Pearl of Pearl Island | Page 8

philanthropical societies--in a word, at once a pillar and corner-stone of
his profession, his church, and his country.
He was also a smug little man with a fresh, well-fed face, bordered by a
touch of old-fashioned, gray side-whisker, rather outstanding blue eyes,
and he carried, and sometimes used as it was intended to be used, a
heavy gold pince-nez, which more frequently, however, acted as a kind
of lightning-conductor for the expression of his feelings. A pince-nez of
many parts:--now it was a scalping-knife, slaughtering the hopes of
some harried victim of the law; and again, it was a bâton beating time
to a hymn or the National Anthem; possibly it was, in moments of
relaxation, a jester's wand poking fun at ancient cronies, though indeed
a somewhat full-blooded imagination is required for that. I have heard
that once when, in the fervour of a speech, Mr. Pixley dropped his
pince-nez among the reporters below, he was utterly unable to continue
until the fetish was recovered and handed back to him. It is an

undoubted fact that though you might forget the exact lines of Mr.
Pixley's face and even his words, you never forgot the fascinating
evolutions of his heavy gold pince-nez. Like a Frenchman's hands, it
told even more than his face or his words.
He had a good voice, and a deportment which had, without doubt, been
specially created for the chairmanship of public meetings. And he was
Margaret Brandt's uncle by marriage, her guardian and trustee, and the
father of Charles Svendt, on whose account Lady Elspeth had thought
well to throw out warning hints of possible paternal intentions
respecting Margaret and her fortune.
From every point of view Graeme detested Mr. Pixley, though he had
never passed a word with him. He was too perfect, too immaculate. His
"unco' guidness," as Lady Elspeth would have said, bordered on
ostentation. The sight and sound of him aroused in some people a wild
inclination towards unaccustomed profanity and wallowing in the mire.
He was so undisguisedly and self-satisfiedly better than his fellows that
one felt his long and flawless life almost in the nature of a rebuke if not
an affront. He was too obtrusively good for this world. One could not
but feel that if he had been cut off in his youth, and buried under a very
white marble slab and an appropriate inscription, both he and the world
would have been far more comfortably circumstanced. And John
Graeme devoutly wished he had been so favoured, for, in that case, he
could neither have been Margaret's uncle, trustee, nor guardian, and it
is possible that there would also have been no Charles Svendt Pixley to
trouble the course of his own true love.
But of Charles Svendt I have no harsh word to say. He could not help
being his father's son, and one must not blame him for the unavoidable.
And, in most respects, he was as unlike his worthy parent as
circumstances permitted.
He was on the Stock Exchange and doing well there. He had very
comfortable rooms near St. James's Square, and enjoyed life in his own
way and at his own not inconsiderable expense. When Margaret Brandt
was at home, however, he was much at his father's house in Melgrave
Square.

He made no pretence to unco' guidness whatever. He subscribed to
nothing outside the House, with two exceptions--the Dogs' Home at
Battersea, and the Home of Rest for Aged Horses at Acton--signs of
grace both these offerings, I take it!
To all other demands he invariably replied,--"Can't burn the candle at
both ends, my dear sir. The governor charitables for the whole family.
He'll give you something if you'll let him head the list and keep it
standing."
No, we have no fault to find with Charles Svendt. Time came when he
was weighed and not found wanting.
Graeme and he had run across one another occasionally--at the
Travellers' Club and elsewhere--but their acquaintance had never
ripened to the point of introduction till that night at the Whitefriars'
dinner. After that they were on nodding terms, but not much more,
until--well, until later.
So, though there was hope in his heart, born of Lady Elspeth's approval
and quiet suggestings, John Graeme was still somewhat doubtful as to
Margaret Brandt's feelings towards him, and quite at a loss how to
arrive at a more exact knowledge of them.
Too precipitate an advance might end in utter rout. And opportunities
of approach were all too infrequent for his wishes.
Their chance meetings were rare and exquisite pleasures,--to be looked
forward to with an eagerness that held within it the strange possibility
of pain through sheer excess of longing;--to be enjoyed like the glory of
a fleeting dream;--to be looked back upon with touches of