned. There had gathered lately a suspicion in the back of Mr. Pell's mind that Joseph John Smith bad been a good deal less "flyish" than he had supposed.

"I think," said Mr. Pell, speaking with some weight, "I should advise something a little more gilt-edged."

"But they pay such little dividends." The widow pouted.

"But they are so safe, dear lady!"

"I like a little flutter," remonstrated the lady.

"And sometimes little flutters pay nothing, not even your capital." Mr. Pell spoke grimly. "I should not like you to fail in your investments."

"You are so careful of me," murmured the lady.

"Are you not made to be taken care of?" Mr. Pell was gradually screwing himself up to the proper pitch.

"Ah! dear!" It was but a sigh that issued from those fair lips. "Oh, my dear!" And the substantial arm of Mr. Pell fell from the back of the sofa and stopped at the ample waist, of the lady.

"What would you advise?" gently asked the widow not appearing to notice the encircling arm.

"A man!" Mr. Pell replied thoughtlessly.

The widow tried to look shocked.

"But I can't invest in a man!" she giggled.

"Why not?" Mr. Pell, like a famous French Emperor, was compelling victory out of almost disaster.

"How?" The widow was insistent.

"Men are made for husbands." Mr. Pell was stentorious.

"How nice!" Here the arm had tightened so that the widow could not but notice it.

"You mustn't do that!"

"Do what?" Mr. Pell happy in the knowledge that matters were going his way, grew quite playful.

"Put your arm around me, unless—"

The words of the widow were interrupted by the flinging open of the door, and the dancing entry of a little girl of about five years old.

"Please, I've come!" laughed the newcomer.

"Oh, you darling!" gushed the widow. "Come and give me a big, big kiss."

The baby danced across the room and stopped quickly before Mr. Pell and the lady. With a grave little curtsey she presented a bouquet of flowers to Mrs. Pascoe.

"Many, many, happy returns of the day, Granny," she said very properly, and then with a laugh and a blush flung herself into the outstretched arms of the widow.

"Granny!" Mr. Pell's air castles came tumbling about his ears. "Granny!"

How he got out of the house Mr. Pell could never afterwards explain to himself. That he escaped was all he knew. Granny! Surely never man was so hardly used in this world! And, as he wended his weary way to the lonely apartments he had that afternoon taken a mental farewell of, an absurd voice in his brain insisted that somewhere in the Prayer Book there was a clause that stated: "A man may not marry a Grandmother."