THE MAN WHO LOVED LYNE
Two days later Thornton Lyne sat in his big limousine which was drawn up
on the edge of Wandsworth Common, facing the gates of the gaol.
Poet and _poseur_ he was, the strangest combination ever seen in man.
Thornton Lyne was a store-keeper, a Bachelor of Arts, the winner of the
Mangate Science Prize and the author of a slim volume. The quality of the
poetry therein was not very great--but it was undoubtedly a slim volume
printed in queerly ornate type with old-fashioned esses and wide margins.
He was a store-keeper because store-keeping supplied him with caviare and
peaches, a handsome little two-seater, a six-cylinder limousine for state
occasions, a country house and a flat in town, the decorations of which
ran to a figure which would have purchased many stores of humbler
pretensions than Lyne's Serve First Emporium.
To the elder Lyne, Joseph Emanuel of that family, the inception and
prosperity of Lyne's Serve First Emporium was due. He had devised a sale
system which ensured every customer being attended to the moment he or
she entered one of the many departments which made up the splendid whole
of the emporium. It was a system based upon the age-old principle of
keeping efficient reserves within call.
Thornton Lyne succeeded to the business at a moment when his slim volume
had placed him in the category of the gloriously misunderstood. Because
such reviewers as had noticed his book wrote of his "poetry" using
inverted commas to advertise their scorn, and because nobody bought the
volume despite its slimness, he became the idol of men and women who also
wrote that which nobody read, and in consequence developed souls with the
celerity that a small boy develops stomachache.
For nothing in the wide world was more certain to the gloriously
misunderstood than this: the test of excellence is scorn. Thornton Lyne
might in different circumstances have drifted upward to sets even more
misunderstood--yea, even to a set superior to marriage and soap and clean
shirts and fresh air--only his father died of a surfeit, and Thornton
became the Lyne of Lyne's Serve First.
His first inclination was to sell the property and retire to a villa in
Florence or Capri. Then the absurdity, the rich humour of an idea, struck
him. He, a scholar, a gentleman and a misunderstood poet, sitting in the
office of a store, appealed to him. Somebody remarked in his hearing that
the idea was "rich." He saw himself in "character" and the part appealed
to him. To everybody's surprise he took up his father's work, which meant
that he signed cheques, collected profits and left the management to the
Soults and the Neys whom old Napoleon Lyne had relied upon in the
foundation of his empire.
Thornton wrote an address to his 3,000 employees--which address was
printed on decided antique paper in queerly ornate type with wide
margins. He quoted Seneca, Aristotle, Marcus Aurelius and the "Iliad."
The "address" secured better and longer reviews in the newspapers than
had his book.
He had found life a pleasant experience--all the more piquant because of
the amazement of innumerable ecstatic friends who clasped their hands
and asked awefully: "How _can_ you--a man of your temperament...!"
Life might have gone on being pleasant if every man and woman he had met
had let him have his own way. Only there were at least two people with
whom Thornton Lyne's millions carried no weight.
It was warm in his limousine, which was electrically heated. But outside,
on that raw April morning, it was bitterly cold, and the shivering little
group of women who stood at a respectful distance from the prison gates,
drew their shawls tightly about them as errant flakes of snow whirled
across the open. The common was covered with a white powder, and the
early flowers looked supremely miserable in their wintry setting.
The prison clock struck eight, and a wicket-gate opened. A man slouched
out, his jacket buttoned up to his neck, his cap pulled over his eyes. At
sight of him, Lyne dropped the newspaper he had been reading, opened the
door of the car and jumped out, walking towards the released prisoner.
"Well, Sam," he said, genially "you didn't expect me?"
The man stopped as if he had been shot, and stood staring at the
fur-coated figure. Then:
"Oh, Mr. Lyne," he said brokenly. "Oh, guv'nor!" he choked, and tears
streamed down his face, and he gripped the outstretched hand in both of
his, unable to speak.
"You didn't think I'd desert you, Sam, eh?" said Mr. Lyne, all aglow with
consciousness of his virtue.
"I thought you'd given me up, sir," said Sam Stay huskily. "You're a
gentleman, you are, sir, and I ought to be ashamed of myself!"
"Nonsense, nonsense, Sam! Jump into the car, my lad. Go along. People
will think you're a millionaire."
The man gulped, grinned sheepishly, opened the door and stepped in, and
sank with a sigh of comfort into the luxurious depths of the big brown
cushions.
"Gawd! To think that there are men like you in the world, sir! Why, I
believe in angels, I do!"
"Nonsense Sam. Now you come along to my flat, and I'm going to give you a
good breakfast and start you fair again."
"I'm going to try and keep straight, sir, I am s'help me!"
It may be said in truth that Mr. Lyne did not care very much whether Sam
kept straight or not. He might indeed have been very much disappointed if
Sam had kept to the straight and narrow path. He "kept" Sam as men keep
chickens and prize cows, and he "collected" Sam as other men collect
stamps and china. Sam was his luxury and his pose. In his club he boasted
of his acquaintance with this representative of the criminal classes--for
Sam was an expert burglar and knew no other trade--and Sam's adoration
for him was one of his most exhilarating experiences.
And that adoration was genuine. Sam would have laid down his life for the
pale-faced man with the loose mouth. He would have suffered himself to be
torn limb from limb if in his agony he could have brought ease or
advancement to the man who, to him, was one with the gods.
Originally, Thornton Lyne had found Sam whilst that artist was engaged in
burgling the house of his future benefactor. It was a whim of Lyne's to
give the criminal a good breakfast and to evince an interest in his
future. Twice had Sam gone down for a short term, and once for a long
term of imprisonment, and on each occasion Thornton Lyne had made a
parade of collecting the returned wanderer, driving him home, giving him
breakfast and a great deal of worldly and unnecessary advice, and
launching him forth again upon the world with ten pounds--a sum just
sufficient to buy Sam a new kit of burglar's tools.
Never before had Sam shown such gratitude; and never before had Thornton
Lyne been less disinterested in his attentions. There was a hot
bath--which Sam Stay could have dispensed with, but which, out of sheer
politeness, he was compelled to accept, a warm and luxurious breakfast; a
new suit of clothes, with not two, but four, five-pound notes in the
pocket.
After breakfast, Lyne had his talk.
"It's no good, sir," said the burglar, shaking his head. "I've tried
everything to get an honest living, but somehow I can't get on in the
straight life. I drove a taxicab for three months after I came out, till
a busy-fellow[A] tumbled to me not having a license, and brought me up
under the Prevention of Crimes Act. It's no use my asking you to give me
a job in your shop, sir, because I couldn't stick it, I couldn't really!
I'm used to the open air life; I like being my own master. I'm one of
those fellows you've read about--the word begins with A."
[Footnote A: Detective.]
"Adventurers?" said Lyne with a little laugh. "Yes, I think you are, Sam,
and I'm going to give you an adventure after your own heart."
And then he began to tell a tale of base ingratitude--of a girl he had
helped, had indeed saved from starvation and who had betrayed him at
every turn. Thornton Lyne was a poet. He was also a picturesque liar. The
lie came as easily as the truth, and easier, since there was a certain
crudeness about truth which revolted his artistic soul. And as the tale
was unfolded of Odette Rider's perfidy, Sam's eyes narrowed. There was
nothing too bad for such a creature as this. She was wholly undeserving
of sympathy.
Presently Thornton Lyne stopped, his eyes fixed on the other to note the
effect.
"Show me," said Sam, his voice trembling. "Show me a way of getting even
with her, sir, and I'll go through hell to do it!"
"That's the kind of stuff I like to hear," said Lyne, and poured out from
the long bottle which stood on the coffee-tray a stiff tot of Sam's
favourite brandy. "Now, I'll give you my idea."
For the rest of the morning the two men sat almost head to head, plotting
woe for the girl, whose chief offence had been against the dignity of
Thornton Lyne, and whose virtue had incited the hate of that vicious man.