Mr Pim Passes By
Page 20
III
We thought we had finished with Mr. Pim. He has said good-bye to George; he has said good-bye to Olivia; he has said good-bye to Dinah and Brian. His letter of introduction to this man Fanshawe has been obtained, his little story about—what was the poor fellow’s name—Polwittle—has been told. As he went out of the gate, it seemed that he said goodbye to us too. It might be that we should meet him again some afternoon at Mrs. Brian Strange’s, but it was not very probable. For Bloomsbury is indeed farther away from Chelsea than Australia is from England, and an impetuous invitation from Dinah Marden in Buckinghamshire will not bridge the way a year later to Mrs. Strange’s London studio. No, we said good-bye to Mr. Pim for ever; we shall never meet (alas!) Miss Prudence Pim.
But we were misjudging our man. Mr. Pim was no puppet of the gods, to be sent to Marden House on a matter of curtains only. Nor was his visit (as Brymer has been thinking) a simple question of a letter of introduction. With some such object he had started out, but the very distressing events of the day had put things in their right perspective for him. Marden House was nothing to him now but the place in which he had mis-told a story. A single error in that story, an error for which he blamed himself entirely, had caused unexpected alarm and anxiety to the household. As soon as he had realized that error, he had hurried back to correct it. The man’s name was Henry Polwittle. . . .
Or was it Ernest?
A small matter. But as we have just seen—as Mr. Pim had just seen—the merest trifle of a misremembered name can threaten disaster to a family. How terrible if he had made yet another mistake! Henry—or was it Ernest?
Twenty yards down the hill he stopped, and looked once more to Heaven for inspiration. If it were Ernest, then his story was still wrong. If it were Ernest, who was Henry Polwittle, this man whose death he had reported so carelessly? He might be anybody . . . if it were Ernest.
He followed the man back to Australia; to Sydney; to that morning—how many years ago?—when the poor fellow, just out of prison, had first come to him for help. . . . Now, then, what was the poor fellow’s name? Polwittle, of course, yes, but——
And then triumph shone in his old eyes again. What a memory he had! Yes, there was no doubt about it now. He had the story, the whole story, complete, correct, to the minutest detail. What a memory! Eagerly he turned, and made his way back to Marden House.
Olivia, standing by the open windows, saw him coming suddenly. She had no time to wonder why he was here again, no time for more than an instinctive ‘H’sh,’ whispered finger to mouth. George was at the top of the ladder, visible only as an upheaval of curtain. He could not see, might not hear, Mr. Pim.
Mr. Pim came cautiously nearer. He remembered now that fierce husband of hers, and was in a hurry to be gone. Keeping away from the windows, in case the alarming man was indeed within, he indicated by little jerks of the head that Olivia should come out to him. She looked at George, still enveloped, and moved towards the old gentleman.
‘Well?’ she breathed.
He would not move his feet; they were near enough to the danger already; but he stretched his head out to her.
‘I’ve just remembered,’ he whispered impressively. ‘His name was Ernest Polwittle—not Henry.’
He nodded to her, as much as to say, ‘Now it’s all right,’ and tiptoed away. A minute later he was walking happily down the drive. He had told his story correctly, and was going back with a clear conscience to the Brymers’. For the last time—yes, the last time now—he goes through the gate. Three times it swings backward and forwards behind him, tolling his passing; then with a sudden clatter comes to rest. Mr. Pim has passed by.
About the Author
A. A. Milne
A. A. Milne (Alan Alexander) was born in London in 1882 and educated at Westminster School and Trinity College, Cambridge. In 1902 he was Editor of Granta, the University magazine, and moved back to London the following year to enter journalism. By 1906 he was Assistant Editor of Punch, a post which he held until the beginning of the First World War when he joined the Royal Warwickshire Regiment. While in the army in 1917 he started on a career writing plays of which his best known are Mr. Pim Passes By, The Dover Road and an adaptation of Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows – Toad of Toad Hall. He married Dorothy de Selincourt in 1913 and in 1920 had a son, Christopher Robin. By 1924 Milne was a highly successful playwright, and published the first of his four books for children, a set of poems called When We Were Very Young, which he wrote for his son. This was followed by the storybook Winnie-the-Pooh in 1926, more poems in Now We Are Six (1927) and further stories in The House at Pooh Corner (1928). In addition to his now famous works, Milne wrote many novels, volumes of essays, a well known detective story The Red House Mystery and light verse, works which attracted great success at the time. He continued to be a prolific writer until his death in 1956.
About Bello
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Copyright
First published in 1921 under the title ‘Mr Pim’ by Hodder & Stoughton
Second edition published in 1929 under the title ‘Mr Pim Passes By’by Methuen & Co. Ltd
This edition published 2017 by Bello
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
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ISBN 978-1-5098-69619-9 EPUB
ISBN 978-1-5098-6960-2 PB
Copyright © The Estate of the Late Lesley Milne Limited, 1921
The right of A.A. Milne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise)without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations or persons,living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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