OUR

WONDERFUL

SELVES

“Of making many books there is no end:

and much study is a weariness of the flesh.”

Ecclesiastes XII, 12.

OUR

WONDERFUL SELVES

BY

ROLAND PERTWEE

NEW YORK ALFRED • A • KNOPF MCMXIX

COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY

ALFRED A. KNOPF, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

To

AVICE

CONTENTS

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.

He hovered fearfully before the portals of several small hotels in the Strand district before summoning up courage to enter and take a room. It seemed to him the proprietors of these places would refuse and ridicule him—that they would tax him with his youth, and query if he had ever used a razor. Yet men great and small, of important or insignificant appearance, passed in and out of the swinging doors with the smallest concern imaginable. They dropped their baggage in the hall, and conversed with the clerks about rooms as he might have helped himself to salt at the table.

In all his life Wynne had never stopped at an hotel, and had no experience from which to adjust his actions. He realized, however, that to delay the ordeal indefinitely would serve no useful purpose. An hotel attracted his attention on the opposite side of the road, and squaring his shoulders he boldly approached it. His shame was boundless when he walked deliberately past the open doors and down once more to the Strand.

“That’s the most cowardly thing I have ever done,” he rated himself.

In Villers Street he espied an eating-house with an uncooked sirloin, embellished with parsley and tomatoes, standing on a silver salver in the window. He halted and read the various legends pasted to the inner surface of the plate glass. “A good dinner for 1s. 6d.” “Steaks and onions.” “Stewed tripe.” “Bed and breakfast, 3s.” Without waiting for his courage to ebb he walked inside. A dirty Swiss waiter pulled a chair from a small table and flicked the seat invitingly with a napkin.

“I want—that is, would you be good enough to let me a room. I was recommended to come here—at least I think⁠—”

“A room—sartainly—one minute,” he called a name through an open door, and a stout lady entered. “A room for zis gentleman. You will go wiz her.”

As he mounted the stairs Wynne reflected that there was nothing in it after all. It was the simplest matter. He wished he had omitted the legend about having been recommended to the place; clearly there was no occasion for anything beyond a simple expression of one’s needs. He had not thought to learn anything from a Swiss waiter in a Villers Street hotel, yet a new department of learning had been opened for him from which he might profit in the future.

The room to which he was shown was very ordinary, and made little impression upon him. He threw his bag to the bed and seated himself easily beside it.

The landlady lingered by the door, and he ventured a remark to her:

“I suppose you let quite a number of rooms?”

“It would be,” she answered, “a bad thing for us if we didn’t.”

As there appeared to be nothing further to contribute to that line of inquiry, he nodded and remained silent.

“You’ll want a bit of dinner, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes, thank you—thanks.”

“If you was to order it now it would be ready when you come down.”

“All right,” he said. Then, as she still lingered: “I think I’ll wash my hands if you don’t mind.”

“What’ll you have to eat?”

Of course! It was so obvious—he ought to have thought of that. What could he have? It would betray inexperience to ask what there was—a man of the world would know in an instant what his appetite desired. Wynne had often pictured himself ordering a dinner, but now the time had come he felt strangely unable to do so. His memory served him with a picture of the uncooked sirloin and the tomatoes, but it was unlikely they would oven this on his behalf.

The need to answer being imperative, he ordered “A chop, please, and some potatoes.” After the departure of the landlady he cursed his woeful lack of imagination. He had dreamed to feast, as the old emperors, upon ortolans and the brains of peacocks, and instead he had ordered the very dish which, in the ordinary rotation of the home-menu, would have appeared on his father’s table that night.

Before going downstairs Wynne decided very firmly what he would say when asked as to his choice of drink. He would order shandy-gaff, and he would name it familiarly as “shandy.”

This resolve completed, he opened his suit case and set out his belongings in careless disorder. Beyond doubt it was very fine to be a free-lance and possess a room of one’s own in the heart of London. He took a pace or two up and down the floor and filled his lungs with air. The rumble of traffic and the long-sustained London note, made up of thousands of fine particles of sound, drifted to his ears.

“Something like!” said Wynne. “This is something like!”

He put his head out of the window and spoke again:

“You silly old crowds, all hurrying along. You don’t know me—but one day you shall. Yes, I shall find out all your secrets, and you will come to me to disclose them. Oh! you silly, busy, hurrying old crowds, I’m getting ready for you. Why don’t you look up and see me? Don’t you want to? There’s no charge yet. Look while you have the chance, for later on I shall tip up your chins and hold your eyes whether you want me to or not.”

But none was disposed to glance his way. The day’s work was done, and London emptying itself homeward. There were dinners, warm fires, and welcomes awaiting them, why should they waste a glance upon the white face of an anæmic boy who hung out over the sill of a three-shilling bedroom and blathered his foolish thoughts to the night.

Wynne ordered “shandy” with an air of some importance: by sheer bad luck the Swiss waiter’s vocabulary was deficient of this word. He asked Wynne to repeat it, and, still failing to understand, further asked how the beverage was concocted. This threw Wynne into a blushing difficulty, since he himself was doubtful as to the ingredients used. Accordingly he revoked the order and asked for some ale, and since he stated no particular quantity he was saddled with a bottle of the largest size, which greatly taxed his powers of consumption. He struggled bravely, however, and the good malt fluid gave tone to his being and warmed his imagination.

He rose from the table with the pleasant confidence that he had left much of his awkwardness behind. He had thought to spend the evening considering his future, but in his rosy mood he decided a theatre would prove a more agreeable form of entertainment.

Hitherto his playgoing had been confined to a yearly visit to the local pantomime, a performance which had made no special appeal to him. As master of his own choice he repaired to Shakespeare’s Henry VIII., and was vastly impressed by the splendour of it all. Here and there he found himself at variance with the actors’ renderings of certain passages, and during the intervals ruminated upon alternative readings. On the whole, however, the experience was delightful.

At the conclusion he emerged from the theatre in a state of artistic intoxication. He longed for a companion to whom he could express the views which the play had set in motion—any one would do so long as he might speak his thoughts aloud. With all these jostling crowds it was absurd that any one should be denied an audience. Surely some one would be glad to lend an ear. There must be some companionable soul in this great city with a thirst for knowledge and enlightenment.

“The clouds that gather round the setting sun.” Wolsey had been wrong to betray so much emotion in delivering that speech. A man like Wolsey would see grim humour in his own downfall. It was contrary to the character, as he saw it, to stress the emotions of such a coming to pass. Wynne knew the speech intimately, and felt a great desire to repeat it aloud in the way it should be repeated. The Haymarket was hardly a place for such a recital, so he turned into Orange Street and the narrow thoroughfares adjoining. Here in a shadow he began the lines, but had hardly uttered a sound before a step caused him to stop. Looking round he saw a girl walking slowly toward him. A fur swung from her shoulders and a bag dangled in her hand. The white of her boots seemed phosphorescent in the half-light. As she came abreast of him their eyes met. Hers were bold and black-lashed, and the lids drooped in lazy insolence.

“Kiddie,” she said, “coming home?”

And Wynne was startled into replying:

“Why, do you want a friend too?”

She curled her scarlet lips into a smile.

“I always want a friend,” she answered.

“I don’t,” he said; “only sometimes! Sometimes one feels one must confide. I feel like that tonight.”

“Confide in me, then. What’s to stop you?”

“I think I will. You’re frank—unconventional; some one like you I’ve been looking for. I couldn’t sleep tonight—couldn’t go to bed.”

The smile came again—went—and was replaced by an expression of perplexity. It was not the conversational formula to which she was accustomed.

“Well, don’t let’s hang about, anyway,” she said. “There’s sure to be a cab in Waterloo Place. Come on.”

“D’you live far from here, then? It would be jollier to walk, don’t you think?”

She had heard that phrase before, on the lips of economists, and the business side of her nature sprang to action.

“If you’ve no money—better say so.”

“I’ve plenty of money.”

“What do you call plenty?”

“Don’t let’s talk money. People never speak of anything else.”

“I’m beginning to think you know a thing or two.”

“Perhaps I do.” The suggestion flattered him.

“So do I, and I’d like to know what I’m standing for, too. I’m too fly to bounce, kiddie. Get me?”

“No,” he replied. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” He hated confessing this, but it was no less than the truth.

“Of—course—not,” she drawled the syllables, and leaned against his shoulder with fingers that travelled caressingly over his wrist and palm.

“O God!” exclaimed Wynne. “I see.” A kind of fear possessed him and he backed a pace.

“What’s the matter now?”

“Only—only that I’m a fool. I must be. You’re Adventure, aren’t you? Commercial Adventure?”

“Now then! Who are you calling names?”

“I must be a fool.”

This concerned him most, and provided him with courage.

“All boys are fools—men too, for that matter. Come along if you’re coming.”

“But I’m not,” said Wynne.

“Why not?”

“I made a mistake.”

“A mistake, eh? You’re a cheeky little devil. Who are you to speak to a girl? I should like to ask?”

“I didn’t recognize you, that’s all. I’ve never met you before. Another time I shall know. Good-night.”

He turned quickly and walked away.

“Silly little kid!” murmured the girl, and fell into her roving pace once more.

“I wish I had told her how rotten I thought she was,” mused Wynne, as he pulled off his boots before getting to bed. “I might have gone home with her!” He tried to picture such a happening, but it brought nothing to his imagination. There was not the slightest tremble of passion to weigh against his satisfaction at having avoided the offered temptation.

“Fools men must be to yield to that sort. I never should. I think I got out of it all right after the first mistake. Original sin!” He fell to quoting Swinburne, a poet who had pleased his ear alone.

“What sterile growth of sexless root or Epicene,

What flower of kisses without fruit of love, Faustine.”

“She was very pretty—pretty figure—and her hands and feet were small. Yes, all the temptation was there, and I didn’t yield. Glad I met her. It’s helped me to know myself. I’m all right.”

As he drew the blanket under his chin Wynne felt unduly self-satisfied—he forgot, perhaps, that it is easy to resist when there is no impulse to sin.

X

At the National Gallery on the following morning Wynne fell into conversation with an old man. The old man wore an Inverness cape and a wide-brimmed felt hat, he had shaggy eyebrows, a wispy moustache, and his cheeks were seamed and furrowed with wrinkles. He muttered to himself and seemed in a fine rage. Sometimes he rattled his umbrella and scowled at the passers-by, and sometimes he tossed his head and laughed shortly. Scarcely a soul came nigh him that he did not scrutinize closely and disapprovingly. Before him was Leonardo’s “Virgin of the Rocks,” and by his mutterings and rattles he kept the space before the picture clear of other humanity, as a sheep-dog rings his flock.

As Wynne approached he came under the influence of the old gentleman’s inflamed stare, which, being in no wise alarmed, he returned with interest.

“Keep your eyes for the pictures,” rapped out this peculiar individual.

“So I would,” returned Wynne, “if it were not that you disturbed them.”

“Ha! You’re like all the rest. You’d run from your own bridal altar to see a cab-horse jump the area railings. I know the breed—I know ’em.”

“Concentration is easily dislocated,” said Wynne, choosing his words carefully, “attention is dependent upon circumstance and atmosphere.”

“Good, enough, O most wise Telemachus,” came the answer, with a mixture of agreement and cynicism, “the very reason for my invitation. How the devil shall a man keep his mind on this” (he nodded at the picture) “while this herd is using the Gallery as a shelter from the rain?”

Wynne laughed. An attack on the people always gave him pleasure.

“That’s a fair statement of the case. The sun’ll be out in a minute,” he cocked his eye to the sky-light. “Then we shall have the place to ourselves. Mark my words.”

“They’ve no artistic appreciation,” said Wynne, feeling on safe ground. “A very bovine race, the English.”

“Tommy rot!” said the old gentleman, unexpectedly; “don’t talk drivelling nonsense. Best race in the world, the English, but they won’t let ’emselves go.”

“Well, doesn’t that amount to—”

“No, it don’t. You can’t judge the speed of a racehorse while he is munching oats in a stable.”

“No, sir; but presumably the people should come here to appreciate. They can do their munching at home.”

“Rubbish! English folk are too shy to express appreciation. That’s the trouble with ’em—shyness. National code! They keep away from all matters likely to excite ’em artistically for fear of being startled into expressing their true feelings. Englishmen’s idea of bad form, expression! Damn fine people! Bovine? Not a bit of it!”

Seemingly, to be consistent was not a characteristic of the old gentleman, a circumstance which rendered argument difficult. Wynne fell back on:

“After all, it was you who attacked them first.”

“Know I did. Good reason too. A lot of clattering feet thumping past my Leonardo! Scattering my thoughts. ’Taint right—’taint reverent. If I’d my way I’d allow no one to enter here who hadn’t graduated to a degree in the arts—or respect for the arts. ’Tisn’t decent for people to use as a waiting-room a gallery holding some of the world’s greatest achievements on canvas. It’s degrading and disgraceful. Why aren’t we taught to respect art from infancy, hey? And pay it proper compliments, too. We have to take our hats off in a twopenny tin chapel, and are thought blackguards and infidels if we keep ’em on, but do we ever touch a forelock to a masterpiece in paint, and does any one think any the worse of us however idiotically we behave before it? No! Then I say that we are no better than hooligans and savages, and have no right of contact with the glorious emblems of what a man’s hand and a man’s head can achieve.”

This speech he delivered with enthusiasm and a profusion of gesture. Wynne was properly impressed, and hoped the old gentleman would proceed, which he readily did.

“Good Gad a’mighty!” he ejaculated, pointing a claw-like forefinger at Leonardo’s Virgin. “Whenever I doubt the Scriptures I look at her and the doubt passes. Da Vinci saw her. Saw her, and he painted what he saw—the flesh and the spirit. See the eyelids, they tremble—don’t they? They are never at rest. That’s the woman essence—the mother essence—eyes trembling over the soul of her child. And the hands! Don’t you feel at any second they may move? One might come tomorrow and find them any-other-where. Motion—touch—a quickening sense of protection. Use the place as a shelter against the rain! Damnable! There’s just the same amazing mobility in the expression of La Jaconde—at the Louvre, but with this difference. The Virgin”—he pointed again at the picture—“and Monna Lisa, the woman who saw the world through eyes of understanding which curled her lips to humour. A courtesan some folks say she was—not unlikely—inevitable almost! Takes a courtesan to contrive a measured expression like that. Lord! if a good woman could understand as a courtesan must understand, what a superwoman she would be! Intellect springs from knowledge of the flesh, and is sunk in it too—more often the latter. The revelation of one sex to another is the well-head of all learning. Passion of the soul is the reaction of bodily passion—must be—is. What is it Pater says about Monna Lisa?—‘Represents what, in a thousand years, man had come to desire.’ True too! Even a fool would admit that. There’s a fleeting look in the eyes and the mouth that adjusts itself to every line of thought—gives an answer to every question—a compassion for every sin—an impetus to all betterment. Been to the Louvre? Know the picture?”

“No,” said Wynne, rather ruefully.

“Good Gad a’mighty! then you’ve plenty to learn, and the sooner you start the better. What are you—art student or what?”

“I am going to be a writer.”

“How old?”

“Seventeen and a bit.”

“Then learn to paint first. There are no schools for writers, and painting’ll teach you more than all the libraries in the world. Teach you values—that’s the hinge of all learning in art—values! Relative values. The worth of this as compared with that. Teach you line—the infinite variety of line—the tremendous responsibility of line—the humour—the severity of line. Teach you nature—the goddess from whom all beauty is drawn, and whose lightest touch has more mystery in it than all the creations of man. That’s what you want to do. No good trying to write till you’re nearing thirty—abouts. Learn on canvas how to ink your paper thoughts. Pack your bag and go to Paris.”

“I believe I will,” exclaimed Wynne. “Where—where should I go when I get there?”

“Anywhere—Julian—Calarossi. The Quartier is full of ’em. Make for the Boule Miche, and stop the first boy with a beard. He’ll tell you where to go.”

PART THREE
PARIS

I

At nine o’clock next evening a slightly confused Wynne Rendall was seeking a cab midst the din and clatter of the Gare St. Lazare. He had escaped the escort of several insidious gentlemen who offered their services as “Guides,” and spoke suggestively of Corybantine revels they were prepared to exhibit. Wynne had been warned by an amiable Customs official to have nothing to do with “zes blerdy scoundrills,” so he was able to reply to their English solicitations, “Pas ce soir, merci,” and move on in the press of crowds.

He succeeded in attracting the attention of a very aged cab-driver, who controlled two white steeds, of even greater age, with a pair of scarlet reins. Him he addressed in his best school French:

“Je desire trouver un hotel très petit et pas trop cher,” he said.

The driver seemed at some difficulty to understand, but when finally he succeeded in doing so he bade Wynne climb inside, and, gathering up his reins, shouted a frenzied command to the horses. Seemingly these beasts were unaffected by his cries, for they moved away in the stateliest fashion; whereupon the driver rose to his feet and laid about him with a whip like any Roman charioteer. This produced the desired result, and the vehicle, swaying perilously, thundered over the cobbles of the station yard and out into the night.

“This is magnificent,” said Wynne. “Oh, gorgeous!”

His eyes feasted on the broad boulevards—the cafés, with their little tables set upon the pavement beneath the gay striped awning—the unfamiliar cosmopolitan crowds who jostled along or sat sipping their syros and bocks at pleasant ease. Also it was very wonderful to be driving on the wrong side of the road and apparently ignoring all traffic laws. Once a gendarme with a long, clattering sword held up his hand to bid them stop, but him the driver ignored, beyond a sharp rattle of criticism as they brushed by.

At the corner of the Rue St. Honoré a fiacre in front knocked a man off his bicycle, and proceeded as though nothing had happened. The unfortunate cyclist picked himself up and started in pursuit, leaving his bicycle lying in the highway. A motor bus, considering such an obstacle unworthy of changing its course to avoid, ran over it, crushing the frame and rims, and Wynne’s cab, following behind, did likewise.

Nobody seemed to care. Passers-by scarcely wasted a glance over the affair. A desire to cheer possessed Wynne. It seemed he had arrived at the City of Harlequinade, where the wildest follies were counted to be wise.

Further down the road a fight was in progress. No blows were exchanged, but the disputants grabbed and clawed at each other’s clothing. They ripped out neckties and tore the buttons from waistcoats. They stamped upon and kicked each other’s hats—pockets were wrenched from coats, and shirt-tails sprang unexpectedly to view.

Wynne could not help thinking how funny it would be if Wallace were to appear in Wimbledon High Street with a battered silk hat and his shirt-tail flapping over his breeches. There was humour in this fight which seemed to justify it—not blood and staggering figures, such as one saw outside the publichouses at home on a Saturday night.

Wynne blessed the old gentleman of the National Gallery who had inspired him to come to Paris.

They passed a great magasin with blazed arch lights, and turned up a tiny street to the left. Wynne caught a glimpse of its name as the cab turned the corner. “Rue Croix des Petits Champs.” Then the vehicle stopped abruptly—so abruptly that the nearside horse fell to his knees and nearly dragged the driver from the box, who marked his disapproval by liberal use of the whip. Order being restored, he pointed to a big arched doorway and cried:

“Voilà! Voilà!”

So Wynne alighted and demanded:

“Comme bien?”

“Cinq francs quatre-vingt-cinq.”

Wynne was unaccustomed to French money, and the centimes conveyed nothing to him. He proffered four francs and was amazed at the flow of incomprehensible invective which followed. It was impossible to argue at anything approaching that speed, so he held up his palm with some silver in it and said:

“Alors prenez ce que vous voulez.”

The driver accordingly appropriated eight francs, and with a cry of “ ’Voir et merci,” whipped up his horses and vanished into the night.

Wynne subsequently learned that the fare should have been about one shilling and threepence.

He entered the arched gates and found himself in a small courtyard with a lighted door at the further end. Above this was written, “Hotel du Monde et Madagascar.”

The idea of referring to Madagascar as though it were a satellite of the world pleased his sense of humour and warmed his heart toward the new abode.

The foyer at the hotel was quite small, and there was a little office, on the immediate right of the entrance, in which sat a sweet-looking old lady dressed in black, and wearing a beautifully laundered cap.

Wynne gave her good evening, stated that he wanted a room, “très bon marché,” and told her his name.

“Et moi je suis Rosalie,” returned the little concierge, with the sweetest smile imaginable.

Certainly he could have a room—it was on the fifth floor, and cost but twenty francs a month. That he would like it she was sure, since it was “clair, propre et tout ce qu’il faut.” She would ring for Benoit, who was “un garçon bien gentil,” although suffering from “mal é la poitrine,” which would carry him off all too soon. “Qui, c’est triste!”

Benoit’s appearance, when eventually he arrived, did not give rise to any immediate anxiety regarding his health. He was a big and cheerful man, beside whom Wynne felt painfully insignificant. Taking possession of the bag, Benoit led the way up many flights of stairs, until at last they arrived at the fifth floor. Here he threw open a door and said:

“Voilà! N’est-ce pas?”

Wynne’s reply, “C’est de luxe,” amused Benoit greatly, who sat on the bed to enjoy a hearty laugh.

While the bag was being unpacked, Benoit supplied information regarding Parisian life. Thus Wynne learnt that the average boarder in small French hotels went out for his meals and his bath. By this means either one or the other could be taken at the convenience of the individual, who was therefore in no way constrained to be at a certain place at any specified hour. Wynne inquired how far it was to the Quartier Latin, and was greatly delighted to learn that ten minutes’ walk would land him there.

Many students from the ateliers lodged at the hotel, he discovered, some of whom were “bien gentil,” and others “méchant.”

“Aprés le Bal Quatres Arts! O c’était terrible!” He, Benoit, was constrained to prevent a certain young Englishman, who habitually was “tout à fait milord,” from importing to his apartment a lady dressed as Britannia, whom he claimed as his bride. It was undoubtedly very droll, and he was sympathetic, but the good name of the house came first, and since no marriage lines were available, husband and wife were forced to celebrate their nuptials apart. Doubtless the young man was carried away by patriotism, but if the excellent “Madame” had heard of such goings on she would have been in a fine rage.

Further advices were given as to where Wynne would do well to seek his food. He would find excellent hospitality “chez Bouillon Aristide” at the corner, and a little further down the Rue St. Honoré was a creamery whose chocolate and croissons would compare with those set upon the table of the President.

He urged Wynne to avoid sliding on the polished floor of his bedroom, since the practice provided him with additional labour in the mornings. Also he volunteered the remark that the room was popular because it was very amusing.

Wynne liked the room, but could not at the time comprehend in what sense the word amusing could be associated with it. When he awoke the following morning an explanation arose, for his ears were filled with the sound of girls’ voices singing a merry song.

Opening his eyes he observed through the window an apartment some twenty feet away on the other side of the courtyard. Herein sat perhaps a dozen little workgirls, plaiting and combing long switches of false hair. They were employés of a perruquier, and cheerful, light-hearted souls they appeared to be. When he sat up in bed they greeted him with the friendliest gaiety, giving thanks that their fears that he might be dead were not realized.

Wynne felt a little embarrassed having to make his toilet in these circumstances. He remained between the sheets indecisively until forced to rise by the friendly chaffery from opposite. Then he grabbed his clothes from the chair and ran the gauntlet to the corner of the room, where he might dress without being observed.

This manœuvre excited gusts of merriment, in which he found himself joining very heartily.

After all, why should one mind dressing before an audience? It was ridiculous to be super-modest over such trifles. He realized with a start that his own stock of unconventionalism was thoroughly outclassed by these simple little midinettes, and this being so, he at once conceived for them a very profound esteem.

Accordingly, with a hairbrush in one hand and his braces trailing behind him, he stepped upon the tiny balcony and said:

“Bon jour. Je pense que vous êtes très, très douce les toutes.”

The cordial reception accorded to this sentiment encouraged him to further efforts. He found, however, that his stock of French was insufficient for the needs of the occasion. After a laborious endeavour to express appreciation for their sunny broad-minded temperaments and to include a few words stating that his mission in life was to inculcate a similar breadth of mind to the hide-bound pedants who infested the world, he was compelled to stop for lack of the material to proceed.

His merry audience, in spite of having failed to understand a single word, cheered the speech very generously, and blew him a cloud of aerial kisses.

II

Wynne Rendall took his chocolate and immersed his roll therein with all the skill of a Parisian, and later, in a very rapturous frame of mind, crossed the Seine by the Pont des Arts and made his way to the Rue du Dragon. He had no difficulty in discovering the Atelier Julien, and addressing himself to a bearded and aproned old gentleman who sat on a high stool in a very small office.

He had feared there might be difficulty in gaining admission, since he could claim no previous experience of the plastic arts, but in this his misgivings proved groundless. It was merely a matter of paying one’s fee—a small fee at that—and taking one’s place.

Asked if he had any choice of masters, he shook his head. He was placed therefore under the guardianship of Le Maître Jean Paul Laurens, a man “both strong and brilliant,” whose studio was on the first floor.

Since he desired to spend the day seeing Paris, and purchasing colours and canvas, Wynne decided he would not start work until the morrow.

“Bien; demain matin à huit heures! Très bien. Au ’voir.”

III

It was splendid to reflect that he was a full-blown student of the Quartier, thought Wynne, as with ringing steps he swung along the narrow thoroughfares. He wished Uncle Clem had been there to witness his glory. Never before had he felt so confident of his own personality. Rivulets of water danced and chattered along the gutters reflecting the gladness of his mood—the sun shone gloriously on the tall white houses. Quaint old men with baskets of merchandise piped beseechingly on tiny horns. Thousands of purple-dyed eggs filled the shop windows, and the wonderful, everchanging, raffish, homely crowds chattered, gesticulated and hurried along in ceaseless streams.

Wynne was possessed with a foolish desire to shake hands with every one he met, and tell them all about himself; to explain why he had come, and to give them a glimpse of the workings of his many-sided nature. A measure of common sense dissuaded him from so doing, but he sang as he walked, and expanded his narrow chest to its fullest capacity. Presently he found himself by the riverside, and hovered awhile over the book-sellers’ stalls perched on the stone copings of the embankment. At one of these he bought a translation of Shakespeare’s works, an old volume of Balzac, and some paper-bound copies of the plays of Molière. It was the first time he had rummaged among books, and the experience was delightful. The mere touch of them sent a thrill of learning through his being.

For awhile he hovered by the riverside watching the energetic steamboats—the sober barges—and the great floating warehouses moored by the tow-path. Everywhere were people sketching—placid and preoccupied. No crowds of curious urchins jostled around them with stupid comments, as was always the case at home when any one had the temerity to bring their colour-box into the open day.

Paris respected its artists, and gave them as great seclusion out of doors as in their own studios. Sombre sportsmen, rodded and camp-stooled, lined the banks and strove to catch the elusive gudgeon. It seemed as though their attention was centred anywhere but upon the float. Their eyes rested dreamily on the spanned arches of Pont Neuf or the flying buttresses of Notre Dame, while invisible fish in the green waters beneath worried the bait from the hook with perfect immunity from danger.

To the island of Notre Dame Wynne directed his steps, and spent an hour of sheer delight with imagination let loose. Romance breathed in the air around him, and memory of dead things sprang to life. He pictured himself back in Dumas’ days—with king’s men and cardinals—swashbuckling on the footway—with masked ladies flitting into dark doorways, and the tinkle of blade against blade from some courtyard near at hand.

Chance led him to enter a low, stone building by one of the bridges. All manner of men and women passed in and out of this place, and Wynne followed the general lead. There was a glass compartment across the far side of the hall, before which a large crowd was assembled. A nursemaid wheeling a perambulator, and a group of blue-smocked, pipe-smoking ouvriers hid from view what the case contained.

The exhibits, whatever they might be, were clearly very popular. Wynne reflected that probably they were Napoleonic relics, or maybe the crown jewels, when a rift in the crowd betrayed the fact that the case was full of dead men. With heads tilted at shy and foolish angles, with bodies lolling limply against the sloped marble slabs, the corpses of the Seine bleared stupidly at the quick.

It was the first time Wynne had looked on the face of the dead, and the sight chilled him with a faint, freezing sickness.

“Oh, God, how awful!” he muttered, and turned to go, but the way before him was barred by fresh arrivals. “I want to get out,” he cried, but no one heeded him. He began to struggle, when a firm hand fell on his shoulder, and a voice, speaking with a Southern American accent, said:

“Calm down, son. What’s the trouble?”

Wynne looked up and saw a tall, broad-shouldered man smiling upon him. He wore a blue serge shirt, a pair of sailor’s breeches, and no hat. His black, sleek hair hung loosely over his left temple.

“It’s horrible,” said Wynne. “I want to get away.”

“Yer wrong,” came the answer. “Yer wan’ to stop. The spirit of Paris abides in this place. There’s no intensive life without an intensive death. Only when they come here do they realize how very much alive they are. Sometimes I believe the Morgue is the greatest tonic in this city. Now jest pull up and we’ll step round the cases together.”

Wynne shook his head.

“Yer not afraid?”

“No, but—it seems so callous, and—I want to live—and do great things—wonders. I don’t want to stare at a row of corpses.”

“There’s a fellow there”—he nodded his head toward the case—“who was an artist. He wanted to live and perform wonders too. Then he found out that he couldn’t—found out that a dozen idle, do-nothing fellows could outclass him at every turn. What happens? He puts a brick in pocket and jumps. Seems to me, with your ideas, you might learn something from the page of those cold features.”

“All right,” said Wynne; “lead away.”

They joined the crowd that slowly filed past the silent watchers.

“I’m glad I saw them,” he said, as they turned once more toward the door. “I never realized before what full-stop meant. It makes one feel the need to get on—and on. Death is so horribly conclusive.”

He drew a breath of air gratefully as they came into the sunlight.

“A cure for slackers, eh?” said the American.

“Yes—rather.”

He was a pleasant fellow, the American, and volunteered to share a table at lunch.

“Painting student?” he asked.

“I’m making a start tomorrow at Julien’s.”

“Then pay for your drink when the Massier introduces himself, and if you know a rorty song sing it for all you’re worth.”

After lunch he helped Wynne buy colours, brushes, and a beautiful walnut palette, then wished him luck and departed.

They never met again. Paris is the place of quick friendships and equally quick partings. Races lose their characteristic shyness under the Paris sun. Strangers accost each other and join in day-long or night-long festivities, exchange their most intimate thoughts, and finally go their ways without even so much as asking each other’s names.

IV

Wynne arrived at the Atelier Jean Paul Laurens at a quarter to the hour of eight A. M. He was the first comer, and had a moment’s leisure to survey his surroundings. The studio itself was not large, and as high as the arm could reach the walls were plastered, generations deep, with palette scrapings. Above in great profusion were studies from the nude, heads and charcoal drawings in every possible mood of form and light. To Wynne, hitherto accustomed to regard paintings as pictures, these canvases struck a note of brutal coarseness, offending his æsthetic sensibilities. They seemed no more than men and women stripped of their clothing and indecently exposed.

“God! I won’t paint like that,” he thought.

From a great pile of easels in the corner he selected one and disposed it a few feet away from the model’s throne; which done, he set his palette with an infinite number of small dabs of colour. He thrust a few brushes through the thumb-hole, and was ready to make a start when the time arrived.

Presently a little Italian girl, with heavy gold rings in her ears, and a coloured kerchief over her head, came in and nodded a greeting.

“Nouveau?” she inquired.

“Oui,” replied Wynne.

She smiled agreeably, and seating herself on the throne kicked her shoes behind a screen and pulled off her stockings.

“O-ooo!” she shivered, “c’est pas chaud.”

She nodded toward the stove, and Wynne was glad of the opportunity to put on some coal, since he was conscious of some small uneasiness, alone and unoccupied while the maiden disrobed. He took as long as possible, and when he had finished discovered that she had finished too, and was calling upon him to provide her with a “couverture.” This he sought and handed to her, not entirely without embarrassment.

“Merci, Bébé,” said the Italian, and draped the old curtain around herself.

From the passage outside came the sound of many footsteps—a clamour of voices, and a moment later some twenty students clattered into the studio, with others at their heels. They were men of all ages and every nationality—some dressed as typical art students, others as conventionally attired as any young gentleman from Bond Street. An impulse which they shared in common was to make a noise, and in this they achieved a very high standard of perfection. A great variety of sounds were produced, mostly patterned from the fowl-run or the asses’ stall. One serious-minded and bearded boy devoted his ingenuity to reproducing the noise of a motor horn; while another, leaping to the model’s throne, hailed the dawn like any chanticleer. Espying Wynne’s beautifully white canvas perched upon its easel, a red-headed Alsatian flung a tabouret which swept all before it, and sent the new palette planing to the floor.

“What the devil do you mean by that?” cried Wynne, and was told to “Shut up, you silly ass. Don’t ask for trouble,” by an English voice at the back of the crowd.

At this moment a very precise little Frenchman stepped forward and made a bow.

“Moi je suis le Massier,” he announced, and asked if Wynne were prepared to stand a drink to the students. Twelve francs was the sum required—payable in advance.

The money was produced, whereat every one, including the model, who had borrowed a long painter’s coat for the occasion, rushed from the studio. Half the crowd became wedged in the doorway, and the other half fell down the stairs en masse. Wynne was swept along by the tidal wave at the rear, and trod on many prostrate pioneers before swinging out into the Rue du Dragon. There was a small café fifty yards distant, and thither they raced, sweeping every one from the pavements as they ran. Further jostling ensued at the doors of the café, but finally every one struggled through and found accommodation.

A chair was set upon a table and Wynne invited to occupy it. This he did with very great satisfaction and a kingly feeling. Busy waiters below hurried round with trays, bearing glasses of black coffee, and a very innocuous fluid known as “grog Americaine.”

When all had been served the Massier called upon the “nouveau” to give a song, and reminded him that failure to do so might result in unhappy consequences.

So Wynne stood upon the chair, with his head touching the ceiling, and sang several questionable limericks at the top of his voice. Hardly a soul understood the words, but from the spirit of their delivery they judged them to be indecent and bawdy, and as such very acceptable to hear. Moreover, there was a refrain in which all were able to join, and this in itself readily popularized the effort.

The Massier personally complimented the vocalist, and suggested that the occasion was almost sufficient to justify a barricade.

Cries were raised that nothing short of the barricade could be contemplated, and in an instant all the chairs and tables from the café were cast outside into the street. Skilled at their work, the barricaders set one table against the other with chairs before them. The company then seated itself and began to sing. Ladies from adjoining houses leaned out and threw smiles of encouragement, and the traffic in both directions ceased to flow.

Many and strange were the songs sung, and they dealt with life and adventure of a coarse but frisky kind.

Thus the passers-by learned what befell an officer who came across the Rhine, a sturdy fellow with an eye for a maid, and a compelling way with him to wit. Some there were who glowered disapprovingly at this morning madness, but more generally the audience were sympathetic, and yielded to the student the right of levity.

All would have gone well but for a surly dray-driver, who, wearying of the hold-up, urged his hairies into the midmost table with a view to breaking the barricade. This churlish act excited the liveliest activity. The horses were drawn from the shafts and led forthwith into a small greengrocer’s shop, where they feasted royally upon the carrots and swedes basketed in abundance about them. The owner of the shop and the driver raised their voices in protest, and their cries attracted the attention of the patron of the café. This good man, supported by three waiters, came forth and argued that the jest had gone far enough.

In so doing he was ill-advised, for in Paris a kill-joy invariably prejudices his own popularity. Some of the students formed a cordon about the good man and his staff, while others seized the chairs and tables and piled them on the tops of the waiting vehicles. This done they started the horses with cries and blows, and a moment later the furniture was careering up the street in all directions.

“C’est fini,” said the Massier.

The cordon broke, Monsieur le Patron and his garçons were away in pursuit, and the students, headed by the bare-footed Italian girl in her paint-smeared jacket, turned once more to their labours.

Wynne was almost exhausted with laughter. It seemed impossible such revels could be conducted by perfectly sober men before half-past eight in the morning. Perhaps strangest of all was the suddenness with which the robes of gaiety were discarded, for ten minutes later each man was at his easel setting out his palette as soberly as a city clerk plays dominoes during the luncheon hour.

V

It should be stated that Wynne Rendall showed small skill as a painter. He approached the task with a pleasant conviction that he would at least rival if not excel the ordinary run of students. At school he had been able to achieve clever little caricatures of masters and boys, and he had thought to draw from life would be a simpler matter altogether. To his chagrin he discovered that he was not able even to place the figure roughly upon a canvas. He realized the intention of the pose, but his efforts to convey it were futile and grotesque.

With jealous irritation he observed how the other students dashed in the rough constructive features of a figure with sure sense of proportion and animation.

“Wha’ are ye trying to do?” inquired a Scotch lad, who had abandoned his work for the pleasure of watching Wynne’s confusion. “Mon, it’s awfu’. Have ye no drawn from the antique?”

Wynne was not disposed to give himself away, although the words made him hot with shame.

“Every one has his own method,” he retorted.

“A’mitted, but there’s no meethod in yon. Stand awa’ a meenit.” And before Wynne had time to protest he struck a dozen red lines upon the canvas which gave an almost instantaneous likeness to the subject.

“Leave it alone,” said Wynne. “It isn’t yours.”

“I need hairdly say I’m glad. Now look ye here. Ye know naything, and a leetle ceevil attention will profit ye.”

He did not pay the slightest heed to Wynne’s sulky rejoinder, but, sucking at his pipe, continued to work on the canvas with great dexterity and skill. Presently he wearied of the occupation, and Wynne came back to his own with a somewhat chastened spirit.

It is an understood thing in the ateliers that every one criticizes every one else, and supports his theories by painting on the canvas he may be discussing. Before the day was out half a dozen different men left their mark on Wynne’s study. The most irritating feature about this practice was the coincidence that they always obliterated some little passage with which he was pleased. To quote one instance, he had succeeded rather happily in the treatment of an eye, imparting to it a sparkle and lustre that gave him profound satisfaction. He could have screamed with rage when the red-headed Alsatian, dipping his thumb in some raw umber, blotted it out, saying sweetly:

“It is not that it is an eye—it is a shadow that it should be.”

A similar experience occurred when, a week later, the great Jean Paul Laurens halted in amazement and disgust before his performance.

“This,” said he, “is a series of trivial incidents, of disjointed details! To we artists the human figure is a mass of light and shade. It is not made up of legs and hands, and breasts, and ears and teeth. No—by the good God, no!”

With which he seized a brush and scrabbled a quantity of flake white over the entire surface.

“Good!” he said. “It is finished.” And passed on to the next.

Thinking the matter over in bed that night Wynne realized he had learnt a great and valuable lesson: breadth of view—visualizing life as a whole. It was knowledge that could be applied to almost everything. Detail merely existed as part of the whole, but the whole was not arrived at by assembling detail.

The same would apply, he perceived, to every art, to business, too, and to life in general. He began to understand how it was possible for people like Wallace and his father to have their place in the scheme of things. They ceased to exist as individual items, brought into undue prominence by enforced propinquity, but became parts of a great machinery whose functions were too mighty to comprehend. These were the shadows which gave tone-value to the high-lights. They were vital and essential, and without them there would be no contrast, no variety, nothing but flat levels—dull and marshy—and never a hill on the horizon showing purple in the morning sun.

“I must learn this trade of painting,” said Wynne, “it’s the short road to all knowledge.”

He flung himself into the work with an energy truly remarkable. From early morning till midnight he battled with the craft, and thought and talked of nothing else. In the cafés, where students met and thrashed out their thousand ideas, Wynne was well bethought, for although his skill with a brush was small he could advance and support a theory with the liveliest talker in the Quartier. His success in argument was, perhaps, not altogether of advantage to his immortal soul, since it led him to cultivate a cynical attitude toward most affairs. He very readily became conversant with the works of the Masters, old and new, and praised or attacked them with great impartiality. Preferably he would detract from accepted geniuses, and deliver the most scathing criticisms against pictures before which mankind had prostrated itself for centuries. One day he would admit of the value of no artist save Manet, and another would accuse him of possessing neither skill nor artistry, but merely “a singularly adroit knack of expressing vulgarity.”

He did not attempt to be honest in regard to his points of view, being perfectly satisfied so long as he could hold a controversial opinion.

Not infrequently high words would result from these discussions, and on one occasion a table was overset, glasses smashed, and a chair flung. Police arrived on the scene, and Wynne and three companions spent the night in a lockup. This he did not mind in the least, and continued to air his views in the small hours of the morning until threatened with solitary confinement unless he desisted.

VI

On the tenth week after his arrival in Paris, Wynne’s money gave out. He had not bothered to consider what he should do when this happened, and as a result poverty seized him unprepared.

To do him justice he did not bother in the least as to the future of his bodily welfare, but was distressed beyond expression at the thought of abandoning his studies.

A wild idea possessed him to sell some of his future years for a few more terms at the studio. He even went to the length of discussing the project with the Massier. This gentleman, however, shook his head dubiously.

“Impossible,” he said.

“Why?” said Wynne. “I’ll give two-thirds of all I earn for the next three years to any one who’ll finance me now.”