The man who found himself (Smith's Magazine 1920)/Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV.
Simon awoke to Mudd drawing the blinds and to another perfect day, a summer morning, luxurious and warm, beautiful even in London. He had lost clutch of Tidd and Renshaw in the land of sleep but he had found his strength and self-confidence again.
The terror of Lethmann's disease had vanished. The thing was absurd. He had been frightened by a bogy. Oppenshaw was a clever man but he was a specialist, always thinking of nerve diseases, and living in an atmosphere of them. Sir Ralph Puttick, on the contrary, was a man of solid understanding and wider views—a sane man. All this he told himself as he took “Wednesday” from its case and shaved himself. Then he came down to the same frizzled bacon and the same aired Times, put on the same overcoat and hat, got into the same old brougham, and started for the office.
He went into his room where his usual morning letters were laid out for him, but he did not take off his coat and hat. He had come to a determination. Oppenshaw had told him to leave the wallet where it was and not take the notes back to the bank, as that would be weakness. Sir Ralph Puttick was telling him now that Oppenshaw was a fool. The real weakness would be to follow the advice of Oppenshaw. To follow that advice would be to play with this business and confess that there was reality in it. Besides, with those notes in the safe behind him, he could never do his morning's work. No, back those notes should go to the bank. He opened the safe, and there was the wallet seated like an evil genius on the deed box. He took it out and put it under his arm, locked the safe, and left the room. In the outer office all the clerks were busy, and Brownlow was in his room with the door shut. Simon, with the wallet under his arm, walked out and passed through the precincts of Old Sergeant's Inn to Fleet Street, where a waft of warm summer, yet springlike wind met him in the face.
He raised his head, sniffed as if inhaling something, and quickened his step. What a glorious day it was! Even Fleet Street had a touch of youth about it.
A flower woman and her wares caught his eye. He bought a bunch of late violets and, with his hat tilted back, dived in his pocket and produced a handful of silver. He gave her a shilling and, without asking for change, walked on, the violets in his buttonhole.
He was making west like a homing pigeon. He walked like a man in a hurry, but with no purpose; his glance skimmed things and seemed to rest only on things colored or pleasant to look on; his eyes showed no speculation. He seemed like a person with no more past than a dreamer. The present seemed to him everything, just as it is to the dreamer.
In the Strand, he stopped here and there to glance at the contents of shops. Neckties attracted him. Then Fuller's drew him in by its color. He had a vanilla-and-strawberry ice and chatted to the girls, who did not receive his advances, however, with much favor.
Then he came to Romano's. It attracted him and he went in. Gilded youths were drinking at the bar, and a cocktail being mixed by the bartender fascinated Simon by its color. He had one like it, chatted to the man, paid, and walked out.
It was now eleven.
Still walking gayly and lightly, as one walks in a happy dream, he reached the Charing Cross Hotel, asked the porter to show him the rooms he had reserved, and inquired if his luggage had come.
The luggage had come and was deposited in the bedroom of the suite—two large, brand-new portmanteaus and a hatbox, also a bandbox from Lincoln Bennetts. The portmanteau and hatbox were locked, but in the bandbox were the keys, gummed up in an envelope. There was also a straw hat in the bandbox, a “boater.”
The porter, having unstrapped the portmanteau, departed with a tip, and our gentleman began to unpack swiftly and with the eagerness of a child going to a party.
Oh, Youth! What a star thou art, yet what a folly! And yet, can all wisdom give one the pleasure of one's first ball dress, of the young man's brand-new suit? And there were brand-new suits and to spare, checked tweed, blue serge, boating flannels, shoes, too, and boots from the Burlington Arcade, ties and socks from Beale Inman's. It was like a trousseau.
As he unpacked, he whistled, whistled a tune that was young in the sixties—“Champagne Charley,” no less. Then he dressed vigorously, digging his head into a striped shirt, donning a purple tie, purple socks, and a gray tweed suit of excellent cut.
All his movements were feverish, light, rapid. He did not seem to notice the details of the room around him; he seemed skimming along the surface of things, in a hurry to get to some goal or pleasure. Flushed and bright-eyed, he scarcely looked fifty now, yet, despite this reduction in age, his genera] get-up had a touch of the raffish. Purple socks and ties are a bit off at fifty. A straw “boater” does not reduce the effect, nor do tan shoes. But Simon was quite satisfied with himself.
Still whistling, he bundled his old things away in a drawer, leaving the other things lying about for the servants to put away, and sat down on the side of the bed with the wallet in his hands. He opened it and turned the notes out on the quilt. The gorgeous bundle, to “bust” or do with what he liked, held him in its thrall as he turned over the contents, not counting the amount but just reviewing the notes and the huge sums on most of them.
Heavens! What a delight even in a dream! To be young and absolutely free from all restrait, free from all ties, unconscious of relatives, unconscious of everything but immediate surroundings, with virginal appetites and desires and countless sovereigns to meet them with. Dangling his heels, and with his straw hat beside him, he gloated on his treasure; then, picking out three ten-pound notes and putting the remainder in the wallet, he locked the wallet away in his portmanteau and put the key under the wardrobe.
He went downstairs with his straw hat on the back of his head, casting a smile at a pretty chambermaid who passed him coming up. The girl laughed and glanced back, but whether she was laughing at or with him, it would be hard to say. Chambermaids have strange tastes.
It was like a trousseau, unpacked, he whistled a tune that was young in the sixties—“Champagne Charley,” no less.
It was in the hall that he met Moxon, senior partner in Plunder's, the great bill-discounting firm; a tall man, serious of face and manner.
“Why, God bless my soul, Pettigrew!” cried Moxon. “I scarcely knew you.”
“You have the advantage of me, old cock,” replied Simon airily, “for I'm damned if I ever met you before!”
“My mistake,” said Moxon.
It was Pettigrew's face and voice, but all the rest was not Pettigrew, and the discounter of bills hurried off, feeling as if he had come across the uncanny—which he had.
Simon paused at the office, holding a lady clerk in light conversation about the weather, and turning upon her that sprightly wit already mentioned. She was busy and stiff, and the weather and his wit didn't seem to interest her. He asked for change of a ten-pound note and she gave it to him in sovereigns. Then he asked for change of a sovereign. She gave it to him. Then he asked, with a grin, for change of a shilling. She was outraged now. That which should have made her laugh seemed to incense her. Do what he could, he couldn't warm her. She was colder than the ice-ream girls—what the devil was the matter with them all? She slapped the change for the shilling down and turned away to her books.
Tilting his hat further back, he rapped with a penny on the ledge.
She got up.
“Well, what is it, now?”
“Can you change me a penny, please?” said Simon.
“Mrs. Jones!” called the girl.
A stout lady manageress in black appeared.
“I don't know what this gentleman means.”
The manageress raised her eyebrows at the jester.
“I asked the young lady for change of a penny. Can you let me have two halfpence for a penny, please?”
The manageress opened the till and gave the change. The gay one departed chuckling. He had had the best of the girl—silly creature that could not take a joke in good part!—but he had enjoyed himself.
Moving in the line of least resistance toward the phantom of pleasure, he made for the hotel entrance and the sunlight showing through the door, bought a cigar at the kiosk outside, and then bundled into a taxi.
“Where to, sir?” asked the driver.
“First bar,” replied Simon. “First decent one, and look sharp.”
The surly driver closed the door without a word and started winding up the engine. He had difficulties, and, as he went on winding, the occupant put his head out of the window and addressed the station policeman who was looking on,
“Has the chap a license for a barrel organ?” asked Simon. “If he hasn't, ask him to drive on.”
He shut the window. They started and soon stopped at a bar in Leicester Square. Simon paid and entered.
It was a long bar, a glittering, loathsome, noxious place where, behind a long counter, six barmaids were serving all sorts of men with all sorts of drinks.
Simon seemed to find it all right. Puffing his cigar, he ordered a brandy cold—a brandy cold!—and sipping his brandy cold he took a stock of the men around. Even his innocence and newness, despite the crave for companionship now on him, recognized that these were undesirables, and as for the two girls, they were frozen images—for him. They were laughing and changing words with all sorts of young men, counter jumpers, and horsey men, but for him they had nothing but brandy cold and monsyllables. He was beginning to get irritated with women. But the sunlight outside and two cold brandies inside restored his happy humor, and the idea of lunch was now moving before him, luring him on. Thinking thus, he was advancing not toward luncheon but toward fate.
At Piccadilly Circus there was a crowd round an omnibus. There generally are crowds round omnibuses just here, but this was a special crowd, having for its core an irate bus conductor and a pretty girl. Oh, such a pretty girl! Spring itself, dark-haired, dark-eyed, well-dressed, but with just that touch which tells of want of affluence. She fascinated Simon as a flower fascinates a bee.
“But, sir, I tell you I have lost my purse. Some pickpocket has taken it. I shall be pleased to tell you where I live and reward you if you come for the money. My name is Cerise Rossignol.” This with just a trace of foreign accent.
“I've been done twice this week by that game,” said the brutal conductor, speaking, however, the truth. “Come, look in your glove. You'll find it.”
Simon broke in.
“How much?” said he.
“Tuppence,' said the conductor. Then the gods that preside over youth might have observed this new Andromeda, released at the charge of tuppence, wandering off with her savior and turning to him a face filled with gratitude. They were going in the direction of Leicester Square.