Another tragedy in Praed Street
VI
A Middle-Aged Poet
Mr. Richard Pargent’s public was a very limited one. A few lines of type, of unequal length, would appear from time to time in one of the ultra-artistic magazines, and would be hailed by critics of the new school as yet another deadly blow at the shackles which have hitherto fettered the feet of the muse of poetry. The general public found them incomprehensible, which was perhaps a fortunate circumstance for Mr. Pargent’s reputation.
But, in spite of Mr. Pargent’s extreme literary modernity, his surroundings and circumstances were typically mid-Victorian. His age was between fifty and sixty, and he lived with his sister Clara in a tall, narrow house in Bavaria Square, Bayswater. It was, as a matter of fact, the house in which he and his two sisters had been born. On their parents’ death he and Miss Clara Pargent had elected to remain where they were and keep house together. Miss Margaret, younger and more adventurous, had taken unto herself a companion—of the female sex—and migrated to a house in the little town of West Laverhurst, in Wiltshire.
It will be gathered from this that the Pargent family were not dependent upon Mr. Richard Pargent’s literary earnings. Each member of it was comparatively well off, and lived according to the standards of mid-Victorian comfort. In their own phrase, they knew quite a number of nice people, and sometimes they found it difficult to make time in which to perform all their social duties. As a consequence, they had little opportunity left for doing anything useful.
Although many years had elapsed since Miss Margaret had shaken the dust of Bayswater off her feet and retired to the intellectual wilderness of West Laverhurst, her brother and sister had never completely recovered from the shock of such a revolutionary proceeding. Never before, within the memory of man, had any member of the Pargent family done anything but what was expected of them. And even now, when any of their friends asked after Miss Margaret, they replied with an almost imperceptible hesitation, with the apologetic smile we adopt when speaking of anyone who exhibits such remarkable eccentricity.
Not that Miss Margaret’s departure had entirely broken the bonds which united the family. She and Miss Clara exchanged letters every day, although it must exceed the comprehension of ordinary mortals what they found to write about. Further than this, West Laverhurst was the object of a regular fortnightly pilgrimage on the part of Richard Pargent. Every other Saturday he caught the 10:45 at Paddington, which reached West Laverhurst at 12:25, giving him ample time to lunch with his sister and catch the 3:10 up, which deposited him at Paddington at 4:55. Miss Clara always had tea ready for him in the drawing-room in Bavaria Square. A No. 15 bus from Paddington took him almost to his door.
The Saturday before Christmas happened to be the occasion for one of these fortnightly visits. It was usual for Mr. Pargent to walk the short half mile which separated West Laverhurst from his sister’s house, but, the afternoon being wet and Mr. Pargent very careful of his health, he asked Miss Margaret to requisition a car to drive him to the station. He arrived there in plenty of time, and in due course the 3:10 came in punctually. Mr. Pargent took a corner seat in a first-class non-smoking carriage, and immediately became immersed in a book which he had brought with him for the purpose of reading in the train. He inwardly congratulated himself upon having secured a seat in an empty carriage.
The 3:10 up from West Laverhurst stops twice before reaching Reading, and then runs fast up to London. The stop at Reading is a somewhat long one, owing to the fact that tickets are collected there. On this particular afternoon, the train had run into the station a minute or two before time, and the stop was even longer than usual, giving a tall man in a rather tight-fitting overcoat ample time to walk leisurely the whole length of the train and select an empty first-class smoking carriage close to the engine. The train started at last, Mr. Pargent being left in undisputed possession of his compartment.
The train arrived at Paddington punctually at five minutes to five. Mr. Pargent had observed that the rain was falling more heavily than ever, but, from his long experience of Paddington station, he knew how to reach the stopping place of the No. 15 bus, keeping under cover nearly all the way. He had only to follow the subway which leads to the Underground booking-office, and then climb the stairway which leads into Praed Street. The No. 15 bus stops nearly opposite on the further side of the street.
The passenger who had got in at Reading seemed to know his way about as well as did Mr. Pargent. This man, who somehow vaguely suggested a retired ship’s officer, had an iron-grey beard and a curious patch of crimson, such as is popularly known as a port-wine mark, on his left cheek. He walked slowly down the subway, so slowly that Mr. Pargent overtook him before he reached the foot of the stairway. The two ascended it together, only a few steps separating them, Mr. Pargent leading.
The mouth of the stairway was blocked, as it so often is in wet weather, by a knot of people unfurling their umbrellas and waiting for an interval in the traffic to dash across to the refuge in the middle of the road. Mr. Pargent unfolded his umbrella like the rest, and seizing his opportunity, ran for the island. The interval was a narrow one; an almost unceasing stream of buses and taxis was pouring down Praed Street. Only two or three
