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.”