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 (videUncle 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.”
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 weretwoof each of them.”
Wallace began to feel out of his depth.
“But they were inthe 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.
“Youmustbe 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 TWOTHE PURPLE PATCH
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.
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.
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 ofnouveaux, 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—