CHAPTER VI
INTRODUCING AN ECCENTRIC
Mr. Peveril Pease had finished his week's work, and feeling noobligation to attend the golf club tea, went home and settled himself inhis snuggery among his books. When his feet were once in slippers, hisvelvet jacket was on, and he held a well-marked volume in his hand, hefelt he had more true comfort than all the golf clubs in the world couldgive. So thorough was his satisfaction that rather than read he gavehimself up to the enjoyment of his well-being. Gazing about the room,Mr. Pease permitted himself a brief retrospection of his career.
Few men in the town could with so much right compliment themselves. Hehad begun life with nothing but ancestral debts and encumbered property,and now he was nearly as rich as Ellis, who had started with thetraditional dollar in his pocket. Pease's credit was firm as a rock; thestock of his bank was quoted--no, it was hoarded. The widow, the orphan,the struggling clerks who had their money in Pease's hands could sleepat ease, and the respect in which he was held by the business men of thecity--but he wasn't thinking of that.
No, this little house was his thought, and this room, and that array ofbooks. He had been thirteen years of age when his grandfather died, andwithin the month he had refused the trustees his permission to sell afoot of the real estate. Judge Harmon never tired of telling of thevisit of the boy, swelling with rage and resolution. "Cynthia may bewilling, but grandfather never would sell, and I won't have it!" he haddeclared, and so strong was the lad's feeling that the trustees, dividedin opinion, had yielded to him, backing the debts of the estate withtheir own credit. At eighteen he was practically their adviser and hisown trustee; at twenty he had redeemed the homestead with his earnings;at twenty-five he had sold a single lot of the down-town property forwhat the entire estate would not have brought twelve years before. Somuch for determination and a long head.
Fifteen years more had passed, and still his life had not made him hardnor calculating. When he left his office he left his business; he went"home," to the house in which he was born. The little shingled building,so quaint, had been in the family for six generations; a Percival Peasefounded it, a Pembroke Pease finished it, a Peveril Pease owned it now.It had never been rebuilt; the wainscot was still the same, the floorssagged, the stairs were queer, the ceilings low. It corresponded theleast in the world with his riches and his great interests. But Peasehad the heart of a boy and the affections of a woman. The house was hisparadise, the room his bower, the books his especial delight. All hisspare time he spent among them, giving himself to "mental improvement."
Many people thought him odd; some called him "poor Mr. Pease," with suchpity as is given to the struggling artist or the ambitious novelist, forPease had never been even to the high-school, and it seemed foolish forhim to try to cultivate his mind. They did not consider that the graceof humility was not denied him, with just a touch of that savingquality, humour. He knew himself fairly well, he guarded himselfsuccessfully, only one person really knew his heart, and for theopinion of the rest he had a smile. Let them laugh or pity, they hadnothing so fine as he, they were not so happy as he, and his kind of afool was not the worst.
And so we must acknowledge that he was thoroughly complacent. None ofJudith Blanchard's discontent stirred him, none of Mather's anger at theworld, and none of Ellis's desire to advance. This little room gave himall that he wanted: intellectual improvement, the feeling of progress,mental satisfaction. Pease went beyond cherishing an ideal of happiness;he believed that he was happy, and that no one could take his happinessfrom him.
And thinking so at this minute, his eye rested fondly on a motto on thewall.
It was from Goethe; it was lettered in old German characters, framed inpasse-partout, and hung above the mantel. Pease had dug it out of"Faust"; it embodied so completely his notion of existence that heresolved to keep it before him always. No mere translation could do itjustice; "Gray, dear friend, is all theory, and green the golden tree oflife"--that was too tame. No; the sonorous German could best express it:
"Grau, theurer Freund, ist aller Theorie, Und Gruen des Lebens goldner Baum."
Pease whispered the words to himself. Gray indeed were the lives of allothers; he alone dwelt beneath life's green tree and ate its goldenfruit. This house, this room, these books--ah, Paradise!
There came a knock at the door. "Peveril?"
"Yes, Cynthia."
"Don't forget, little Miss Blanchard is coming to dinner."
"No, Cynthia."
She was not requesting him to "dress." He always did. She was not askinghim to be on time; he always was. Being on the safe side of the door,however, his cousin meant to remind him of her hardihood in inviting tohis table some one young and pretty.
Not, Miss Cynthia sighed, that it would make any difference to him. Whenher visitor arrived a little early, and sat chatting in the parlour,Miss Pease reflected that Peveril, upstairs, was dressing no morecarefully for this charming girl than he would have done for old Mrs.Brown. Charming--but he knew nothing of the real, the true, the livingbest!
Thus we may briefly record that Miss Cynthia Pease, who was the oneperson that understood her cousin, was not wholly in sympathy with hispursuits. Not that she would have acknowledged it to him, nor to anyoneelse, not even to "little Miss Blanchard," Judith's sister Beth, who wasquestioning her in a spirit of fun.
"I'm so afraid of dining with your cousin!" Beth exclaimed.
"No, you're not!" contradicted Miss Cynthia grimly.
"If I should make some slip in statement, or spot the table-cloth! He isso accurate, they all say."
"You may depend on him to be polite under all circumstances," respondedMiss Cynthia, glaring.
"But I should know what he would think," persisted the young lady.
Miss Cynthia advanced to fury, scarcely repressed. "No, you wouldn't!"she denied emphatically. "I won't have you laugh at him."
"Why, you laugh at him yourself," said Beth. "You know you do."
"And if I do?" retorted Miss Pease. "Let me tell you he's the dearest,kindest man that ever--"
"Why, Miss Cynthia," cried the other, "don't I know?"
"Nobody knows," was the response.
Now all grades of opposition, from caustic irony to smothereddenunciation, were habitual in Miss Pease's manner, but as she said"Nobody knows," lo! there were tears in her voice, if not in her eyes.
"Miss Cynthia!" cried Beth.
Miss Pease was gaunt and grewsome, so that her manner fitted herperfectly, but now as she sat winking her eyes and twisting her face shebecame pathetic. The girl rose quickly and came to her side.
"Have I hurt you?" she inquired anxiously.
"No, child, no," answered Miss Pease, recovering herself. "You didn'tknow what a sentimental old fool I am, did you? There, sit down again.You see," (she hesitated before committing herself further) "I wasthinking, just before you came, of what Peveril has been to me. Yourtalk roused me again."
"He has done a great deal for you?" asked Beth with sympathy.
"Everything in the world!" answered Miss Cynthia warmly, not havingresumed her manner. "Since our grandfather died Peveril has been myprotector, though he is two years younger. You know we were very poor atfirst."
"Very poor?"
"We had nothing but debts," stated Miss Cynthia. "We lived inboarding-houses for seven years before Peveril could buy the homesteadand get the strangers out of it. It was a proud day when he brought mehere, and told me this was mine to live in until the end of my life. Andyet for two years more I went daily to my work--I was in Benjamin'sgreat dry-goods store, my dear--until when they asked me to be the headof the linen department Peveril said I should work no more, andinsisted on my staying at home."
"I never heard of that," cried Beth. "That you were ever in Benjamin's!"
"And a very good saleswoman I was," said Miss Cynthia. "But after thatthe money began to come in to us, and Peveril sold the land where theSecurity Building now is. I have not done a piece of work si
nce then,except for Peveril or for charity. I am a rich woman, my dear."
"But you do so much for charity!" exclaimed Beth with enthusiasm.
When it came to praise, Miss Pease became grim at once. "I've got tokeep busy with something," she snapped.
"But tell me more," begged Beth.
"There is nothing more," declared Miss Cynthia. "And now I hear himcoming, five minutes before the hour, just as he always does. Don't beafraid of him; he has the softest heart in the world, as you ought todiscover, since you had the skill to find mine."
Beth had only the time to squeeze her friend's hand as the two stood uptogether. She had discovered Miss Pease's heart; it was an unconsciousspecialty of Beth's to find the weak points in the armour of forbiddingpersons, and she had on her list of friends more of the lonely andunknown than had many a worker in organised charity. She was, in fact, aworker in her own special field, the well-to-do, bringing them thesympathy and affection which they needed as much as do the poor. She hadneither shrewdness nor experience; what she did was quite unconscious,but her value was unique. Mr. William Fenno, who had no love for hiswife's pleasures and whose daughters took after their mother, loved tohave the girl with him. Judge Harmon, not quite at home by his owngas-log, felt more comfortable if Beth were spending the evening withhim--for she made no pretense of coming to see his wife. Quiteunconsciously, a similar bond had been growing up between Beth and MissPease, and took open recognition on that day when Miss Cynthia, allowingher eyes to be pleased by the girl's freshness, blurted her feeling andsaid: "I like you. You are so unlike your sister."
But now Mr. Pease entered the room, and stood bowing while his cousinrepeated the formula: "Peveril, here is Miss Elizabeth Blanchard. Beth,you remember my cousin, Mr. Peveril Pease?"
Beth thought he was "funny," meaning he was peculiar. He was short androtund, he was immaculate and formal. His eyes met hers soberly, as ifhe had little of his cousin's wit, however much less savage. Talk openedwith the golf club tea, and before the subject was exhausted he led theconversation dexterously to the weather. Dinner was announced while thebeauty of the spring was yet under discussion, and at table, for awhile, Beth was still repeating to herself that he was a "funny" littleman.
Curiously, Pease was in an entirely new situation. Never had he been soplaced that he must give an hour's undivided attention to a girl. He hadnever learned that girls have individuality; he avoided them as a rule,and at dinners there was always one at his left hand to relieve theother at his right, so that he never spoke to either of them long.Besides, not being regarded as a marrying man, Pease was invariablygiven the "sticks" to entertain. Girls had been to him, therefore,undeveloped creatures, displaying similar characteristics, being usuallyunacquainted with serious topics, and (quite as usually) devoid ofpersonal attractions. Beth Blanchard, however, was something different.Without dwelling on her charms, it is enough to say that she waspretty; and without entering upon her mental acquirements, let usbelieve that she knew what was going on. She was quite used, moreover,to the society of older persons, and could meet Pease on many grounds,although it happened that the subject chosen was Europe.
"You have been there?" asked Pease quickly when Germany was mentioned.
"We spent some time there," Beth replied.
"Of course you have seen Weimar, then," Pease assumed. He happened to beright.
"Oh, yes," she answered, quite as if Weimar were still a focus oftravel. "We spent a month there; mamma was quite ill. You know"--andhere she addressed Miss Cynthia--"that she died over there, and then wecame home."
Mr. Pease, in conjunction with his cousin, murmured his condolences, andMiss Blanchard, not to make the evening doleful, turned again to speakof Weimar.
"We lived quite near to Goethe's house," she said.
Then she beheld Mr. Pease glow with admiration. "You are veryfortunate," he cried. "The inspiration must have been great."
"I am no writer, Mr. Pease," returned Beth.
"But," he explained, "it must have permanently bettered and improvedyou."
"Do you think I needed it?" she flashed.
Miss Cynthia, at her end of the table, was biting her lip. Pease, notperceiving that he was being rallied, fell to apologising. "Oh, no," hegasped. "I meant----"
She spared him. "I was not serious," she laughed. "You must pardon me."It was no new matter with her to relieve the embarrassed. Then she ledhim once more to the topic.
"You like Weimar, Mr. Pease?"
"Oh, I only like Goethe, you know, and Schiller. I've never been fromAmerica."
"And yet you read German?"
"Not very well. You see, I----"
And then he spoke of himself. Miss Cynthia sat amazed. Here was Peveril,who was always silent regarding his hobby, speaking from his heart. Bethcoaxed a little; he hung back a bit, but he yielded. It was as if amiser were giving up his gold, yet the gold came. For all that she hadinvited Beth there, wishing to stir her cousin from his rut, MissCynthia presently became enraged. Peveril was telling more than he hadever told her. This chit of a girl, what charm had she?
But Pease himself, as he told the unaccustomed tale in haltingsentences, felt comfort. It had been a long time repressed within him;he had seldom touched on it with Cynthia, and though he had not knownit, the loneliness of it had been wearing on him all these years. It wassympathy that now brought it out, that quality in Beth which couldpierce the armour of such a cynic as Miss Cynthia, or warm so cold aheart as William Fenno's. Pease yielded to it as frost to the sun. So hetold of himself and his studies, and the impulse of all these years heconfessed at the last.
"You see," he said, flushing painfully, "it's poetry that I love."
And he sat, the man of business, with his fair skin pink as a girl's.Then, lest she should mistake, he explained.
"You mustn't think," he said eagerly, "that I really suppose Iunderstand. I know I lose much--I--I'm not very deep, you know. Thereare so many subtle things and such beautiful ones that pass me by.Only, you see [more hesitation], I got such pleasure from the Englishpoets that I--tried the German. With a dictionary, you know, and agrammar. And all this is so much to me that I--I don't care for anythingelse. Can you understand?"
Then he was swept by doubt and fear. Would she laugh? Not she! Beth madehim understand she appreciated his feelings, and presently Miss Cynthiafound herself listening to a discussion of Shakespeare. Her lipcurled--how foolish of Peveril! What real interest could Beth take inhis ideas?
He asked himself the same question, with a sudden start, for Bethlaughed merrily. What had he said that was laughable? She held up afinger. "Mr. Pease, I am going to accuse you of something. Will youpromise to tell me the truth?"
This, he dimly felt, was a species of banter. "I promise," he saiduncomfortably.
"Then, sir, do you memorise?"
"Why, yes," he confessed.
"I knew it!" she exclaimed. "Miss Cynthia, are you not ashamed of him? Iknow nobody that memorises now, Mr. Pease, except you and--me!"
He was relieved, and they fell to speaking eagerly. For the next fewminutes Miss Cynthia felt the outrage of hearing poetry quoted at hertable. Wordsworth, Scott, Burns, and then--for Pease was trulypatriotic--Lanier and Longfellow. And so they came to discuss themeaning of a passage, and took up the subject of "Life." Next,"Happiness." At all this sentiment Miss Cynthia ground her teeth.
Beth was of the opinion that environment makes happiness. Peasemaintained that we make our own environment. "Impossible!" said Beth,thinking of Mr. Fenno and the Judge.
"Easily done!" declared Pease, thinking of himself.
Then they spoke of "Ideals of Conduct"--Which of them make most forHappiness? By little and little they came to the point where Pease feltimpelled to open his breast again. He spoke of his motto, quoting itclumsily with his self-taught accent, so that a smile almost came to herlips. She drew from him that he believed he knew the gray of life, andthe green.
"But, Mr. Pease," Beth objected, "how can
you say you know so much oflife when you live so much alone?"
"We are late--we are late!" cried Miss Cynthia suddenly. "We shall missour engagement if we sit so long here."
And so the two ladies presently went away, refusing all escort. Standingat the open door, Pease watched them with a strange regret. The thoughtof returning to his books was astonishingly unwelcome; they seemed to bebut leather, ink, and paper. He looked up at the heavens. Something wasstinging in his veins: what a lovely world! For the first time herecognised the beauty of the moon.
His thoughts were interrupted by a footstep, and there stood Mather."Mr. Pease," said he, "this is an unusual hour for business. But thekind offer which you made me to-day----" He hesitated.
"The position had only possibilities," answered Pease. "You would beyour own master, because I should leave everything to you, but it wouldbe like beginning at the bottom again. I knew you would refuse me."
"You mistake," returned Mather with energy. "I like the chance, and willbuild up your venture for you. I am ready to take your instructionsto-night, and go to work Monday morning."
"Come inside," said Mr. Pease.