PART I
A QUESTION MARK IN SUBURBIA
I
Wynne Rendall was a seven months’ child; the fact is significant of a
personality seeking premature prominence upon this planet. He spent the
first weeks of his infancy wrapped in cotton wool and placed in a basket
as near the fire as safety allowed. He scaled precisely two pounds
fifteen ounces, and the doctor, who manipulated the weights and was
interested in mathematics, placed two pounds fifteen ounces over seven
months and shook his head forebodingly at the result.
“If he lives he will be a sickly child, nurse.”
This opinion the nurse heartily endorsed, and added, in tribute to the
kindliness of her disposition:
“Poor little thing!”
Mrs. Rendall did not show great concern at the untimely arrival of her
offspring. She accepted it, as she accepted all things, with
phlegmatical calm. A great deal was required to still Mrs. Rendall’s
emotions, so much, in fact, that it was not within the recollection of
any of her intimates that they ever had been stirred. It did not occur
to her that the birth of a child, mature or premature, was a matter of
moment. If it lived, well and good, and the best must be done for it. If
it died, the occurrence must be regarded as sad and an occasion for
shedding a given number of tears. It was clearly useless to foreshadow
either event, since one was as likely as the other and could be as
readily treated with when the time arose.
It must not be thought that Mrs. Rendall’s calm was the result of
philosophy. That would be far from the truth. It occurred simply and
solely from a vacant mind—a mind nourished by the dead-sea fruit of its
own vacuity. She lacked impulse and intelligence, and was, indeed, no
more than a lifeless canal along which the barges of domesticity were
drearily towed. Her ideas were other people’s, and valueless at that;
her conversation was a mere repetition of things she had said before.
When the doctor, rubbing his hands to lend an air of cheerful optimism
to a cheerless situation, declared, “We shall pull that youngster
through, see if we don’t,” she responded, “Oh, yes,” with a falling
inflexion. If he had said the opposite, her reply would have been the
same—delivered in the same manner.
In some cases heredity ignores personalities, and this, in the instance
of Wynne Rendall, was hardly difficult of achievement. From his mother
he took nothing, unless it were a measure of her fragility, which was
perhaps the only circumstance about her to justify attention. The
characteristics that he did not bring into the world with himself he
inherited from his grandfather, _via_ his own sire.
The grandfather was certainly the more notable of the two gentlemen, and
had achieved some astonishing ideals on canvas, very heartily
disapproved of by the early Victorian era, and some memorable passages
of wit which had heightened his unpopularity. He was an artist who went
for his object with truly remarkable energy. To seek a parallel among
modern men, his work possessed some of the qualities of Aubrey
Beardsley’s, combined with the vigour of John S. Sargent. But the world
was not ready for such productions, and, casting its eyes upward in
pious horror, hurried from the walls on which they were exhibited. Old
Edward Tyler Rendall scorned them as they departed, but he understood
the situation notwithstanding.
“I’ve come too soon,” he mused, “too soon by a generation or more.”
His belief in his art was so great that he determined to sacrifice his
liberty and get married, in the hope that he might have a son who would
carry on the work for the benefit of a world enlightened by
broader-minded civilization.
In due course the son was born, and when he reached an age of
understanding, the reason of his being was dinned into his ears.
“Get away from old traditions; build something new, dextrous, adroit,
understanding. See what I mean, Robert boy? Be plucky—plucky in line,
composition, subject. Always have a purpose before you; don’t mind how
offensive it is—no one cares for that if you’ve the courage to declare
your meaning in honest black and white.”
The result of this intensive artistic culture was that Robert Everett
Rendall, at the age of sixteen and a half, ran away from home and took a
position as office boy in a large firm of tea-tasters in the City.
This case presents unusual features, being in itself an inversion of the
usual procedure.
Old Rendall made one heroic effort to win him back, and stormed the City
citadel to that end; but here he encountered from Robert a metropolitan
manner so paralysing that he fled the office in wholesome disgust.
Ever courageous, he urged his wife to labour anew, and was rewarded by a
daughter who unhappily perished. The disappointment was acute, and when
some three years later a son was born his energies had so far abated
that he made no further effort to inculcate the spirit of artistry which
had been the essence of his being.
Meanwhile Robert Everett Rendall lived a sober and honourable life in
the City, and heartily abused all matters pertaining to art. Nothing
infuriated him more than to find himself drawing, with an odd facility,
strange little designs on the corners of his blotting paper while
engaged in thinking out the intricacies connected with the tasting of
tea.
The suppression of a natural ability sometimes produces peculiar results
and the deliberate smothering of all he had been taught or had inherited
from his father brought about in Robert Everett Rendall a deplorable
irritability and high temper. This he was discreet enough to keep in
hand during City hours, but in his own home he allowed it full sway.
At such times his actions were abnormal. He would pick up any object
convenient to hand and throw it with surprising accuracy of aim at one
or another of the highly respectable water-colour paintings which
adorned the walls of his abode.
But even in this matter his City training stood him in good stead, for
there was very little spontaneity in the act. According to the degree of
his ill-humour, so was the target chosen. If he were in a towering rage
the 20x30 drawing of Clovelly would be bound to have it; and so down the
scale of anger to the 10x7 of Beachy Head. It made no difference whether
the picture were large or small, his projectile struck it with
never-failing precision. The tinkle and crash of the falling glass
seemed to restore his calm, for when the blow had been struck he
returned to more normal habits.
Had Mrs. Rendall been gifted with observation she would have known
exactly, according to his mood, which picture would fall, and would thus
have saved herself much ducking over the dining-room table. Such
conclusions, however, were beyond the reach of her unsubtle soul.
In connection with this matter she produced, and that unintentionally,
one of her only flights of humour:
“If you would throw your serviette ring, Robert, it would not matter so
much, but the salt-cellar makes it so uncomfortable for every one else.”
II
The news of Wynne’s birth was conveyed to Mr. Rendall on his doorstep at
an inopportune moment. He had pinched his fingers in the front gate, and
followed this misfortune with the discovery that his latchkey had been
left in another pair of trousers. Few things irritate a man more than
ringing his own door bell, and Mr. Rendall was no exception to the rule.
In common with the general view, he conceived that the parlour-maid kept
him waiting unduly.
“I cannot think what you girls do all day long,” he said sharply, when
the door opened.
To this Lorna replied:
“Oh, sir, if you please, the baby has come.”
“Well, that won’t alter the price of bacon,” ejaculated Mr. Rendall, and
pushed past her into the hall.
But notwithstanding this attitude of _nonchaloir_, he was genuinely put
about by the news. He did not admit the right of babies to take
liberties with their time-sheets. To do so was an impertinent
indiscretion. The other two children had not behaved in this manner, and
he saw no reason why a special latitude should be extended to the new
arrival. Already he had made preparations for being from home when this
troublesome period arrived, and now, by a caprice of nature, he was
involved in all the discomfort that falls to the lot of a husband at
such a time. It was not part of his nature to take a secondary place in
his own household, and he esteemed that to do so was derogatory to his
position.
Throwing his hat on the hall chair he entered the drawing-room, where he
received a rude surprise. It was his habit, before setting out to the
City, to finish his breakfast coffee by the drawing-room fire. To his
disgust and irritation he found the empty cup, a crumpled newspaper, and
his soft slippers just as he had left them that morning. Mightily
angered, Mr. Rendall moved toward the bell, when his eye fell upon a
basket in the grate. With the intention of throwing cup, newspaper,
shoes and basket into the garden, he crossed the room, but as he stooped
to carry out his resolve, a faint, flickering wail came to his ears. The
contents of the basket moved ever so slightly—a fold of blanket turned
outward, and the thin, elfin face of his youngest son was revealed.
At that moment the nurse came into the room. She hesitated at the sight
of Mr. Rendall, then stepped forward with,
“Oh, it’s you, sir. Hush, that’s the baby.”
“D’you imagine I thought it was a packet of envelopes?” retorted Mr.
Rendall. “But why not put him in the nursery?”
“The other children have only just been sent to their aunt’s, sir, and
the nursery isn’t quite ready. Poor little thing’s very weakly, and has
to be near a good fire.”
“H’m,” said Mr. Rendall. “I see! Boy, eh? Not much good—weakly boys!”
“Oh, but he’ll soon strengthen up.”
“Hope so. Yes. Doctor’s bills—no good! Mrs. Rendall all right?”
“Going along very nicely, I’m glad to say.”
“H’m. Yes. When did all this happen?”
“About three o’clock.”
“Not much of a chance to clear up, eh? Cups and things lying about!
Well, I suppose I may as well go upstairs.”
The interview between husband and wife does not affect our narrative and
may well be omitted.
III
Despite adverse conditions, Wynne Rendall survived the perils of
infancy. He was, however, a fragile child, susceptible to chills and
fever, and ailments the flesh is heir to. In appearance he in no way
resembled his brother or sister—healthy children both, with large
appetites and stupid, expressionless faces. He had a broad brow, which
overcast the slender lower portions of his face and accentuated the
narrowness of his shoulders. His eyes were restless and very bright;
they flickered inquiry at every object which passed before their focal
plane. His attention was readily attracted to anything unusual even in
his early pram days. On one occasion he saw a balloon floating over the
houses at a low altitude, and his perambulator never passed the spot
above which he had seen it, without his eyes lifting toward the skies in
anxious search. Wynne’s nurse was a conscientious little being, and took
a fierce pride in the prowess of her charge.
“The way ’e notices, you know. Never forgets so much as anything,” she
would confide to other nurses as they pursued their way toward the
gardens. “Knows ’is own mind, ’e does, and isn’t afraid to let you know
it, either.”
Certainly Wynne held ideas regarding the proper conduct of babies and
did not hesitate to raise his voice in displeasure when occasion
demanded. In this, however, he showed a logical disposition, for he
never cried for the sake of crying. Of toys he very soon tired, and
signified lack of interest by throwing them from his pram at moments
when his actions were unobserved. As a rule he showed some enthusiasm
with the arrival of a new toy, and cherished it dearly for two or three
days, but directly the novelty had worn off he lost no time in ridding
himself of its society. If he were caught in the act, and the toy
restored to him, he would cry very heartily, bite his hands, and kick
his feet.
Unlike most children, his first adventures with talking did not consist
in repetition of the words “mummie” and “daddy.” The nurse did her best
to persuade him, but he was obdurate, and declined to accept the view
that they should take precedence in forming a vocabulary. Trees, sky and
water he articulated, almost perfectly, before bothering about nouns
defining mere mortals.
IV
At the age of four and a half he was sent to a kindergarten, where he
found many things to wonder about. He spent a year or more wondering. He
wondered about the ribbons that tied little girls’ hair, and why hair
need be tied, since it was pleasanter to look upon in riot. He wondered
why the lady who kept the school had a chain to her eye-glasses, since
they gripped her nose so securely that the danger of their falling off
was negligible. He wondered why A was A, and not for example S, and
would not accept it as being so without a reason being furnished. Also
he wondered why he should be set tasks involving the plaiting of
coloured strips of paper, which were tiresome to perform and unsightly
when finished.
“Why need I?” he asked petulantly. “Grown-ups don’t. They are ugly and
silly.”
“You mustn’t say that, Wynne,” reproved the mistress. “Besides it isn’t
true. Doesn’t your mother do pretty embroidery? I am sure she does.”
The logic of the reply pleased him, but it also set him speculating why
his mother devoted her time to such profitless employment. The designs
she worked were stereotyped and geometrical. It seemed impossible any
one could wish to be associated with such productions, and yet, when he
came to reflect upon the matter, he realized that most of her time was
spent stitching at them.
At the first opportunity he said:
“Mummie, why do you do that?”
“Because it is pretty,” she replied.
There must be something wrong then, he decided. Either she had used the
wrong word, or the natural forms which he had decided were “pretty” were
not pretty at all. The train of thought was a little complex, so he
questioned afresh:
“What are they for when you’ve done?”
“Antimacassars.”
“What’s antercassars?”
“It means something you put over the back of a chair to prevent the
grease from people’s hair spoiling the coverings.” Mrs. Rendall’s
grandmother had provided her with this valuable piece of knowledge.
“Oh,” said Wynne.
His eyes roamed round the precise semi-circle of small drawing-room
chairs, each complete with its detachable antimacassar. As he looked it
struck him that the backs of these chairs were so low that no grown-up
person could bring his head into contact with them unless he sat upon
the floor. Wherefore it was clear that his mother was making provision
against a danger which did not exist.
With this discovery awoke the impression that she could hardly be a lady
of sound intelligence. Rather fearfully he advanced the theory that her
labours were in vain.
“Don’t bother your head about these things,” said Mrs. Rendall. “Plenty
of time to think of them when you are grown up.” And she threaded her
needle with a strand of crimson silk.
Wynne passed from the room disturbed by many doubts. To the best of his
ability he had proved to his mother that antimacassars in no sense were
antimacassars, and, in defiance of his logic, she continued to produce
them. Moreover, she had said they were pretty, and they were _not_
pretty—she had said they were antimacassars and they were _not_
antimacassars. Could her word, therefore, be relied upon in other
matters? For instance, when she announced at table, “You have had quite
enough;” or at night, “It is time to go to bed,” might it not, in
reality, be an occasion for a “second helping” or another hour at play?
It was reasonable to suppose so.
He decided it would be expedient to keep his eyes open and watch the
habits of grown-ups more closely in the future.
V
The next serious impression on Wynne’s susceptible brain was the
discovery of routine, and he conceived for it an instant dislike. To him
it appeared a grievous state of affairs that nearly all matters were
guided by the clock rather than by circumstance. One had one’s breakfast
not because one was hungry, but because it was half-past eight, and so
on with a mass of other details, great and small, throughout the day.
That people should wilfully enslave themselves to a mere mechanical
contrivance, instead of rising superior to the calls of time and place,
was incomprehensible to Wynne. He could not appreciate how regularity
and repetition in any sense benefited the individual. He observed how a
breakdown in the time-table of events was a sure signal for high words
from his father, and an aggravated sense of calamity which ran through
every department of the house. True, a late breakfast presaged the loss
of a train, and so much time less at the office, but surely this was no
matter for melancholy? It argued a poor spirit that could not rejoice at
an extra quarter of an hour in bed, or delaying the pursuit of irksome
duties.
Wynne had never seen his father’s office, but at the age of seven he had
already formed very pronounced and unfavourable views regarding it. To
his mind the office and the City were one—a place which swallowed up
mankind in the morning and disgorged them at night. The process of
digestion through which they appeared to have passed produced
characteristics of a distressing order.
A child judges men by his father, and women by his mother. From this
standard Wynne judged that men might be tolerable were it not for the
City. The City was responsible for his father’s ill-humours at
night—the city inspired home criticism and such observations as:
“I come back tired out and find——” etc.
Wynne had a very wholesome distaste for recurrent sentiments; he liked
people to say new things that were interesting. The repetition of
ready-made phrases was lazy and dull—the very routine of speech. It
were better, surely, to say nothing at all than have catch-phrases for
ever on one’s lips.
From this point his thoughts turned to inanimate objects, and
subconsciously he realized how routine affected their arrangement as
inevitably as it affected human beings. Look where you would, there was
always a hat-rack in the hall, a church almanack in the lavatory, and a
clock on the dining-room mantelpiece. Why?
There was a certain rough justice in the position of the hat-rack,
assuming that one admitted the law which discouraged the wearing of hats
in the house, but why should one desire to study saints’ days while
washing one’s hands? A clock, too, would be none the less serviceable if
standing on a cabinet. Who, then, was responsible for dictating such
laws? he asked himself. Clearly these were matters for investigation.
An opportunity to investigate arose a few days later. There was a new
housemaid, and after her first effort to turn out the drawing-room Mrs.
Rendall summoned her to explain that the chairs and tables had not been
put back in their proper places.
“Your master would be most annoyed if he saw this, Emily. It is very
careless indeed. These chairs must go like this”—and the old order was
restored.
“Why do they have to go like that, Mummie?” demanded Wynne, when the
maid had departed.
“Because they always have,” replied Mrs. Rendall, with great finality.
He was too young to understand the meaning of a vicious circle or he
might have recognized its rotations in her reply. So everything must be
done again because it has been done before. Seemingly that was the law
governing the universe.
Speaking almost to himself he mused:
“I think it would be nice to do things because they _never_ have been
done before.”
To which Mrs. Rendall very promptly replied:
“Don’t be silly.”
“That isn’t silly,” said Wynne. “Why is it silly?”
“If you say another word you will go straight to bed.”
The remark was as surely in place as the clock which stood on the dead
centre of the mantelpiece.
VI
Middle class suburban prosperity was not the atmosphere to produce the
best results from Wynne Rendall’s active, sensitive brain. He could not
understand his parents, and they did not attempt to understand him. His
elder brother and sister, being three and four years his senior, left
him outside their reckoning. They played sedate games, in which he was
never invited to take part. To tell the truth, he had little enough
inclination, for most of their ideas of entertainment revolved round
commercial enterprise, which he cordially disliked. His brother would
build a shop with the towel-horse, stock it with nursery rubbish, and
sell the goods, after much ill-humoured bartering, to his sister. She,
poor child, in spite of frequent importunities, never once was allowed
to play the rôle of shopkeeper, but continued as a permanent customer
until the game had lost its relish.
Thus Wynne was thrown very much on his own resources. He read
voraciously whatever books he could procure, and spent a deal of time
working out his own intricate little thoughts.
Somewhere at the back of his head was a strong conviction that the world
held finer things than those surrounding him. To strengthen this belief
were certain passages in the books he read. On the whole, however, he
was rather disappointed with reading. This in itself was not surprising,
in view of the quality of the books to which he had access. It seemed to
him that a man might very easily devise more romantic imaginings than
any with which he had come into contact.
To test the truth of this theory, he took a pencil stump and some paper
into the garden and tried to write about pleasing things. But the words
he desired were hard to find, hard to spell, and difficult to string
together. So, instead, he decided to draw the little Princess who was
the heroine of his unwritten tale. In this he was more successful and
achieved a dainty little figure with an agreeable smile. To some extent
this pleased him, but not altogether. He was painfully conscious that
her feet were clumsy, and her eyes ill drawn, and that the picture did
not express half he desired to express. A picture was stationary, and
lacked the movement and variety of words. Words could describe the
picture, but the picture could not speak the words. Thus his first
artistic experiment was fraught with disappointment. As luck would have
it, his father chanced by and flicked the paper from his fingers.
“What’s this, eh?” he demanded. “Wasting your time drawing! Why aren’t
you at play?”
“I’m ’musing myself,” replied Wynne, sulkily.
“You amuse yourself with a ball, then, like anybody else.”
It is curious how closely a ball is associated with amusement. The
average man is incapable of realizing entertainment that does not
include the use of a ball. Reputations have been made and lost through
ability or inability to handle it in the proper manner. A man is
considered a very poor sort of fellow if he expresses disdain and
contempt for the ball. Conceive the catastrophic consequences that would
result if a law were passed forbidding the manufacture of balls? A
shudder runs through the healthy-minded at the bare thought of such a
thing.
Mr. Rendall’s anger can readily be appreciated, then, when his son made
answer:
“There isn’t any fun in that.”
“No fun?” roared Mr. Rendall. “Time you got some proper ideas into your
head, young fellow. Be ashamed of yourself! Fetch a ball from the
nursery at once, and let me see you enjoying yourself with it, or you’ll
hear something. Understand this, too—there’s not going to be any
drawing in this household, or a lot of damn high-falutin artistic
business either. Get that into your head as soon as you can. Be off.”
Ten minutes later, in a white heat of fury, Wynne was savagely kicking a
silly woollen ball from one end of the grass patch to the other.
“That’s not the way,” said his father.
“Damn the ball,” screamed Wynne, and made his first acquaintance with a
willow twig across the back.
VII
It is a matter for speculation as to what extent environment can smother
natural impulses. Surrounded on all sides by convention and routine, the
spark of originality is in a fair way to become dampened or altogether
extinguished.
Such was the case with Wynne Rendall. He was half confident that many
existing ideals were not ideals at all, and that much that was desirable
to develop was wilfully undeveloped; but weighing in the balance against
this view were the actions and opinions of those with whom he came into
contact. Was it, then, he who was at fault? A glance to the right and
left seemed to point to that conclusion. And yet there was nature to
support his view: nature with its thousand intricate moods of growth and
illumination—nature who pranked the water to laughing wavelets and
tasselled the sky with changing clouds—nature who made night a castle
of mystery where invisible kings held court, and mischievous hobgoblins
gobbled at the fairies’ toes as they tripped it beneath the laurel
bushes in the garden. Surely, surely these things mattered more greatly
than half-past eight breakfast, and the 9:15 to town? Surely there was
greater happiness to be found thinking of these than in flinging a ball
at ninepins or kicking it through a goal?
And yet his father beat him because he drew a fairy, and his mother
threatened him with an early bed when he desired to do as others had
never done before.
His brother and sister played at “shop,” and comforted their parents
exceedingly by so doing. They never asked “silly questions,” he was
constantly told. They were all right, and only he was wrong.
VIII
It is hard indeed to preserve faith with so great a consensus of opinion
against one, and it is probable Wynne Rendall would have dulled into a
very ordinary lad had it not been for a chance visit from his father’s
brother. Wynne had often heard his parents speak of Clem Rendall. They
referred to him as a “ne’er-do-well,” a term which Wynne took to imply a
person who did not go to the City in the morning.
“Idle and good for nothing,” said his father—“never do anything useful
in this world.”
If by doing anything useful he implied the achievement of business
success his remarks were certainly true, and yet there were features in
Clementine Rendall which called for and deserved a kindlier mention.
He was born, it will be remembered, at a time when his father’s virility
had to some extent abated. He was, in a way, an old man’s child, free
from all ambitions toward personal advancement. Heredity had endowed him
with imagination, appreciation, a charming exterior, a fascinating
address, and an infinite capacity for doing nothing. At the clubs—and
he was a member of many—his appearance was always greeted with
enthusiasm. Few men could claim a greater popularity with both men and
women, and his generosity was as unfailing as his good humour.
There was no real occasion for Clementine Rendall to work, for he had
inherited what little money his father had to leave, and a comfortable
fortune from his mother, which he made no effort to enlarge.
Wynne’s father, who had not profited by the decease of either of his
parents, did not love his brother Clementine any the better in
consequence. He was a man who liked money and desired it greatly. He was
fond of its appearance, its power, and the pleasing sounds it gave when
jingled in the pocket.
At the reading of the will there had been something of a scene on
account of a piece of posthumous fun from the late Edward’s pen:
“To my son Clementine I will and bequeath my entire fortune and estate,
real and personal.” And written in pencil at the foot of the page—“To
that pillar of commerce, Robert Everett Rendall, who was once my son, I
bequeath a quarter of a pound of China tea, to be chosen according to
his taste.”
It was on a bright Sunday morning that Clem Rendall appeared at “The
Cedars,” and his visit was entirely unexpected.
“Morning,” he greeted the maid who opened the door. “Family at home?”
Wynne’s father came out into the hall to see who the visitor might be.
“Hullo, Robert,” said Clem, “coming for a walk?”
Nearly ten years had elapsed since their last meeting, and Mr. Rendall,
senior, conceived that the tone of his brother’s address lacked
propriety.
“This is a surprise, Clem,” he observed, soberly enough. His eyes
travelled disapprovingly over his brother’s loose tweed suit,
yellow-spotted necktie, and soft felt hat.
“Such a lovely day, I took a train to Wimbledon and determined to walk
over to Richmond Park. Passing your house reminded me. Are you coming?”
“I don’t go for walks on Sunday, Clem.”
“Do you not?”
It was at this point that Wynne, who was coming down the stairs, halted
and noted with admiration and surprise the bluff, hearty figure of the
strange visitor, who wore no gloves and carried no cane, and whose
clothes seemed to breathe contempt for Sabbatical traditions.
“Do you not? Why not?”
“Some of us go to church on Sunday.”
“Do you go because you want to go or because it’s Sunday?”
Wynne’s heart almost stopped beating. Those were his feelings about
half-past eight breakfast expressed in words. Apparently Clem neither
desired nor expected a reply, for he put another question:
“How’s tea, Robert? ’Strordinary thing, here are you—most respectable
fellow living—deliberately supplying a beverage that causes more
scandal among its consumers than any other in the world. Opium’s a joke
to it. Ever thought of that?”
“No, and don’t intend to.”
“Ha, well—it’s worth while. Hullo! Who’s this?” His eye fell upon
Wynne.
“This is my younger son. Wynne—come along, my boy—gaping there! Shake
hands with your Uncle Clementine.”
Wynne did not require a second invitation, but descended the stairs two
at a time.
“Frail little devil, aren’t you?” said Clem, enveloping the small hand
of his nephew. “Jove! Robert, but there’s a bit of the old man in
him—notice it? Something about the eyes—and mouth. How old are you,
youngster?”
“I’m nine,” said Wynne.
“Nine, eh! Fine age. Just beginning to break the bud and feel the sun.
Wish I were nine, and all to make. Don’t you wish you were nine,
Robert?”
“I do not.”
“’Course you do. If you were breaking the bud at nine you wouldn’t graft
the stem with a tea-plant. Would he, youngster? Not on purpose. He’d
pitch it a bit higher than that—see himself a larkspur or a foxglove
before he’d be satisfied. Well, what about this walk? Bring the
youngster too.”
“I think his mother has already arranged—”
“Nonsense! If you don’t care to come he and I’ll go together. Get your
hat, son.”
For the first time in memory Wynne was grateful for the hat-rack being
in the hall. He snatched his cap from a peg and ran into the front
garden before his father had time to say no.
Apparently Clem realized that an embargo would in all probability be
placed on the expedition, for he only waited long enough to say:
“Expect us when you see us,” and followed Wynne, closing the front door
behind him.
“Come on, youngster,” he ordered; “we must sprint the first mile or
they’ll put bloodhounds on our track.”
He gripped Wynne’s hand and raced him down the road. At the corner a fly
was standing, with the driver dozing upon the box.
“Jump in,” shouted Uncle Clem. Then “Drive like the devil, Jehu. We’ve
broken into the Bank of England and Bow Street runners are after us.”
The driver was a cheerful soul, and he whipped up the horse to a
galumphing canter.
Wynne was quite speechless from laughter and excitement. When at last he
recovered his voice it was to say:
“But you haven’t told him where to go, Uncle.”
“Wouldn’t be half such fun if we knew. Besides, he’s a fellow with
imagination—he knows what to do. He’ll take us to a secret place in the
heart of the country where we can bury the treasure. I wouldn’t be a bit
surprised if he took us to Richmond Park.”
He spoke loud enough for the driver to hear, and was rewarded for his
subtlety by an almost imperceptible inclination of the shiny black hat,
and the cab took a sharp turn to the left along a road leading over the
common in the direction of Sheen Gate.
Uncle Clem preserved the hunted attitude until they had covered the best
part of a mile; then he leant back with a sigh of relief.
“I believe we have shaken off our pursuers,” he declared, “and can
breathe easily once more. Hullo!” pointing to the sky, “that’s a
hawk—see him? Wonderful fellows, hawks! Always up in the clouds rushing
through space, and only coming to earth to snatch at a bit of food.
That’s the right idea, y’know. Never do any good if you stick to the
ground all the while. ’Course he’s a nasty-tempered fellow, and a bit of
a buccaneer, but there’s a good deal to be said in favour of him.”
The look of admiration on Wynne’s face made him smile and shake his
head.
“No, you are wrong in thinking that, youngster. There’s nothing of the
hawk about me. I lack the energy that compels his headlong flights. One
might say that I was a bit of a lark, for I enjoy a flutter in the blue,
and I can’t help lifting a song of praise when I get there.”
Wynne did not dare to open his lips, lest he should stay the course of
this wonderful being’s reflections. It was almost too good to be true to
find himself actually in contact with some one who spoke with such
glorious enthusiasm and spirit about these delightful unearthly matters,
and whose conversation seemed to bear no relation to time-tables and
ordinary concerns of life. So he nodded very gravely and edged a little
nearer the big man in the rough tweed suit.
Uncle Clem understood the impulse, and slipped his hand through his
little nephew’s arm. He took possession of Wynne’s hand and raised it in
his palm.
“All of us have five fingers and five senses, and most of us use none of
them. Yes, most of us are like mussels on a rock, who do no more than
open their shells for the tide to drift victuals into their mouths.
That’s the thing to avoid, y’know—molluscry. What are you going to do
with your five fingers and your five senses, youngster?”
“I—I don’t quite know what I will do with them, Uncle,” Wynne replied,
hesitatingly. Then, with more assurance—“But I know what I shan’t do
with them.”
“Yes?”
“I shan’t do things because they always have been done before.”
Clementine laughed. “Not a bad beginning,” he said; “but you want to be
very sure of the alternative. No good pushing over a house if you can’t
build a better. You didn’t know your grandfather—no end of a fine
fellow he was—used his brain and his hands to some effect. He was an
artist.”
“Oh, was he?” said Wynne, with a shade of disappointment. He had never
been told before.
“Doesn’t that please you?”
“I don’t know, Uncle. I think it would be nice to be an artist, but—”
“Yes?”
“We’ve got some pictures at home, and they don’t seem very nice.”
“Ah, they wouldn’t. But there are all sorts of pictures, and perhaps
yours are the wrong sort. Now, your grandfather painted the right sort.
Here, wait a minute.” He fumbled in his pocket and produced a
letter-case. “There!” taking a photograph from one compartment. “This is
a copy of one of his pictures. Look at it. A faun playing his pipe to
stupid villagers. D’you see the expression on his face? He looks very
serious, doesn’t he, and yet you and I know that he’s laughing. Can you
guess why he’s laughing?”
Wynne took the photograph and studied it carefully. At length he said:
“He’s laughing because they can’t understand the tune he’s playing.”
“Bravo!” cried Uncle Clem, and clapped him on the back. “Any more?”
Wynne turned to the picture again.
“Some of them aren’t paying attention. Look at that one—he’s cutting a
piece of stick to amuse himself. And this—he looks just like his father
does when he’s wondering if he has time to catch the train.”
“Oh, excellent! That’s precisely what he is doing. If he had been born
in a later age he’d have been looking at his watch—as it is he is
telling the time by the sun—see it falling there between the
trees?—and he seems to be saying, ‘If this fellow goes on much longer I
shall miss my tea.’ Don’t you think that picture was worth painting?”
“Yes,” said Wynne; “but I’ve never seen a picture like that before. Ours
are all lighthouses and things. What is the name of the man who is
playing the pipe?”
“He’s a faun—or, as some people would say—a satyr.”
“I’d like to be a faun,” said Wynne, “but if I were I should get into a
fearful temper with the people who didn’t like my tunes. I should hit
them over the head with my pipe.”
“You’d cease to be a satyr if you did that. To be a proper satyr you
must smile and go on playing until at last they do understand. That’s
the artist’s job in this world, and it is a job too—a job and a fearful
responsibility.”
“Why is it?”
“Because at heart the villagers don’t want to understand, and if you
feel it’s your duty to make them—your duty to stir their souls with
music—then you must be doubly sure that you give them the right music.
A mistake in a row of figures doesn’t matter—any one can alter
that—but a false note of music—a false word upon the page—a false
brush-mark upon a canvas stands for all time.”
“I see,” breathed Wynne. “I hadn’t thought of that. I’d only thought it
mattered to make people believe something different.”
“Hullo! We’re through the gates,” exclaimed Uncle Clem. “Drive on
somewhere near the ponds, Jehu, and deposit us there. Ever been in the
Royal Park of Richmond before, young fellow?”
Wynne shook his head. His mind did not switch over to a new train of
thought as rapidly as his uncle’s, and it still hovered over the subject
of the picture, which he kept in his hand.
“Keep it if you like,” said Uncle Clem, following the train of his
nephew’s thoughts. “Keep it and think about it.”
“Oh, may I really? It would be lovely if I might.” His eyes feasted on
his new possession. “Uncle, there are two of the villagers who seem to
understand, aren’t there? These two, holding hands.”
“Ah, to be sure they do. That’s because they are lovers.”
“Lovers?”
“Yes, lovers understand all manner of things that other people don’t. In
fact, only a lover can properly understand. But I’ll tell you all about
that later on.”
“Later on” is so much kindlier a phrase than “When you are old enough.”
“There, put it in your pocket. What—afraid of crumpling it? Half a
minute, then; I’ll turn out the letter-case and you can have that too.”
And so Wynne came to possess a most marvellous picture and a crocodile
case, bearing in silver letters “C. R.”
“I think,” said Clem to the driver, as they descended by the
rhododendrons near the ponds, “it would be a good idea if you drove to
Kingston and bought us a lunch. You know the sort of thing—meat pies,
jam tarts, ginger beer, fairy cakes—anything you can think of. We’ll
meet you here in an hour and a half.”
He gave the driver a five-pound note and smiled him farewell.
It was very splendid to be associated with a man who would trust a
stranger with so huge a fortune without so much as taking the number of
the cab. Wynne could not help recalling the precautions his father had
taken when once he had despatched a messenger to collect a parcel from
the chemist’s. The comparison was greatly to the detriment of Mr.
Rendall, senior.
“This is one of the wildest parts of the park,” announced Uncle Clem.
“If we go hushily we shall see rabbits before they see us, and perhaps
almost get within touch of a deer.”
“What, real deer—stags?”
“Any amount of them. They bell in the mating season, and have battles
royal on the mossy sward.”
“And can you get near enough to touch one?”
“Not quite. You think you will, and tiptoe toward him with your hand
outstretched, and then, just as you almost feel the warmth of him at the
tips of your fingers—hey presto! Zing! he’s gone, and divots of earth
are flying round your ears. That’s why the stag is the ideal
beast—because he’s elusive.”
“You could shoot him,” suggested Wynne.
“Yes, you can kill an ideal, and a lot of good may it do you dead.
Shooting is no good, but if you run after him, as like as not he’ll lead
you through lovely, unheard-of places. Here’s an umbrageous oak. We’ll
spread ourselves out beneath it and praise God for the sunshine that
makes us appreciate the shade.”
He threw himself luxuriously on the soft green carpet, and felt in his
pocket for a pipe. It was not until he had carefully filled it that he
found he had no matches.
“This,” he said, “is really terrible. What is to be done?”
“I’ll run off and find some one,” exclaimed Wynne, enthusiastic at the
chance of rendering a service. But Uncle Clem restrained him.
“No, no,” he said, “we must think of more ingenious methods than that.
You and I are alone on a desert island, but we possess a watch. Casting
our eyes around we discover a rotten bough. Look!” He broke a little
fallen branch that lay in the grass beside his hand. “The inside you see
is mere tinder. Now we will roll out into the sun and operate.”
It was some while before the concentrated ray from the watch-glass
produced a spark upon the wood.
“Blow for all you are worth,” cried Uncle Clem. “Splendid—it is
beginning to catch! Oh! blow again, Friday—see it smoulders! One more
blow—a gale this time. Oh, excellent Man Friday!—what a lucky fellow
Robinson Crusoe is!”
He dropped the ember into his pipe and sucked furiously. At last tiny
puffs of rewarding smoke began to emerge from his lips. His features
relaxed and he grinned.
“We have conquered,” he declared—“earned the reward for our labours!
But the odd thing is that now the pipe is alight I am not at all sure if
I really want it.”
Every boy must possess a hero—it is the lodestar of his being. He can
lie awake at night, happy in the mere reflection of that wonderful
being’s prowess. In imagination, enemies, one by one, are arraigned
before the protecting hero, who, with the justice of gods admixed with a
finely-tempered satire, judges their sins and sends them forth
repentant. But this is not all. He can lift the soul to empiric heights,
and open at a touch new and wonderful doors of thought and action. He
can enthuse, inspire, illumine, refresh old ideals—inspirit new—make
dark become light, and light so brilliant that the eyes are dazzled by
the whiteness thereof.
The hero occurs by circumstance or deed, and his responsibility is
boundless. He must think as a king thinks when the eyes of the nation
rest upon him—he must tread all ways with a sure foot and proud
bearing—chest out and head high. He must not slip upon the peel that
lies in the highway, nor turn aside to escape its menace; he must crush
it beneath his heel as he strides along, a smile upon his lips, his cane
swinging—the veriest picture of majesty and resource.
Wynne Rendall found his hero that Sunday in Richmond Park, and
worshipped him with the intense devotion of which only a boy is capable.
God, he conceived, must have had some very personal handiwork in the
fashioning of Uncle Clem. He saw him as a man possessed of every
possible charm and virtue, without one single unpleasing factor to
offset them. It is not unnatural, therefore, that Wynne should have
fallen down and worshipped, and not unnatural that there should have
been a dry ache in his throat as, in the lavender twilight, the cab
turned the corner of their street and slackened speed.
“Let’s say good-night outside, Uncle,” he suggested, huskily.
Perhaps he hoped his uncle would give him a kiss, but Clementine had
something far better in store. He threw an arm round the narrow little
shoulders and gave Wynne a combined pat and hug. The broad comradeship
of the action was fine—magnificent. Pals both! One good man to another!
it seemed to say. Stanley and Livingstone must have met and parted in
suchwise.
“A capital day,” said Uncle Clem. “We must repeat it—you and I. Better
wait, Jehu, for I shan’t be long.”
The atmosphere of the drawing-room struck a chill as they entered. From
the reserve displayed it was clear that Wynne’s parents had been
discussing the expedition adversely.
“Go and change your boots, Wynne,” said his mother.
It was a cold welcome, he reflected, as he departed in obedience to the
command.
“That’s a good boy,” remarked Uncle Clem.
“I hope he will prove so,” said Mr. Rendall, devoutly, as befitted a
Sunday evening.
Mrs. Rendall said nothing. She had nothing to say. Granted the necessary
degree of courage she would have been glad to ask Clem to change his
boots, but circumstances being as they were she was denied the
privilege, and kept silent.
“Yes, there’s a lot in him. You’ll have to go to work pretty carefully
to bring it out. A rare bulb with delicate shoots. Touch ’em the wrong
way and they’ll wither, but with the right amount of nursing and the
right degree of temperature there are illimitable possibilities.
Interesting thing education!”
“Yes,” concurred Mr. Rendall. “A sound business education fits a boy for
after life.”
“Business! H’m! Think he suggests a likely subject for business, Robert?
I fancy, when the time comes, the boy’s bent may lie in other
directions.”
“The boy will do as he is told, Clem.”
Clem smiled, looked at the ceiling, and shook his head.
“Which of us do?” he said. “Never even the likely ones. You may bend a
twig, but it springs straight again when your hand is removed. Seems to
me our first duty toward our children is to encourage their mental
direction and not deflect it. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Rendall?”
“Oh, yes,” replied that lady, with her inevitable falling inflection.
“No, you don’t,” snapped her husband, “so why say you do? No reason at
all! In the matter of educating children, Clem, I cannot see you are
qualified to hold an opinion. The first duty of a parent is to instil in
the child a sense of duty to its parent.”
“Oh, bosh!” said Clem, pleasantly. “Absolute bosh. Respect and duty are
not a matter of convention or of heredity, they must be inspired.”
“We are not likely to agree, so why proceed?”
“If we only proceeded on lines of agreement we should come to an
immediate standstill. Let’s thrash out the matter. To my thinking, the
father should respect the child more than the child should respect the
father. It must be so. The poor little devil comes into the world
through no impulse of its own. It had no choice in the matter. Its
coming is impressed—it is conscripted into being—that’s indisputable.
Then, surely to goodness, it is up to us to give it, as it were, the
Freedom of the City—the freedom of the fields, and every possible
latitude for expansion and self-expression. To do less were an
intolerable injustice. Our only excuse for producing life is that we may
admire its beauty—not that it may admire ours.”
“This is wild talk,” began Mr. Rendall. But Clem was too advanced to
heed interruption.
“The most degrading thing you can hear a man say to his child is, ‘After
all I’ve done for you.’ It should be, ‘Have I done enough for you? Have
I made good?’ That is the straightforward attitude; but to bring a child
into the world against its will and to force it along lines that lead
away from its own inclination is dastardly.” He turned suddenly to Mrs.
Rendall. “It must be so wonderful to be a mother, so glorious to have
accepted that mighty responsibility.”
Mrs. Rendall fumbled at the threading of her silk and dropped her
scissors to the floor. As he stooped to pick them up Clem continued:
“To know that within oneself there lies the power to fashion a body for
those tiny souls that flicker out there in the beyond.”
“Clem!” Mr. Rendall tapped his foot warningly.
“Ah, Robert, we know nothing of these matters—they are beyond our ken.”
“A very good reason for not discussing them. The subject seems to be
rather—”
“Rather what?”
“Distasteful.”
“Is it? Good God! And yet we discuss our colds in the most polite
society, and bear witness to their intensity by quoting the number of
handkerchiefs we’ve used. We have no shame in trumpeting our petty
thoughts of the day, but that faint bugle-call that sounds in the night
and summons us—”
“I think supper is waiting,” said Mrs. Rendall, rising to her feet. “I
suppose you will be staying.”
“Delighted,” said Clem, affably. “And I’ll bring the bugle-call with
me.”
“I trust you won’t forget that servants will be in the room,” remarked
Mr. Rendall.
“We can send ’em out to ask my cabby to wait.”
Clem did not delay his departure over long. His conversational tide was
somewhat dammed by the cold mutton and cold potatoes that formed the
basis of his brother’s hospitality.
He allowed Mr. Rendall to do the talking, and was oppressed by a great
pity for his little nephew, who had to listen to such irritable and
melancholy matter at every meal.
Wallace and Eva, the two elder children, behaved with precision and did
not open their lips, save for the reception of food. Wynne was
discouraged on the few occasions he spoke, and was the recipient of
injunctions not to “crumble his bread,” and to “sit up properly.” These
recurred with a clockwork regularity that deprived them of the essence
of command.
The result was to make Clem feel very dejected and forlorn.
He said good-bye on the doorstep and walked, alone as he thought, to the
front gate. Arrived there he said in a very heartfelt manner:
“God! What a night!” and was not a little taken aback when his brother,
who had followed, in soft shoes, demanded:
“I beg your pardon?”
Clem recovered himself a little too intensely.
“All these damn stars,” he replied, with a broad gesture.
“H’m!” said Mr. Rendall. Then: “I hope you haven’t been putting ideas
into that boy’s head, Clem.”
“They are there already,” came the response. “Take care of them,
Robert.”
He jumped into the cab and drove away.
IX
A fall of rain and a little sunshine make a magic difference to a garden
bed. The petals of flowers unfold—colours clear and intensify—white
buds glisten beneath their tight-drawn casings.
“We can do with a lot of this,” the flowers seemed to say. “Treat us
aright and there is no limit to our beauty and fragrance.”
But our English climate is not always amenable. Sometimes it replies
through the mouth of a nipping norther, or by the hard, white hands of
frost, and down go the flowers, one by one, till only the sturdiest
remain standing.
It would be no exaggeration to say that Wynne Rendall’s soul had been
opened out, in that one day with his uncle, from forty-five to ninety
degrees. So many things he had doubted had been made sure, and so many
fears had been swept aside, to be replaced by finer understandings.
Through Uncle Clem the world had become a new place for him. It was no
longer a public park, with railings and finger-boards pointing the
directions in which one might or might not proceed. He did not quite
know what sort of place it had become, but he was radiantly confident of
glorious possibilities. Clearly it would be the duty of all who had eyes
to see, and ears to hear, to perform something in praise of this
marvellous planet, and the wonderful people (_vide_ Uncle Clem) who
walked upon it.
He, Wynne, would do something—he felt the immediate need to do
something—he would do something great. People, beholding what he had
done, would exclaim, “This is marvellous! Why have we not been shown
these wonders before?” Then they would feel for him the same admiration
he felt for Uncle Clem.
In the midst of these rapturous reflections came the thought that
perhaps he was a little young to become the leader of a new movement.
This, however, in no wise oppressed him. The younger the better. The
distillations of his soul would be none the less rare for being
contained in a small vessel. He would play upon a pipe to foolish
villagers. There were foolish villagers around him in abundance. He knew
of two in their own kitchen—hide-bound creatures who excused themselves
from doing anything he asked on the grounds of suffering from “bones in
their legs.” Were there not others, beside, with whom he sat daily at
table? Charity should begin at home (there was a motto to that effect
hanging on the wall in the spare bedroom), it should therefore begin
with the lowest storey and work up to the highest. These people were of
proven folly—that much he knew from personal investigation; it was his
duty to pipe them to a better understanding. And then arrived a really
disturbing thought. He possessed no pipe, nor any skill to play upon it
had he possessed one. From exaltation his spirits fell to despair. Was
the world to be denied enlightenment for so poor a reason? Such a pass
would be unendurable.
Wynne Rendall was nothing if not courageous. If he felt an impulse of
sufficient force he would accept any hazard to give it expression. His
bodily frailty and susceptibility to pain were no deterrents. He
decided, therefore, while the spirit moved him the supreme moment must
not be lost. He would have to rely upon circumstance and the fertility
of his imagination in carrying out the campaign, and not allow his
thoughts to be damped by knowledge of their unpreparedness. He recalled
how yesterday the sweet environment had lent colour to much that his
uncle had said, and reflected it would be well to profit by that lesson,
and set the scene for his new teachings in a fashion calculated to
promote a sympathetic atmosphere. To speak to his parents of a freer
life and purer outlook in their drawing-room, as they had arranged it,
would be to court failure. His father was at the City, his mother was
out—this, then, was the ideal moment to strike a blow against symmetry
and in favour of æsthetics.
With heart sledge-hammering against his ribs, Wynne descended the stairs
and entered the drawing-room. With disfavour his eyes roamed over the
accustomed arrangements. Balance was the inspiring motive which had
dominated the Rendalls’ mind when they set out their ornaments and hung
their pictures, and balance was the motive which Wynne determined to
destroy.
Beginning with his old enemy, the mantelpiece, he cleared everything
from it. None of these detested examples of art should remain, he
decided. The marble clock, ticking menacingly, was crammed into the
cabinet, where it was speedily followed by the equestrian bronzes and
the wrought-iron candlesticks.
Wynne gasped with ecstasy as he viewed the straight marble line denuded
of these ancient eyesores. He had decided that this should be the
abiding place for a china bowl containing tulips, a flat silver box and
some books. They should repose there in natural positions as though set
down by a thoughtless hand. He tried the effect, and was disappointed;
it lacked the spirit of negligé he had designed. Then came an
inspiration—of course, it looked wrong because of the mirrors of the
overmantel. These immoral reflectors were at the desperate work of
duplication, and were forcing symmetry and balance despite his
precautions.
This being the case, but one course of action was open—the overmantel
would have to go. It was a massive affair, securely fastened to the wall
with large brass-headed nails, and Wynne was a very small person to
undertake its removal. To his credit it stands that he did not wilt
before the task. He climbed upon a table and shook it to and fro until
the nails worked loose, then, exerting all his strength he heaved
mightily. For awhile it defied his efforts, but just as he was beginning
to despair the plaster gave way and the mighty mass of wood and mirrors
tilted forward. Nothing but the presence of two little legs in front
which supported a pair of flimsy shelves prevented Wynne from being
telescoped in the subsequent collapse. He had just time to spring to the
floor and hand it off as the legs broke and the whole affair slithered
to the hearthrug. The fine swept top broke like a carrot, and two of the
side mirrors cracked from end to end. Wynne lay under the debris
breathing very hard, and wondering if the crash had been loud enough to
reach the ears of the servants below. Fortunately for him the kitchen
was at the other end of the house, and there came no rush of feet from
that direction. He waited a few terribly anxious moments, then crawled
out and surveyed his handiwork.
No great revolution appears at its best in the initial stages, and
certainly this was a case in point. Balance he had destroyed beyond all
dispute, but in its place had arisen chaos. Large patches of plaster
littered the carpet, and the grate was filled with pieces of wood and
wreckage. Where once the overmantel had covered its surface, the
wallpaper, in contradistinction to the faded colours surrounding, showed
bright and new. It seemed as though the spook of the detestable affair
still haunted the spot, and would continue to do so down all the ages.
In that moment of extreme desolation Wynne experienced the sensations
which possess a pioneer when he doubts if he has the strength to cross
the ranges. He had, however, already committed himself too deeply to
hang back, and so, with feverish energy, he began to drag the remains
into a corner of the room. As he did so he overset an occasional table
bearing a potted fern and some china knick-knacks, all of which were
smashed to atoms.
With this calamity Wynne Rendall lost control of himself. The mainspring
of his idea snapped, and he became merely a whirlwind of senseless
activity. He dragged pictures from the walls and thrust them beneath
tables, he wrenched the green plush curtains from the lacquered pole and
cast them anyhow—over chairs and sofas—the straight-laid rugs he
pulled askew, he flung an armful of books haphazard on the top of the
piano—he set fire to the crinkly paper in the grate and threw two
aspidistras into the garden. An insane humour seizing him, he brought in
the hat-rack from the hall, and hung coloured plates on all its pegs.
At the end of an hour the effect he had produced could have been more
simply arrived at, and with less destruction to property, if some expert
from Barcelona had exploded a bomb in the apartment.
Wynne’s clothing was awry, his fingers cut and bleeding, and his face
covered with dust and perspiration, when his father, followed by his
mother, opened the door and stood spellbound upon the threshold.
With eyes glittering like diamonds he turned and faced them. The long
pause before any word was spoken was the hardest persecution he had to
bear. Then came the inevitable:
“What the devil is the meaning of this?”
“It means—” he began, but the words stuck in his throat.
“Are you responsible for this?” Mr. Rendall took a step toward him.
Wynne nodded. “Yes-s,” he breathed.
“Is he mad?” Mr. Rendall appealed to his wife, but she was too
flabbergasted to utter a sound. “Are you mad?”
“No,” said Wynne. He knew he must speak. His whole being called on him
to speak, and yet, try as he would, the words refused to come. Oh, why,
why wasn’t Uncle Clem present to say the things he could not express? If
he failed to establish his position there and then the chance would be
gone for ever.
“You had better speak,” said his father, “better explain the meaning of
this—and explain quick.” The last part of the sentence rose to a shout.
“I did it—I did it because you are all wrong—that’s why—all wrong.”
“Wrong! What about?”
“Oh, everything. It’s—y-you can see, now, you were wr-wrong—c-can’t
you? Now that I’ve—oh, you were so wrong—”
“There won’t be much wrong with what I intend doing to you, my boy.”
A hand fell heavily on his shoulder, but he did not wince.
“Won’t make any difference.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Uncle Clem said they didn’t want to understand—but you just have to
make them understand, and go on until they do.”
“Did he? Well, you’re on the point of understanding something you’ve
never properly appreciated before. Out of the way, Mary.”
Mr. Rendall selected a cane from the umbrella stand, as he thrust Wynne
down the hall to the dining-room. Over the arm of the leather saddlebag
chair he bent the supple little body, and in the course of the half
minute which followed he performed an ancient ritual which even Mr.
Squeers would have found it difficult to improve upon.
When it was over he threw the cane upon the table and folded his hands
behind his back.
“Had enough?” he interrogated.
The poor little faun twisted and straightened himself. His face was
paper-white, and his breath came short and gasping, one of his hands
fumbled on the chair-back for support, and his head worked from side to
side.
As a man Mr. Rendall found the sight unpleasant to look upon, but as a
father he felt the need to carry the matter through to its lawful
conclusion.
“If you’ve had enough say you are sorry. I want no explanations.”
Wynne forced himself to concentrate his thoughts away from bodily
anguish.
“I’ve had enough—but it doesn’t mean that I’m sorry.”
“Silence!” roared his father.
“I’m not sorry—not a bit sorry.”
“D’you intend to do this kind of thing again, then?”
“No. I shan’t do it again—not yet.”
“Then get out of the room—get to bed at once.”
Uncle Clem knew. The villagers do not want to understand. Wynne groped
his way from the room and up the stairs. The world was not such a
wonderful place after all.
Meanwhile Mrs. Rendall had been taking an inventory of the disaster in
the drawing-room. She sought her husband with details of the result.
“The overmantel is quite ruined,” she announced.
“Damn the overmantel!” he retorted.
“Did Wynne say he was sorry?”
“Sorry—no—he’s not sorry.”
“Then I cannot think what he did it for,” she remarked illogically.
“Oh, don’t talk like a fool,” he implored.
“Two of the aspidistras have been thrown into the garden,” said she.
Actions resulting from mental suggestion are sometimes immediate. Mr.
Rendall caught up the sugar-castor and sent it hurtling through the air,
and once more “Clovelly” faced the world without a glass.
“Oh dear!” lamented Mrs. Rendall, “there seems such a lot of smashing
going on today, one can’t keep pace with it all.”
X
Next morning found Wynne ill and feverish. The mental excitement and
bodily pain of the previous day had proved more than his constitution
could endure. Wherefore he tossed in bed, lying chiefly on his side for
obvious reasons. Mr. Rendall was thorough, of that there was no
question. Wynne was able to reassure himself of his father’s
thoroughness when he touched his small flank with tentative finger-tips.
As the fever burnt within him he felt mightily sorry for himself. The
world had used him hardly when he sought to offer rare and wonderful
gifts. That this should be so was a great tragedy—and a great
mystery—also it was infinitely sad. The sadness appealed to him most,
and he wept. He wept very copiously and for a long time. The weeping was
a pleasant relief and a compensation for misery. He felt, if the world
could behold his tears, they would assemble about his bedside and
realize the injustice wrought by their deafness and stupidity—they
would be compassionate and anxious to atone. Then, maybe, the great god
of expression would provide him with the words to make his meaning
clear. With this conviction he wept the louder, hoping to attract
attention, but none came nigh him. Accordingly he wept afresh, and this
time from disappointment. In the midst of this final mood of tears his
brother, Wallace, came into the room.
Wallace had been privileged to see the state of the drawing-room, and
although he knew Wynne’s features well enough, he felt the need to
scrutinize afresh the appearance of one who had wilfully produced such
havoc. The characteristic is common to humanity—a man’s deeds create a
revival of interest in his externals, hence the success of Madame
Tussaud’s and the halfpenny illustrated press.
At the sight of his brother, Wynne stopped crying, and composed himself
to the best of his ability.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Wallace found some difficulty in replying. No one cares to admit they
are visiting the Chamber of Horrors for pleasure, although that is the
true explanation of their presence. At length he said:
“Shut up—” and added in support of his command, “you silly fool.”
“You needn’t stare at me if I’m a silly fool,” said Wynne.
“A cat may look at a king,” was Wallace’s considered retort.
“Well, I’d rather a cat looked at me than you did,” said Wynne, feeling
he had nearly brought off something very telling.
Wallace’s intention had not been to excite an argument on reciprocal
lines. He desired to get at his brother’s reasons for the wholesale
smash-up downstairs, consequently he allowed the remark to pass
unchallenged.
“Why did you break the overmantel and all those vases?” he demanded.
“Because they were beastly and ugly.”
“Beastly and ugly?”
“Yes, horrid—and there were _two_ of each of them.”
Wallace began to feel out of his depth.
“But they were in _the drawing-room_,” he said.
Since the drawing-room in every house is, or should be, the abode of
art, it was obviously absurd to say that the appointments thereof were
beastly or ugly.
Wynne did not answer, so Wallace fell back on his beginnings.
“You _must_ be a fool. Father gave you a good hiding, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve never had a hiding.” There was rich pride in the avowal.
“You’ve never done anything worth getting one for.”
“Haven’t I? ’Tany rate, I bet you don’t behave like this again.”
“I bet I do,” said Wynne.
“When will you?” exclaimed Wallace, conscious of great excitement, and
hoping that on the next occasion he might be privileged to witness the
work of destruction in full swing.
“Not yet.”
Wallace hesitated. “What room will you smash up next time?” he asked.
“Oh, it isn’t for that,” cried Wynne, “you can’t see—nobody
understands—”
“Then shut up,” said Wallace, and departed.
Strange as it may seem, this interview had great results in moulding
Wynne Rendall’s character. From his brother’s obvious inability to
realize any motive in his action, other than a wilful desire to destroy,
he turned to an active consideration of what his motives had been.
What was this message he had wished to convey to the world, and had
stumbled so hopelessly in endeavouring to express? It was the first time
he had put the question directly to himself. He knew he had had a
quarrel with many existing matters, but in what manner did he propose to
better them? And the answer came that he did not know.
He had committed the very error against which Uncle Clem had warned
him—the error of breaking down an old régime before he was able to
supply an agreeable alternative. Small wonder, then, if his actions had
savoured of lunacy to those who had beheld them. In imagination he
pictured the drawing-room as it appeared after he had dealt with it, and
was bound to confess that his labours had rendered no service to the
shrine of comfort, art or beauty. Had he himself come suddenly upon such
a room he would have been disgusted by its foolish and wanton disorder.
The revolution had been a failure—complete and utter. Sobriety had been
dragged from his throne, and havoc and ruin reigned instead. Havoc and
Ruin—deplorable monarchs both, of senseless countenance and destructive
hands. Small wonder if their subjects struck at them with sticks and
staves. Small wonder if they could not see the ideals that lay hidden
behind the wreckage of the great upheaval.
The fact stood out clearly that his talents were not ripe. The time had
not come when his song should thrill the world. But come it should, some
day. To that end all his energies should be conserved. Yes, he would
make the world a listener, but he would give it full measure for its
attention, and even though each note should cut them as a knife—it
should not be the gross stab of a maniac lurking in a dark doorway, but
as the cut of a surgeon’s scalpel, who cuts to cure.
Wynne sat up in bed, although to do so caused him pain, and registered a
vow that he would learn all there was to learn, whereby in the end he
might teach the more.
PART TWO
THE PURPLE PATCH
I
A man with a call is a very estimable fellow, but is apt to prove
tiresome to his companions. The same might truthfully be said to apply
to a child, although cases of a call in a child’s disposition are
fortunately not of very frequent occurrence.
After this one excess Wynne’s behaviour provided his parents with little
reason for complaint. He developed a strange amenity to domestic
discipline—he went to bed when he was told, and did not pursue his old
habits of asking “stupid questions.” But there was about him a certain
secretiveness at once perplexing and irritating. He obeyed readily, and
accepted correction in good part, but there hovered round the corners of
his mouth a queer and cynical smile. His expression seemed to say, “You
are in command, and what you say I must do I will do, but of course your
rulings are quite absurd.”
Mr. Rendall endured this inexplicable attitude for several months, but
finally was so annoyed that he wrote the master of the day-school of
which Wynne was a member, and asked him to investigate the matter and
inflict what punishments might seem adequate. To this letter he received
a reply to the effect that as Wynne was showing such astonishing
diligence at his books he deemed it advisable to ignore an offence
which, at most, was somewhat hypothetical.
Mr. Rendall was by no means satisfied of the advisability of taking so
lenient a course. He considered it pointed to a lack of authority which
might well prove fatal in the moulding of character. He decided,
therefore, to tackle Wynne himself upon the subject, and did so in his
accustomed style.
Wynne was working at Latin declensions in the morning-room when his
father entered.
“Proper time for everything,” he said. “Put away that book and go out
for a walk—plenty of time for book reading in school hours.”
“All right,” said Wynne, with resignation. As he walked toward the door
the smile curled the corners of his mouth.
“Here! come back,” ordered Mr. Rendall. “Now then what are you smiling
at?”
Wynne thought for a moment, then he answered, “I shan’t tell you.”
“Oh, you won’t!”
“No. I obey what you tell me to do, and without any fuss, but I shan’t
tell you why I smile.”
“We’ll see about that. P’r’aps I can find a way to stop it.”
“You couldn’t.”
“Oho! couldn’t I?”
“No, because I couldn’t stop it myself,” said Wynne, and walked from the
room.
He had learnt the value of a Parthian arrow. To remain after the
discharge of a shaft was to court painful consequences. It was therefore
his habit, after once unmasking his batteries, to withdraw them speedily
to new emplacements. This was not cowardice, but diplomacy, for there
was no value in risking chastisement which might be avoided.
The chief point of difference between Wynne and his father was that,
whereas Wynne only cared to inquire into matters of which he had no
knowledge, Mr. Rendall resented inquiring into concerns of which he was
not already thoroughly conversant. A man, woman or child whose thoughts
ran on different lines to his own became automatically perverse and
troublesome—a person to avoid where possible, or, if impossible, to be
forcibly cowed into subservience to his rulings. As in America a
Standard automobile is forced upon the public, so in his own home Mr.
Rendall strove to standardize mental outlook and opinion. Hitherto, at
the expenditure of a very slight amount of authority, his efforts had
been rewarded with some success, but in Wynne he perceived the task was
one which bade fair to stretch his patience to the breaking point.
Wynne obeyed his rulings with submission, but it was clearly evident his
acceptance of them was purely superficial. In no case was it apparent
that his son was satisfied either of their justice or value. Such a
state of affairs was intolerable. Thoughts of it invaded the privacy of
his mind during the sacred hours spent at the City. Something would have
to be done—stringent reforms—penalties—hours spent in the
bedroom—bread and water. These and many other corrective measures
occurred to Mr. Rendall as he sat behind his paper in the suburban
train. And yet the whole thing was a confounded nuisance. He didn’t want
to be bothered—that was the truth of the matter. Life had come to a
pretty pass if, after fifteen years of comparative matrimonial quietude,
a man had to worry his head about the conduct of the people who dwelt
beneath his roof.
Had Mr. Rendall compiled a dictionary some of his definitions would have
been as under:—
_Home._—A point of departure and return, costing more in upkeep than it
should. A place for the exercise of criticism—a place from which a man
draws his views on the injustice of local taxation—a spot where a man
desires a little peace and doesn’t get it.
_Wife._—A person who is always a trifle disappointing—a woman who does
not understand the value of money—a woman who asks silly questions
about meals and fails to provide the dishes a man naturally desires.
Some one who may be trusted to say the wrong thing, who lacks proper
authority over the servants and children, and who does not appreciate
all that has been done for her.
_Child._—A being who makes a noise about the house, the proper
recipient of corrections, the abiding place of “don’ts.” A being who
occasionally accompanies a man for a short walk, and is precluded from
doing so again on account of ill-behaviour. A creature with irritating
habits, unlikely to repay all that has been spent upon it in doctor’s
bills and education.
These instances should give a clearer understanding of Mr. Rendall’s
outlook. They may serve also to enlist our sympathies on his behalf in
the unhappy possession of such a son as Wynne.
Mr. Rendall conceived that a subject that could not be understood should
be immediately dismissed, and he applied the same theory to human
beings. Taking this into consideration it is surprising that he did not
pack Wynne off to a boarding-school and so rid himself of the source of
his irritation. But Mr. Rendall, however, was not prepared to take risks
where money was concerned. Rather than squander large sums upon
education, the benefits of which his son might prove too young to
appreciate, he determined that his own convenience must be sacrificed.
He seriously considered the idea of sending Wynne to a cheaper school
than Wyckley, but abandoned the project as being too hazardous.
Wyckley was not a first-class school, but it had the reputation of
providing boys with an excellent business education. To send Wynne to a
cheaper might result in equipping him less well to earn his own
livelihood.
He therefore endured the inconvenience of Wynne’s society until he had
celebrated his twelfth birthday, and then with a feeling of consummate
relief dispatched him to Wyckley complete with an ironbound wooden box
and a deplorably weak constitution.
II
On the day before Wynne’s departure Clementine Rendall paid a surprise
visit. Wynne had not seen him since the day in Richmond Park, three
years before, for his parents had discouraged their intimacy, but Uncle
Clem still lived in his mind as a very romantic figure.
Wynne had been buying some of the kit required for his school equipment,
and on his return he found his father and Uncle Clem in the
morning-room. His heart leapt at the sight of the big man, still
splendid as of yore, but the three years of suppression through which he
had passed had chilled the old impulse of enthusiasm which had brought
him down the stairs three at a time on their first meeting.
“Hullo, youngster!” came the cheery voice.
“Good afternoon, Uncle Clem,” said Wynne, extending his thin white hand.
“Looks ill!” observed Clem to his brother.
Mr. Rendall raised his shoulders.
“Boy’s disposition is unhealthy,” he remarked, “which naturally reacts
on his physique.”
Clem flashed a glance from the speaker to the subject, and noted how the
corners of Wynne’s mouth curled down as much as to say, “You see what I
am up against.”
“You’re hard to please. Boy’s all right! Aren’t you, youngster?”
“The boy is far from all right, Clem. He appears to lead a double life
with some private joke of his own.”
“I’ll ask him,” said Clem.
“What father says is true. I have a private joke, uncle.”
“Then get it off your chest, youngster. A joke is like a drink, and must
not be taken alone.”
Wynne pondered awhile before replying, then he produced his first
epigram.
“Yes, but you can’t share a drink with a teetotaler.”
The subtlety of the phrase pleased him inordinately, and he was
surprised to see that it produced nothing but a frown from Uncle Clem.
“Robert, the youngster and I will take a turn in the garden.”
Mr. Rendall demurred, but Clem waved the objection aside and led the way
down the openwork iron stairs to the lawn.
“Now then,” he said. “What’s the trouble with you? Didn’t like that
calculating remark of yours one bit.”
“I’m sorry,” said Wynne, “but why should I tell them my joke, they
couldn’t see it.”
“Then keep it for the dark, old fellow, or conceal it altogether. The
I-know-more-than-you-but-I-won’t-say-what-it-is attitude does no one any
good.”
Wynne jerked his head petulantly.
“The faun was laughing in grandfather’s painting.”
“Oho! So that’s it? But the villagers didn’t know he was laughing.”
“You and I did.”
“Perhaps. But we shouldn’t be so unsubtle as to tell them so. Consider a
minute. Suppose we thought lots of people were very wrong, and their
wrongness tickled our humour, d’you think the best way of putting ’em
right would be to laugh at ’em? Take it from me it isn’t. If you laugh
at a dog he’ll bite you, but pat him and, in time, he’ll jump through
hoops, walk on his hind legs, and be tricksy as you want.”
“They always frown at me.”
“Maybe they wouldn’t if you didn’t smile at them. Just what is it you
are trying to get at?”
Wynne hesitated.
“You don’t know.”
“No, I don’t know yet—but some day I shall, and then won’t I let them
have it!”
He closed his mouth tight, and there was a fierce resolve in his eyes.
“Then here’s a bit of advice for you. Don’t start quarrelling with the
world you hope to reform. Remember other people must build the pulpit
you hope to preach from. If you get their backs up before you’ve learnt
your sermon no one but yourself will ever hear it. Lie low and gather
all you can from the plains before you seek the Purple Patch on the hill
top.”
“Purple Patch,” repeated Wynne.
“Yes. Every artist builds his tower on a Purple Patch, and in his early
working days he sees it shining gloriously through the morning mists.
There is honey heather there, larkspur and crimson asters, and all the
air is brittle with new-born, virgin thoughts. I tell you, old son, that
purple patch is worth making for, and it’s good to reflect when you have
got there that you came by a gentleman’s way. There are some may call it
Success, but I like the Purple Patch better. Success may be achieved at
such a dirty price and the climber’s boots may be fouled with trodden
flesh. Stick to the Purple Patch, Wynne, and you’ll be a man before you
become a ghost.”
Before taking his leave Clem gave Wynne a five-pound note.
“It is a sad thing,” he said, “but a new boy with a five-pound note is
far more popular at school than one without. If I were you I should blow
a part of it at the tuck-shop and do your pals a midnight feast.”
Privately he remarked to Mr. Rendall, “That boy is woefully fragile. I
have some doubt as to whether you are wise in sending him to a boarding
school. You should drop the headmaster a line saying he’ll want special
care.”
“I have already done so,” remarked Mr. Rendall, with a somewhat sardonic
smile. “If you are passing the box you might post a letter for me.”
Clem took the letter and said good-bye. He was about to drop it in the
pillar-box when a curious doubt assailed him. Therefore, although to do
so was entirely foreign to his nature, he broke the seal and scanned the
contents.
“Oh, no, Robert,” he observed to himself, “most emphatically not. We’ll
give the boy a fair chance by your leave.”
And accordingly he posted the letter, torn in many pieces, through the
grating of a convenient sewer.
III
Wynne arrived at Wyckley in all the rush and turmoil of a new term. The
boys had so many confidences to impart regarding their holiday exploits,
that his presence was not observed until after tea. Consequently he had
leisure to dispose his belongings and take a walk round the schoolrooms
and playgrounds.
What he saw was new and interesting. The high bookcases, crammed with
scholastic literature, impressed him with the majesty of learning. The
laboratory with its glass retorts and shelves of chemical compounds
bespoke the infinite latitude of science. Least of all did he care for
the studio, in which the drawing classes were held. The cubes, pyramids,
cones and spheres did not appear to bear any relation to art as he saw
it. His being craved for something more organic, and was not satisfied
even by the bas-reliefs of ivy and hedge-roses. To him these were
trivial matters of little concern which might well be omitted from an
educational program. The main hall, with its platform and organ, its
sombre lighting and heavily trussed roof, gave him far greater
satisfaction. In such semi-dark surroundings he felt that an eager soul
might well acquire illumination.
The terraces outside were correct and ordinary, the yellow gravel and
the deep green grass were too familiar to attract attention; accordingly
he passed to the rear of the building and explored what lay beyond. Here
he discovered many fives courts—some football grounds, complete with
nasty little pavilions, and a swimming bath. Further investigation
disclosed a fowl-run and some pigs grunting contentedly in a well-kept
sty. Wynne found these far more to his liking, and was further
interested to learn that a pig will devour a piece of brick, with
apparent relish, provided it has been given to him by the hand of man.
From this circumstance he was about to draw some interesting theories on
life, and probably would have done so had it not been for the compelling
note of a bell. This bell betokened the arrival of tea, some one had
warned him of that; they had also warned him on no account to be late,
so he made his way, hands in pockets, toward the big dining-room. A
large number of eyes assessed him as he entered, and he bore their
scrutiny without flinching. Oddly enough he was aware of an agreeable
satisfaction arising from their attention, and returned stare for stare
in excellent good part. Presently some one directed him to a place at
the table where he found himself with other fresh arrivals.
The inclination to converse is never very marked on the part of
_nouveaux_, and for the major part the meal proceeded in silence. Then
presently his left-hand neighbour, a little boy with a round face and
sad blue eyes, said:
“D’you like jam?”
“I like it to eat,” said Wynne, “but it isn’t much good to talk about.”
This was discouraging, as the small boy felt, but he continued bravely:
“I don’t want to talk about it, but I want to talk to some one, and I
thought that would be an easy way. I haven’t made a friend yet, and I
thought if you’d like to be a friend I could give you some jam mother
gave me to bring.”
Before Wynne had time to reply to this sweet overture one of the older
boys approached the table.
“All you chaps will go to the gym, when tea is over,” he announced. “In
fact you had better go now. Come on.” So saying he herded them down a
long corridor to the far end of the building.
“Wait in the dressing-room,” he said. “The Council hasn’t turned up yet.
You’ll be called one by one, and you’d better be jolly careful how you
answer.”
The door was shut and they found themselves packed closely in a small
room full of lockers. With a curious sense of impending evil they
waited, and presently a name was called out, and the first sufferer went
forth to face the dread ordeal of the Council Chamber.
It was nervy work waiting, since none who went forth returned to bear
witness to what was taking place. Hours seemed to pass before Wynne’s
name was given by a boy with a low, threatening voice. He stepped
bravely from his confinement, and, hands in pockets, walked into the
centre of the gymnasium.
Seated on a high horizontal bar, at the far end, sat the four members
who composed the Council. Beneath them, gathered in rough formations,
were other boys whose duty it was to carry out the Council’s awards.
These were the executioneers, and each was skilled in his craft. Whether
the decree went forth in favour of scragging, knee jarring, or
wrist-twisting there was an expert to conduct it upon orthodox lines.
The faces of the Council, though not remarkable, were stern and
resolute, and bespoke a proper appreciation for the dignity of office.
“Bring him forward,” said a very plain lad, who wore round pebble
spectacles, and appeared to be leader of the movement.
With no great courtesy Wynne was thrust forward to a chalk circle in the
centre of the floor.
“You mustn’t come out of the circle until you have permission,” was a
further instruction received. The escort drew away and stood with folded
arms as befitted a stern occasion.
“What is your name?” said he of the spectacles.
“Wynne Rendall.”
“Wynne Rendall?”
“Yes.”
“Gentlemen, you heard! Can we permit the name of Wynne? Does it belong
to the same category of nomenclature as Eric, Archibald and Desmond,
which we have already black-listed?”
There followed a murmur of assent.
“I thought as much. By my troth, it is a sorry name, and makes the gorge
rise in disgust and abhorrence.”
The magnificence of this language created a profound impression in which
even Wynne himself participated. He was not, however, prepared to allow
the speaker to have it all his own way, since he felt, if it came to the
turning of a phrase, he might show them some skill. Accordingly he said:
“The name was in no wise my own choice, so I can take neither blame nor
credit for it.”
“Be silent or be scragged, Wynne Rendall.”
“Well, what is your name, anyway?”
The speaker turned his eyes heavenward as though seeking fresh tolerance
from the high gods.
“Know,” he said, “that by no means shall you ask us to betray our
cognomens. We are the Council and known only by our might. If you are
curious, Sir Paulus Pry, you shall ask some of these others how we are
called—but at another time.”
This Wynne conceived to be highly proper and in every sense an example
of the splendid isolation of the Ruler. No sane individual would ask a
king his name, but would address the question to a chamberlain.
The only fly in the amber was the appearance of the Chief of Council,
who went on to say:
“For the name Wynne punishment of the second order shall be inflicted.
Is it met?”
“It is met,” droned the Council, with solemn intonation.
“Let us proceed then. What manner of man is thy father, O Wynne Rendall?
Speak us fair, and do not seek to hide his calling.”
“I have not yet found out what manner of man he is,” replied Wynne,
lightning quick to pick up the pedantry of his interrogator, “but it
beseems me he is a fellow of heavy wit, who bears always a befrowning
countenance. As to his calling he doth trade of import with our brothers
of the Ind for the dried leaf of the tea plant.”
This speech composed and delivered with ceremony created something of an
uproar. Cries were raised that the penalty of the parallel bars should
be summarily inflicted. In the midst of a chaos of many voices the Chief
of Council held up his hand for silence.
“Look here, young Rendall,” he said, “you’d better jolly chuck cheeking,
or it will be the worse for you. You answer properly if you don’t want a
putrid licking—which you’ll get anyway.”
“Then go on,” said Wynne, who was enjoying himself immensely. It was a
new and delightful experience being the centre of attraction, and he
felt he had the situation well in hand.
“Shall I proceed, gentlemen?”
“Go forward,” crooned the Council.
“Are you a gamesman or a swotter? Ponder well before replying, for much
depends upon this.”
“I am not a gamesman.”
“Mark his utterance, O men. Thou art, then, a swotter.”
“I didn’t say so. Don’t even know what a swotter is.”
“Explain,” said the Chief. And one of the four, a freckled lad with red
hair and a big healthy body, announced:
“A swotter is the sort of ass who mugs at lessons and thinks more of
books than footer.”
“The Council will sing the Song of the Swotter,” said the Chief.
So the Council sang—
“The swotter is a rotter,
And we always make it hotter
For the swotter who’s a rotter—
Yes, we do.”
“Yes, we do,” was repeated by all present.
When this impressive rendering was over, Wynne replied:
“I think I am a swotter all right.”
“Be it remembered,” said the Chief. “Little remains to be said. The C.
I. D. will now report on this miscreant’s behaviour since arrival.”
Whereupon a foxy little boy came forward from one of the groups, and
after making a profound obeisance to the Council began:
“He has worn his cap on the back of his head and put his hands in his
trousers’ pocket. I have been to his bedder, and he wears a woollen
nightshirt and combinations instead of pants and vest.”
Wynne felt himself flush with hot anger and resentment, and heard an
expression of disgust from all present.
“Are these things true, O most wretched Wynne Rendall?”
“Yes, they are, but how dared that beastly little swine touch my box?”
“Be silent—scrag him—scrag the swotter,” came from all sides.
“I don’t care—he’s a dirty little—”
“Pin him,” ordered the Chief, with a gesture so commanding that he all
but fell from his perch.
Very adroitly two volunteers stepped forward and twisted Wynne’s wrists
under his shoulder blades, while a third, with a skill which would have
defied the ingenuity of the Davenport Brothers, made fast his hands with
a knotted kerchief.
The work accomplished they stood aside and refolded their arms.
“Pass judgment,” they demanded.
“Judgment shall be passed,” said the Chief. “You, Wynne Rendall, have
been given fair and lawful trial, and are found guilty on several
counts. First, you bear a name that is unpleasant to the tooth, and for
this nose-pressure shall be inflicted.” (The presser of noses girt his
loins for battle, and examined a row of shiny knuckles to see that all
was in order.) “Second, your reply when asked of your father’s doings
was too cheeky by a long chalk, and for this two circuits of the
frog-march shall be administered.” (The frog-marcher-extraordinary made
no movement, but he smiled as one who knew full well his own
potentiality.) “Third, and methinks the gravest charge of all, it is
established that thou art a swotter, and for this the ordeal of the
parallel bars must and shall befall you.” Eight boys stepped forward,
but the Chief shook his head. “Three a side will suffice,” he said.
“That much mercy will I grant thee on account of your miserable size.
The punishment for the nightshirt and the combinations will be the shame
of wearing them, but I put it forward that they may help us in deciding
a proper nickname for you. After the punishments have been inflicted you
will step once more into the circle and declare you will not attempt to
use your trousers’ pockets until the beginning of your second term. This
you will swear most solemnly by the Goal-post and the Fives Ball. O men!
has the word gone forth?”
“It has.”
“Do the punishments meet?”
“They meet.”
“Let them go forward.”
Wynne had scarcely time to appreciate the anguish inflicted by the
nose-twister before he found himself ignominiously drummed round the
gymnasium at the knee of the frog-marcher. It was a jarring and painful
means of progression, and almost he welcomed the narrow invitation of
the parallel bars which loomed before him at the close of the second
circuit.
The variety offered, however, was far from consoling, and during the few
moments’ pressure in that inhospitable spot he feared his last hour had
come. He was made to form a buffer in the middle, while three boys on
either side, bracing their legs against the upright supports, pushed
toward the centre with their united strength. He could feel his ribs
caving inward and the breath was forced from his lungs. Respite came not
a moment too soon, and when they drew away he hung over the bar in an
ecstasy of exhaustion and nausea.
It was not until he heard the voice of the Chief announcing that he had
borne the ordeal in honourable silence that he was aware he had forborne
to scream.
“Help him to the circle,” came from a far-off voice, but he shook aside
the proffered assistance and tottered to the circle unaided.
“Your bearing has been creditable,” said the Chief, “and that inclines
us to leniency. Speak by the Goal-post and Fives Ball that the word may
be fulfilled.”
Then said Wynne, with a somewhat hysterical catch in his voice:
“I swear by the Goal-post and the Fives Ball that to save myself the
pain of offending you fools I’ll keep my hands out of my pockets for as
long as you stupidly want.”
And the world became singularly black, the sky full of crimson stars,
and he sat down awkwardly upon the floor with his head between his
knees.
IV
It would be far from the truth to state that Wynne Rendall was popular
at school. On account of the readiness of his wit and an adroit, if
somewhat embittered, knack of turning a phrase, he achieved a kind of
notoriety.
Mentally he was always more of a match for his physical superiors, as
those who came up against him in differences of any kind were compelled
to testify. There was a quality of courage about him that at once
perplexed and irritated. The threat of a licking was of no avail in
turning his point of view, and he would stand up courageously to a
battery of blows which on some occasions, by pure vital energy, he would
return with interest. But in the main his companions avoided offering
him offence, since to do so was generally the occasion of their own
downfall. He possessed a faculty, somewhat rare in the infant outfit, of
being able to follow his opponent’s mental processes, and this, coupled
with a ready power of expression, gave him an instant ascendancy.
Intuitively he knew the very thing they were least likely to desire to
hear, and although he was not of a naturally caustic bent, he would not
hesitate to employ it if the situation demanded. Very early he made the
discovery that loud-voiced, broad-shouldered fellows were by no means
invulnerable, and indeed might very well prove cowards at heart.
The type he found greatest difficulty in dealing with was the muscular
and sheep-minded lad who from sheer natural stupidity was insensible to
verbal attacks. This type was represented by a fairly large section,
and, on account of their bulk, could not with impunity be ignored. They
were a piratical band of burly buccaneers, who would undertake any dirty
work if the premium offered were sufficiently tempting. They hired
themselves out to smaller boys who desired the “licking” of some one
they were unable to vanquish themselves, and for the service rendered
would exact a very heavy toll in stationery or delicacies from the
tuck-shop. Being impervious to conscience, they were only accessible by
other means.
Two days after his arrival Wynne had his first experience of the
workings of this band.
He was walking by the Fives Court with Cedric Allen, the small boy who
had offered jam and friendship, when the foxy youth, who had borne
witness to his possession of a nightshirt, hailed and bade them stop.
Lipchitty, for so he was named, addressed them in tones of authority.
“I’m going to speak to this kid, but you can stop, young Rendall. Now
then, kiddie Allen, I want your Swedish knife.”
Cedric quailed before these dread tidings. The knife was a most
important affair, and boasted a handle of bird’s-eye maple of unequalled
loveliness. It was reputed that this knife would kill a man, and its
possession had excited an interest in Cedric that might well dissipate
with its passing. Wherefore, in a trembling fashion, he replied:
“My sister gave it to me.”
Lipchitty was very properly disgusted.
“The sort of soppy thing she would do,” he replied, and brought a flush
of resentment to Cedric’s round little face. “’Tany rate, I’m going to
have it.”
“You aren’t. You shan’t.”
“If you don’t give it to me there’ll be a jolly fine licking for you.”
Cedric weighed his chances before replying.
“You’re not much bigger than me; p’r’aps you’d get licked if you tried.”
“Don’t mean to try,” responded the base Lipchitty; “I shall get Monkton
major to do it for me, and he’ll half kill you.”
Monkton major was no idle threat—a fellow of vast proportions with a
gross and sullen countenance.
In imagination Cedric saw his beloved possession float over the horizon,
but he made one final effort.
“Why should he lick me? I haven’t done anything.”
“I shall give him some silkworms to do it,” announced Lipchitty.
The system was exposed. Terrorism at a price. Wynne Rendall’s quick
brain seized on the flaw, and was away with it in a second.
“Right!” he interrupted, “then I’ll give him a fountain pen not to do
it.”
“You shut up,” warned Lipchitty, but there was alarm in his voice.
“I shall.”
“You’d better not. If you do I’ll give him a Brownie to lick you.”
Wynne laughed. “Then,” he said, “I’ll give him five and six to lick
you.”
Lipchitty trembled, for the price was rising out of all expectation.
Dared he bounce it another sixpence and overthrow his opponent? The risk
was great, so he temporized with—
“How much have you got? I warn you I’ve ten bob, so you’d better look
out!”
Ten bob! The game was in Wynne’s hands. With cruel leisure Wynne
produced his adored letter-case and took out the five-pound note.
“That’s done you,” he cried.
The sight of so much wealth staggered Master Lipchitty, who with a
mumbled unpleasantry started to move away. But the spirit of reprisals
was upon Wynne, and he called on him to stop.
“Look here, Lipchitty, I haven’t done with you. You started this
business, and now you are going to finish it. It was you who made me out
a fool before the Council by sneaking into my box. Very well, you’ve
jolly well got to swop a pair of pyjamas for one of my nightshirts or
I’ll give Monkton major ten and six to lick you silly.”
That night Wynne slept very honourably in a coat and trousers of
delicate striped taffeta, while Lipchitty mumbled in his sleep and
dreamed lurid dreams of knife-thrusts in dark corridors, and enemies
cast unsuspectingly into the yawning shaft of the _oubliette_.
V
The prediction that Wynne Rendall would prove a swotter was more than
amply borne out by his conduct in the class-room.
In most branches of education he displayed voracity for learning to an
unusual extent. Latin and Greek delighted his soul, and his form-master,
who was not a man of great erudition, was sorely put to it to keep pace
with the extraordinary rapidity with which he acquired a knowledge of
these dead tongues. His translations were admirable, and he seemed
capable of reproducing the original spirit and lilt of the lines into
English prose. Horace, Virgil, Homer were more than mere tasks to Wynne;
they were delights which breathed of the splendid freedom in thought and
action of the old periods which had passed away.
To a very large degree he possessed appreciation for what Ruskin so
happily terms “the aristocracy of words.” He realized how one word
allied to another made for dignity or degradation, and he strove never
to commit himself to an expression in writing that did not bear the
stamp of honourable currency.
From the school library he acquired his taste for the poets—one or
another of which he carried with him on all his wanderings and greedily
assimilated. Unlike most early readers he did not pin allegiance to any
particular writer, but pored over all with equal concentration, carrying
away the best from each in his remarkably retentive memory.
But for his incurable stupidity in regard to mathematics, it is probable
at the age of sixteen he would have been head of the school, but
mathematics defeated him at every turn. He hated figures, and it was
characteristic that he would never attempt to acquire a better liking
for the things he hated. He ignored and passed them over, admitting
neither the interest nor the logic that lay in the science of figures.
“It is a great pity, Rendall, that you will not concentrate on these
matters,” said the Head. “You display ready enough intelligence in other
directions.”
Wynne shook his head.
“I am sorry, sir,” he said, “but I find no satisfaction in mathematics.”
“You should feel the satisfaction of doing a thing right.”
“The reward doesn’t tempt me, sir. Given that the answer to a most
intricate problem proves to be .03885—what has been achieved beyond a
row of figures? In after years none will look back and say, ‘He was the
man who found this answer,’ for the reason that there is no charm or
beauty in his findings. To the eye of the onlooker, sir, .04996 would be
none the less pleasing.”
“But it would be wrong,” urged the Head.
“Nero was wrong in setting fire to Rome, yet people still speak of
that.”
“They speak in horror, Rendall.”
“And a certain amount of admiration, sir. He was artist enough to play
upon a harp while the roof beams crackled and fell.”
“I am afraid your instance suggests a certain laxity of moral outlook,
Rendall, which one can only deplore.”
Wynne looked up at the ceiling and smiled.
“He created a stir, sir—that is what I am getting at. Good may have
resulted too. Possibly a deal of pestilence was scorched out of the city
in that mighty fire.”
The Head eyed him seriously.
“Let me see, Rendall,” he said, “how old are you?”
“Sixteen, sir.”
“Sixteen. You are a precocious boy. You have revolutionary qualities
that do not altogether please me. You are far too introspective, and
introspection is a dangerous thing in unskilled hands. It is a pity you
do not cultivate a greater taste for outdoor games.”
“Thank you, sir, but I don’t want to shine in after life as a cup-tie
footballer or a Rugby international.”
“Possibly not, but healthy exercise promotes a healthy mind, my boy.”
“I believe, sir, that is the general opinion.”
“You venture to doubt it?”
“Well, sir, I would not attach much value to a champion heavyweight’s
views on a matter of æsthetics.”
“Æsthetics are beside the point altogether. Too much æsthetics is quite
as bad as—as—”
“Too much football, sir?”
“You are disposed to be impertinent, Rendall; I have no desire to
staunch the flowings of your brain, but I would remind you that God
equipped mankind with legs and arms, and it was clearly not the
intention that we should allow them to stagnate from disuse. That is a
piece of wisdom you would do well in taking to heart. A brain that is
overworked will conduct its owner unworthily, therefore I should tonic
yours with a little exercise.”
Wynne had never held a very high opinion of the Head since the day he
had been informed of the mysteries of perpetuating the species. On that
occasion the Head had fallen very considerably in his esteem.
He had floundered sorrowfully in his logic, had shown embarrassment, and
made a muddle of what he had to say.
For some reason the good man had confused the subject with the
commandment, “Thou shalt not commit adultery,” and as his exposition was
by no means clear on either count Wynne had been greatly perplexed. He
was informed of certain consequences of sex and at the same time warned
that indulgence was forbidden. When it was over he felt he had been told
of something which by holy law was impossible of achievement. He left
the study far more uncertain as to how the race was perpetuated than he
had been on entering. Incidentally he felt rather sick, and in the
privacy of his little den he had thrown his books about and stared at
himself in the glass with a new and half-fledged understanding.
He was, however, a singularly sexless boy, and the effect produced was
of no very enduring character. Sex curiosity had no abiding place in his
disposition, and he entirely failed to understand the impulse which
compelled some of the older boys to bring opera glasses to bear on the
windows of the servants’ quarters in the hope that some disrobing act
might be espied and magnified. He would take no part in the whispered
conversation that forms part of a nightly program in practically every
school, and found no reason to reverence those scions of adventure who,
with a wealth of imagination, drew pictures of their conquests over
undefended citadels.
For this reserve he was almost unanimously dubbed a prig, but with
little enough justice. Wynne possessed no great distaste for wrong as
being wrong; indeed, in many cases, wrong appealed to him more
generously than the accepted view of right.
It was the schoolboy form of especial backstairs carnalism that provoked
in him the greatest distaste. There was, he thought, something sordid
and paltry about an enterprise that could only be referred to in
half-tones. If one sinned one should sin openly as Nero had done, and
play upon a lyre while the smoke of one’s sinning columned to the sky.
There is in the make-up of most growing boys a substratum of nastiness,
and it may well prove to be an act of divine providence that this should
be so. By the great Law of Contrast our judgments are made. They are
made in contrast to the error of our earlier ways. From the lowest stage
we step to higher planes and look back with timid disgust on thoughts
and actions we have left behind. It is seldom enough, thank God, we
consider our vulgar embryonic excesses in any other light than that of a
degrading folly which, by the grace of better understanding, we have
filtered from our systems. It is seldom enough that the most perverted
boy carries out into the world the brand of his unmoral beginnings.
There should be comfort in this for the parent whose son returns from
school before the holidays begin.
Wynne was coldly unmoved by the most lurid imaginings of sex. He would
merely shrug his shoulder and go elsewhere. Yet mentally he was every
kind of sensualist. The music of words stirred him illimitably—it would
quicken his pulses and shorten his breath as no bold appeal from the
eyes could have done. He could recognize love in the grand periods of
the poets, and gasp with emotion at the splendour and passion it
bespoke; but to associate love with the individual, or to consider
himself in the light of a possible lover, never entered his mind.
And so he passed over his period of first knowledge and learnt nothing
from the lesson.
VI
Wynne Rendall returned home for the summer vacation in his seventeenth
year. He was heavily laden with prizes and lightly poised with
enthusiasm. In every department of learning, save only mathematics, had
he borne himself with honourable success. It was not unnatural,
therefore, he should have looked for some expression of rejoicing from
his parents, but herein he was destined to be disappointed.
His father had not returned from the City when he arrived, but he found
his mother in the drawing-room. Her old allegiance to embroidering
antimacassars had by no means abated with years, and as Wynne entered
she was still mismating her coloured silks with the afore-time guarantee
of hideousness. But even this circumstance would not staunch the
enthusiasm Wynne felt in his own prowess. The desire to impart the news
of his successes was perhaps the youngest trait in his character, so
when the greeting was over he broke out:
“I’ve done simply splendidly, mother. I’ve simply walked away with all
the prizes, and the classic master says my Greek verses are the best the
school has ever produced.”
His eyes sparkled as though to say, “There, what do you think of that?”
Had Mrs. Rendall known it she would have recognized that here was a
moment to win a large measure of her son’s affection. Encouragement
given at the right time is the surest road to the heart. But hers, alas!
was not an analytic mind. All she contrived to say was:
“Oh, yes. Well, that’s quite nice, isn’t it?”
“Oh!” exclaimed Wynne. “You’re hopeless.” And that is a very dreadful
thing for a boy to say to his mother—and a more dreadful thing for him
to feel.
Mrs. Rendall laid aside her work, and remarked, “I am sure I don’t know
why you should say that.”
“Well, it is so—so deplorable.”
“What is?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.”
“I said nothing at all.”
“That’s true—that’s just it.”
“What did I say? I said it was quite nice.”
“Yes. You did. But don’t let’s talk any more about it.”
“And you replied that I was hopeless. You must have had some reason for
saying that?”
“No, none at all.”
“It would have been different if I had said it wasn’t nice, but I said
the right thing and you were rude.”
Wynne did not reply, but he breathed despairfully.
“It is a great pity to be rude, Wynne, and you should try to guard
against it. You will never get on if your manners are not nice. Your
Great-uncle Bryan” (he was a deceased relation on her side of the family
who had made a nice little income as a chemist) “attributed his success
entirely to the possession of an agreeable counter-manner.”
“Preserve me from that,” cried Wynne, and fled from the room.
When his father returned from the City the scene in many respects was
re-enacted. Mr. Rendall senior ignored his son’s classical and literary
successes, and focused his attention upon the absence of any achievement
on mathematical lines.
“Lot of use Socrates and all these other Latin chaps are if you can’t
cast up a row of figures!”
Wynne smiled.
“I fancy that Socrates was a Greek,” he replied.
“I’m not going to quibble about that. He could have been an Esquimaux
for all the good he’ll do you in the City.”
Wynne had been expecting this for some time, and he replied with a
steady voice,
“I shan’t take him to the City, father.”
“Better not. Better forget all about him and fix your mind on things
that matter. How did you do with book-keeping?”
“I did nothing. I wish to make books, not to keep them.”
“Don’t want any racecourse jargon here, please.”
“You misunderstand me. I ought to have said write books.”
“There are plenty of books without your writing them.”
“What a good thing Shakespeare’s father didn’t think so!” mused Wynne.
Mr. Rendall ignored the interruption.
“I’m giving you one more term at school, so make the best use of it. You
are not by any means a fool, and what your brother Wallace could do you
should be able to do.”
Wallace was already established in a clerkship whither he daily
proceeded in a silk hat. Being drawn into the conversation he felt it
incumbent upon himself to offer a contribution.
“You will find in the City, Wynne, people are not inclined to put up
with a lot of nonsense.”
“I think it unlikely I shall find out anything of the kind,” replied
Wynne.
“I say you will,” retorted his brother.
“And I repeat I think it is unlikely.”
“Your brother Wallace knows what he’s talking about,” said Mr. Rendall.
“That’s it!” exclaimed Wynne, jumping to his feet; “he knows what he is
talking about, and that is all he ever can or ever will know.”
“Will you sit down at table!” ordered Mr. Rendall. “I never saw such an
exhibition.”
“It is terrible,” lamented Mrs. Rendall.
“You listen to what your elders have to say, and don’t talk so much
yourself. Your brother Wallace is making thirty-five shillings a week.”
“O most wonderful Wallace!” cried Wynne. “Villon starved in a gaol and
wrote exquisite verses, but he could not earn so much as brother
Wallace.”
“Look here, young Wynne,” exclaimed his brother, “you had better shut up
if you don’t want me to punch your head.”
“‘Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,’” chanted Wynne irrepressibly.
“Father! Can’t you speak to him?”
“Speak to him be damned!” said Mr. Rendall, for no particular reason.
“He’s got to toe the line, that’s what it amounts to—toe the line.”
“And when I’ve toed the line, what then?” demanded Wynne; but none
seemed able to supply the answer, and the advice to “shut up about it”
could hardly be regarded as illuminating.
The argument concluded with the brief comment from his father:
“I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
VII
The matter was not broached again until after breakfast on the following
day, when Wynne and his father were left alone over the empty cups and
dishes.
“Discuss your future!” announced Mr. Rendall. He rose and placed a lump
of sugar between the bars of the canary’s cage. The canary chirruped to
signify gratitude for the gift.
“Seems to me there is no advantage keeping you at school any longer. Bit
of practical experience in life will lick you into shape quicker than
anything else.”
“One minute,” said Wynne, “I believe I could get a University
scholarship if you gave me another term.”
“Scholarship be damned! I never went to a University; no reason why you
should go. Not going anyway—”
“Yes, but—”
“Quiet. D’y’hear! There can be altogether too much of a good thing—too
much altogether. I have my own plans for you.”
“And so have I,” said Wynne.
“Then you’ll make them fit in with mine—got that?”
Wynne’s foot began to tap on the ground and his mouth straightened
thinly.
“Go on.”
“I’ll go on in my own damned time. A little hard discipline is what you
want and it’s what you’ll get.”
“Well?”
“I spoke to Kessles on the ’phone last night about putting you there.”
“Kessles?”
“The warehouse people—don’t you know that?”
“No.”
“What do you know? Nothing.”
“A bit hard on Mr. Kessles then.”
“Quiet. He’s prepared to give you an opening, and I’ve accepted it.”
“That’s just as well, because I certainly shouldn’t have done so.”
“I’m not putting up with any argument. You can have a couple of weeks
holiday, then go up to the City like any one else.”
Wynne shook his head resolutely.
“There is no question about the matter, my boy, it is a case of ‘having
to.’ High time you began to make a way in the world.”
“Yes,” said Wynne. “I’ll make a way in the world—I want to and I
shall—but it will be _my_ way, not yours.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that I am not going to the City—I absolutely
refuse—absolutely.”
“Continue like that and I won’t be answerable for my actions,” cried Mr.
Rendall.
“And you shan’t be for mine.”
The determination in Wynne’s tone was extraordinary considering his age
and fragility. Without raising his voice he dominated his father by
every means of expression. Mr. Rendall felt this to be so, and the shame
of it scarleted his features.
“Since you were born,” he shouted, “you have been perverse and
maddening—ever since the day you were born!”
“Never once since the day I was born have you tried to see how my mind
worked,” came the retort. “You have done no more than force your mental
workings on me. All I know or shall know will be in spite of you.”
“Have you no proper feelings?”
“No, not as you read the word. Proper feelings are free feelings, new
thoughts and fresh touches of all that is wonderful and unexplored. You
think in a circle—an inner circle that constricts everything worth
while like the coils of a snake. And now I’ve had enough of it—enough
of you—more than enough.”
“Enough!”
“Yes, I’m going—I’m going to clear out and find some atmosphere where I
can breathe.”
“D’you dare to suggest running away?”
“Yes, I’m clearing out.”
Some half-formed thought drove Mr. Rendall to seize the handle and put
his back against the door.
“That won’t stop me,” said Wynne. “It isn’t a race for the front door,
which I lose if you’re quick enough to stop me.”
“Very well,” conceded Mr. Rendall. “Very well—and how the devil do you
think you’d live! Hey?”
“I shall manage.”
“Manage be damned! Not a penny shall you have from me—not a
farthing—not a bean.”
“Then take back what I have already.”
Wynne’s hands dived into his trousers’ pockets and pulled out the
linings. Two or three florins and a few odd pence tumbled to the floor
and circled in all directions.
Something in the action deprived Mr. Rendall of the last of his
self-control. Seizing the silver entrée dish he sent it hurtling through
the lower pane of the dining-room window. It was the first time his
temper had risen to such heights.
“Let in the air,” cried Wynne, with a note of hysteria, and picking up
the pair of candlesticks from the mantelshelf he flung first one then
the other through the remaining panes.
The south-west wind bellied the Nottingham lace curtains and stirred the
feathers in the canary’s back.
“Twirrup,” he chirped, and hopping to the upper perch broke into a fine
song of the palms that bow so statelily in the islands of the south.
“Get out!” said Mr. Rendall. “I’ve done with you—get out!”
VIII
Wynne packed a suit case in his own time. He was not fastidious in the
matter of clothes, and books were the chief things he took. Oddly enough
he had no fear in facing the world alone. Possibly through inexperience
the problem presented no alarming features. He did not imagine he was
stepping out to meet an immediate fortune—education and added years had
taught him that his singing days were still far ahead. He was
confidently sure he would arrive eventually, but in the meantime the
world lay before him—a mighty class-room through which he must pass
before setting foot upon the Purple Patch. Bearing the bag in his hand
he descended the stairs.
In the hall he hesitated. Should he or should he not seek his mother and
risk the possibility of a further scene. The problem was solved by her
sudden appearance at the door of the drawing-room. In some respects her
face had lost its wonted stolidity. She seemed as one perplexed by vague
understandings. Cain might have looked so when he saw death for the
first time in the fall of his brother, and wondered stupidly what manner
of thing it might be.
“So you are going away, Wynne,” she said.
“Yes, mother.”
“I see.” But she did not see very clearly, as her next remark betokened.
“Have you packed your clean things?”
For some human reason Wynne had no inclination to smile at this. It
struck him as being somewhat pathetic.
“I think so,” he replied.
“That’s right. Did you ask cook to cut you some sandwiches?”
“No, mother. I—I don’t think you quite understand. I’m not going away
just for the day—I’m going for good.”
“For good!” repeated Mrs. Rendall, in an expressionless voice. “Really?
Yes, well that does seem a pity. Your father had a nice opening for you
with Mr. Kessles.”
“I don’t think I should have flourished in an office, mother. I want to
do and do and do.”
“You might have gone to the office in the day-time and done a little
writing in the evening. I am sure your father wouldn’t have objected to
that.”
Wynne shook his head. “Wouldn’t work,” he said.
“Oh, I don’t know. Your brother Wallace finds time for chip-carving
after city hours. He made me such a nice blotter last month—very pretty
it was.”
“’Tisn’t quite the same, is it?”
“Well, I don’t know, one hobby is very like another.”
“I’m sorry,” said Wynne, “but I’ll have to go.”
“Where will you go to?”
“No idea.”
“How very extraordinary! But you might turn up anywhere?”
“Yes.” He fidgeted. It was hard to find anything to say. “I’d better be
off.”
“Have you any money?”
“No. But I want none of father’s—I’ll take none of that.”
“You would take some of mine?”
“Why should I?”
“Because you can’t go away to nowhere without any money. Wait a minute.”
He demurred, but she took no notice, and went upstairs to her room. When
she returned she gave him two ten-pound notes.
“I should have given you these on your eighteenth birthday, Wynne, so
you may as well have them now. I did the same for Wallace when he was
eighteen.”
It was the old symmetry coming out again—a clock in the middle, and a
candlestick on either side.
“Thanks awfully much,” said Wynne.
“It is part of what I inherited from your Great-uncle Bryan.”
Uncle Clem had spoken the truth when he said, “Others will build the
pulpit from which you hope to preach.” Wynne was going out to face the
world on the reflected gilt of an agreeable counter-manner!
“Good-bye, mother.”
“Good-bye, Wynne.”
It was surprising when he kissed her she should have said,
“I think I am going to cry.”
He answered quickly,
“I shouldn’t—really I shouldn’t.”
Crying is so infectious.
“Perhaps I needn’t—but I could—I—I’m not sure I shan’t have to.”
“It’s quite all right,” said Wynne. He kissed her again and hurried down
the steps.
The wind blowing through the broken window slammed the front door
noisily. It occurred to Mrs. Rendall that the curtains might knock over
the palm pedestal. Following the direction of her thoughts she moved to
the dining-room to take steps. Her husband had said Wynne would
return—“would crawl back on hands and knees”—and suppose he did not
return? Well, then he wouldn’t.
Hers was the kind of concentration that attaches more importance to
airing a person’s sheets than to the person himself. Crying was of
little service, and the impulse had lessened with the peril of the palm
pedestal to be considered.
IX
Many courageous people are nervous to a fault in certain directions.
Wynne Rendall possessed the pluck of the devil where his point of view
or ideals were at stake, but in the performance of simple everyday
affairs he was afflicted with a great shyness.