The Project Gutenberg eBook ofOur Wonderful Selves

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofOur Wonderful SelvesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Our Wonderful SelvesAuthor: Roland PertweeRelease date: October 8, 2022 [eBook #69114]Most recently updated: October 19, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: Alfred A Knopf, 1919Credits: Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net from page images generously made available by the Internet Archive*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUR WONDERFUL SELVES ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Our Wonderful SelvesAuthor: Roland PertweeRelease date: October 8, 2022 [eBook #69114]Most recently updated: October 19, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: Alfred A Knopf, 1919Credits: Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net from page images generously made available by the Internet Archive

Title: Our Wonderful Selves

Author: Roland Pertwee

Author: Roland Pertwee

Release date: October 8, 2022 [eBook #69114]Most recently updated: October 19, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Alfred A Knopf, 1919

Credits: Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net from page images generously made available by the Internet Archive

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUR WONDERFUL SELVES ***

OURWONDERFULSELVES

OUR

WONDERFUL

SELVES

“Of making many books there is no end:and much study is a weariness of the flesh.”EcclesiastesXII, 12.

“Of making many books there is no end:and much study is a weariness of the flesh.”EcclesiastesXII, 12.

“Of making many books there is no end:and much study is a weariness of the flesh.”EcclesiastesXII, 12.

“Of making many books there is no end:

and much study is a weariness of the flesh.”

EcclesiastesXII, 12.

OURWONDERFUL SELVESBYROLAND PERTWEENEW YORKALFRED • A • KNOPFMCMXIX

OUR

WONDERFUL SELVES

BY

ROLAND PERTWEE

NEW YORKALFRED • A • KNOPFMCMXIX

COPYRIGHT, 1919, BYALFRED A. KNOPF,Inc.PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY

ALFRED A. KNOPF,Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

ToAVICE

To

AVICE

CONTENTS

PART IA QUESTION MARK IN SUBURBIA

Wynne Rendall was a seven months’ child; the fact is significant of a personality seeking premature prominence upon this planet. He spent the first weeks of his infancy wrapped in cotton wool and placed in a basket as near the fire as safety allowed. He scaled precisely two pounds fifteen ounces, and the doctor, who manipulated the weights and was interested in mathematics, placed two pounds fifteen ounces over seven months and shook his head forebodingly at the result.

“If he lives he will be a sickly child, nurse.”

This opinion the nurse heartily endorsed, and added, in tribute to the kindliness of her disposition:

“Poor little thing!”

Mrs. Rendall did not show great concern at the untimely arrival of her offspring. She accepted it, as she accepted all things, with phlegmatical calm. A great deal was required to still Mrs. Rendall’s emotions, so much, in fact, that it was not within the recollection of any of her intimates that they ever had been stirred. It did not occur to her that the birth of a child, mature or premature, was a matter of moment. If it lived, well and good, and the best must be done for it. If it died, the occurrence must be regarded as sad and an occasion for shedding a given number of tears. It was clearly useless to foreshadow either event, since one was as likely as the other and could be as readily treated with when the time arose.

It must not be thought that Mrs. Rendall’s calm was the result of philosophy. That would be far from the truth. It occurred simply and solely from a vacant mind—a mind nourished by the dead-sea fruit of its own vacuity. She lacked impulse and intelligence, and was, indeed, no more than a lifeless canal along which the barges of domesticity were drearily towed. Her ideas were other people’s, and valueless at that; her conversation was a mere repetition of things she had said before.

When the doctor, rubbing his hands to lend an air of cheerful optimism to a cheerless situation, declared, “We shall pull that youngster through, see if we don’t,” she responded, “Oh, yes,” with a falling inflexion. If he had said the opposite, her reply would have been the same—delivered in the same manner.

In some cases heredity ignores personalities, and this, in the instance of Wynne Rendall, was hardly difficult of achievement. From his mother he took nothing, unless it were a measure of her fragility, which was perhaps the only circumstance about her to justify attention. The characteristics that he did not bring into the world with himself he inherited from his grandfather,viahis own sire.

The grandfather was certainly the more notable of the two gentlemen, and had achieved some astonishing ideals on canvas, very heartily disapproved of by the early Victorian era, and some memorable passages of wit which had heightened his unpopularity. He was an artist who went for his object with truly remarkable energy. To seek a parallel among modern men, his work possessed some of the qualities of Aubrey Beardsley’s, combined with the vigour of John S. Sargent. But the world was not ready for such productions, and, casting its eyes upward in pious horror, hurried from the walls on which they were exhibited. Old Edward Tyler Rendall scorned them as they departed, but he understood the situation notwithstanding.

“I’ve come too soon,” he mused, “too soon by a generation or more.”

His belief in his art was so great that he determined to sacrifice his liberty and get married, in the hope that he might have a son who would carry on the work for the benefit of a world enlightened by broader-minded civilization.

In due course the son was born, and when he reached an age of understanding, the reason of his being was dinned into his ears.

“Get away from old traditions; build something new, dextrous, adroit, understanding. See what I mean, Robert boy? Be plucky—plucky in line, composition, subject. Always have a purpose before you; don’t mind how offensive it is—no one cares for that if you’ve the courage to declare your meaning in honest black and white.”

The result of this intensive artistic culture was that Robert Everett Rendall, at the age of sixteen and a half, ran away from home and took a position as office boy in a large firm of tea-tasters in the City.

This case presents unusual features, being in itself an inversion of the usual procedure.

Old Rendall made one heroic effort to win him back, and stormed the City citadel to that end; but here he encountered from Robert a metropolitan manner so paralysing that he fled the office in wholesome disgust.

Ever courageous, he urged his wife to labour anew, and was rewarded by a daughter who unhappily perished. The disappointment was acute, and when some three years later a son was born his energies had so far abated that he made no further effort to inculcate the spirit of artistry which had been the essence of his being.

Meanwhile Robert Everett Rendall lived a sober and honourable life in the City, and heartily abused all matters pertaining to art. Nothing infuriated him more than to find himself drawing, with an odd facility, strange little designs on the corners of his blotting paper while engaged in thinking out the intricacies connected with the tasting of tea.

The suppression of a natural ability sometimes produces peculiar results and the deliberate smothering of all he had been taught or had inherited from his father brought about in Robert Everett Rendall a deplorable irritability and high temper. This he was discreet enough to keep in hand during City hours, but in his own home he allowed it full sway.

At such times his actions were abnormal. He would pick up any object convenient to hand and throw it with surprising accuracy of aim at one or another of the highly respectable water-colour paintings which adorned the walls of his abode.

But even in this matter his City training stood him in good stead, for there was very little spontaneity in the act. According to the degree of his ill-humour, so was the target chosen. If he were in a towering rage the 20x30 drawing of Clovelly would be bound to have it; and so down the scale of anger to the 10x7 of Beachy Head. It made no difference whether the picture were large or small, his projectile struck it with never-failing precision. The tinkle and crash of the falling glass seemed to restore his calm, for when the blow had been struck he returned to more normal habits.

Had Mrs. Rendall been gifted with observation she would have known exactly, according to his mood, which picture would fall, and would thus have saved herself much ducking over the dining-room table. Such conclusions, however, were beyond the reach of her unsubtle soul.

In connection with this matter she produced, and that unintentionally, one of her only flights of humour:

“If you would throw your serviette ring, Robert, it would not matter so much, but the salt-cellar makes it so uncomfortable for every one else.”

The news of Wynne’s birth was conveyed to Mr. Rendall on his doorstep at an inopportune moment. He had pinched his fingers in the front gate, and followed this misfortune with the discovery that his latchkey had been left in another pair of trousers. Few things irritate a man more than ringing his own door bell, and Mr. Rendall was no exception to the rule. In common with the general view, he conceived that the parlour-maid kept him waiting unduly.

“I cannot think what you girls do all day long,” he said sharply, when the door opened.

To this Lorna replied:

“Oh, sir, if you please, the baby has come.”

“Well, that won’t alter the price of bacon,” ejaculated Mr. Rendall, and pushed past her into the hall.

But notwithstanding this attitude ofnonchaloir, he was genuinely put about by the news. He did not admit the right of babies to take liberties with their time-sheets. To do so was an impertinent indiscretion. The other two children had not behaved in this manner, and he saw no reason why a special latitude should be extended to the new arrival. Already he had made preparations for being from home when this troublesome period arrived, and now, by a caprice of nature, he was involved in all the discomfort that falls to the lot of a husband at such a time. It was not part of his nature to take a secondary place in his own household, and he esteemed that to do so was derogatory to his position.

Throwing his hat on the hall chair he entered the drawing-room, where he received a rude surprise. It was his habit, before setting out to the City, to finish his breakfast coffee by the drawing-room fire. To his disgust and irritation he found the empty cup, a crumpled newspaper, and his soft slippers just as he had left them that morning. Mightily angered, Mr. Rendall moved toward the bell, when his eye fell upon a basket in the grate. With the intention of throwing cup, newspaper, shoes and basket into the garden, he crossed the room, but as he stooped to carry out his resolve, a faint, flickering wail came to his ears. The contents of the basket moved ever so slightly—a fold of blanket turned outward, and the thin, elfin face of his youngest son was revealed.

At that moment the nurse came into the room. She hesitated at the sight of Mr. Rendall, then stepped forward with,

“Oh, it’s you, sir. Hush, that’s the baby.”

“D’you imagine I thought it was a packet of envelopes?” retorted Mr. Rendall. “But why not put him in the nursery?”

“The other children have only just been sent to their aunt’s, sir, and the nursery isn’t quite ready. Poor little thing’s very weakly, and has to be near a good fire.”

“H’m,” said Mr. Rendall. “I see! Boy, eh? Not much good—weakly boys!”

“Oh, but he’ll soon strengthen up.”

“Hope so. Yes. Doctor’s bills—no good! Mrs. Rendall all right?”

“Going along very nicely, I’m glad to say.”

“H’m. Yes. When did all this happen?”

“About three o’clock.”

“Not much of a chance to clear up, eh? Cups and things lying about! Well, I suppose I may as well go upstairs.”

The interview between husband and wife does not affect our narrative and may well be omitted.

Despite adverse conditions, Wynne Rendall survived the perils of infancy. He was, however, a fragile child, susceptible to chills and fever, and ailments the flesh is heir to. In appearance he in no way resembled his brother or sister—healthy children both, with large appetites and stupid, expressionless faces. He had a broad brow, which overcast the slender lower portions of his face and accentuated the narrowness of his shoulders. His eyes were restless and very bright; they flickered inquiry at every object which passed before their focal plane. His attention was readily attracted to anything unusual even in his early pram days. On one occasion he saw a balloon floating over the houses at a low altitude, and his perambulator never passed the spot above which he had seen it, without his eyes lifting toward the skies in anxious search. Wynne’s nurse was a conscientious little being, and took a fierce pride in the prowess of her charge.

“The way ’e notices, you know. Never forgets so much as anything,” she would confide to other nurses as they pursued their way toward the gardens. “Knows ’is own mind, ’e does, and isn’t afraid to let you know it, either.”

Certainly Wynne held ideas regarding the proper conduct of babies and did not hesitate to raise his voice in displeasure when occasion demanded. In this, however, he showed a logical disposition, for he never cried for the sake of crying. Of toys he very soon tired, and signified lack of interest by throwing them from his pram at moments when his actions were unobserved. As a rule he showed some enthusiasm with the arrival of a new toy, and cherished it dearly for two or three days, but directly the novelty had worn off he lost no time in ridding himself of its society. If he were caught in the act, and the toy restored to him, he would cry very heartily, bite his hands, and kick his feet.

Unlike most children, his first adventures with talking did not consist in repetition of the words “mummie” and “daddy.” The nurse did her best to persuade him, but he was obdurate, and declined to accept the view that they should take precedence in forming a vocabulary. Trees, sky and water he articulated, almost perfectly, before bothering about nouns defining mere mortals.

At the age of four and a half he was sent to a kindergarten, where he found many things to wonder about. He spent a year or more wondering. He wondered about the ribbons that tied little girls’ hair, and why hair need be tied, since it was pleasanter to look upon in riot. He wondered why the lady who kept the school had a chain to her eye-glasses, since they gripped her nose so securely that the danger of their falling off was negligible. He wondered why A was A, and not for example S, and would not accept it as being so without a reason being furnished. Also he wondered why he should be set tasks involving the plaiting of coloured strips of paper, which were tiresome to perform and unsightly when finished.

“Why need I?” he asked petulantly. “Grown-ups don’t. They are ugly and silly.”

“You mustn’t say that, Wynne,” reproved the mistress. “Besides it isn’t true. Doesn’t your mother do pretty embroidery? I am sure she does.”

The logic of the reply pleased him, but it also set him speculating why his mother devoted her time to such profitless employment. The designs she worked were stereotyped and geometrical. It seemed impossible any one could wish to be associated with such productions, and yet, when he came to reflect upon the matter, he realized that most of her time was spent stitching at them.

At the first opportunity he said:

“Mummie, why do you do that?”

“Because it is pretty,” she replied.

There must be something wrong then, he decided. Either she had used the wrong word, or the natural forms which he had decided were “pretty” were not pretty at all. The train of thought was a little complex, so he questioned afresh:

“What are they for when you’ve done?”

“Antimacassars.”

“What’s antercassars?”

“It means something you put over the back of a chair to prevent the grease from people’s hair spoiling the coverings.” Mrs. Rendall’s grandmother had provided her with this valuable piece of knowledge.

“Oh,” said Wynne.

His eyes roamed round the precise semi-circle of small drawing-room chairs, each complete with its detachable antimacassar. As he looked it struck him that the backs of these chairs were so low that no grown-up person could bring his head into contact with them unless he sat upon the floor. Wherefore it was clear that his mother was making provision against a danger which did not exist.

With this discovery awoke the impression that she could hardly be a lady of sound intelligence. Rather fearfully he advanced the theory that her labours were in vain.

“Don’t bother your head about these things,” said Mrs. Rendall. “Plenty of time to think of them when you are grown up.” And she threaded her needle with a strand of crimson silk.

Wynne passed from the room disturbed by many doubts. To the best of his ability he had proved to his mother that antimacassars in no sense were antimacassars, and, in defiance of his logic, she continued to produce them. Moreover, she had said they were pretty, and they werenotpretty—she had said they were antimacassars and they werenotantimacassars. Could her word, therefore, be relied upon in other matters? For instance, when she announced at table, “You have had quite enough;” or at night, “It is time to go to bed,” might it not, in reality, be an occasion for a “second helping” or another hour at play? It was reasonable to suppose so.

He decided it would be expedient to keep his eyes open and watch the habits of grown-ups more closely in the future.

The next serious impression on Wynne’s susceptible brain was the discovery of routine, and he conceived for it an instant dislike. To him it appeared a grievous state of affairs that nearly all matters were guided by the clock rather than by circumstance. One had one’s breakfast not because one was hungry, but because it was half-past eight, and so on with a mass of other details, great and small, throughout the day. That people should wilfully enslave themselves to a mere mechanical contrivance, instead of rising superior to the calls of time and place, was incomprehensible to Wynne. He could not appreciate how regularity and repetition in any sense benefited the individual. He observed how a breakdown in the time-table of events was a sure signal for high words from his father, and an aggravated sense of calamity which ran through every department of the house. True, a late breakfast presaged the loss of a train, and so much time less at the office, but surely this was no matter for melancholy? It argued a poor spirit that could not rejoice at an extra quarter of an hour in bed, or delaying the pursuit of irksome duties.

Wynne had never seen his father’s office, but at the age of seven he had already formed very pronounced and unfavourable views regarding it. To his mind the office and the City were one—a place which swallowed up mankind in the morning and disgorged them at night. The process of digestion through which they appeared to have passed produced characteristics of a distressing order.

A child judges men by his father, and women by his mother. From this standard Wynne judged that men might be tolerable were it not for the City. The City was responsible for his father’s ill-humours at night—the city inspired home criticism and such observations as:

“I come back tired out and find——” etc.

Wynne had a very wholesome distaste for recurrent sentiments; he liked people to say new things that were interesting. The repetition of ready-made phrases was lazy and dull—the very routine of speech. It were better, surely, to say nothing at all than have catch-phrases for ever on one’s lips.

From this point his thoughts turned to inanimate objects, and subconsciously he realized how routine affected their arrangement as inevitably as it affected human beings. Look where you would, there was always a hat-rack in the hall, a church almanack in the lavatory, and a clock on the dining-room mantelpiece. Why?

There was a certain rough justice in the position of the hat-rack, assuming that one admitted the law which discouraged the wearing of hats in the house, but why should one desire to study saints’ days while washing one’s hands? A clock, too, would be none the less serviceable if standing on a cabinet. Who, then, was responsible for dictating such laws? he asked himself. Clearly these were matters for investigation.

An opportunity to investigate arose a few days later. There was a new housemaid, and after her first effort to turn out the drawing-room Mrs. Rendall summoned her to explain that the chairs and tables had not been put back in their proper places.

“Your master would be most annoyed if he saw this, Emily. It is very careless indeed. These chairs must go like this”—and the old order was restored.

“Why do they have to go like that, Mummie?” demanded Wynne, when the maid had departed.

“Because they always have,” replied Mrs. Rendall, with great finality.

He was too young to understand the meaning of a vicious circle or he might have recognized its rotations in her reply. So everything must be done again because it has been done before. Seemingly that was the law governing the universe.

Speaking almost to himself he mused:

“I think it would be nice to do things because theyneverhave been done before.”

To which Mrs. Rendall very promptly replied:

“Don’t be silly.”

“That isn’t silly,” said Wynne. “Why is it silly?”

“If you say another word you will go straight to bed.”

The remark was as surely in place as the clock which stood on the dead centre of the mantelpiece.

Middle class suburban prosperity was not the atmosphere to produce the best results from Wynne Rendall’s active, sensitive brain. He could not understand his parents, and they did not attempt to understand him. His elder brother and sister, being three and four years his senior, left him outside their reckoning. They played sedate games, in which he was never invited to take part. To tell the truth, he had little enough inclination, for most of their ideas of entertainment revolved round commercial enterprise, which he cordially disliked. His brother would build a shop with the towel-horse, stock it with nursery rubbish, and sell the goods, after much ill-humoured bartering, to his sister. She, poor child, in spite of frequent importunities, never once was allowed to play the rôle of shopkeeper, but continued as a permanent customer until the game had lost its relish.

Thus Wynne was thrown very much on his own resources. He read voraciously whatever books he could procure, and spent a deal of time working out his own intricate little thoughts.

Somewhere at the back of his head was a strong conviction that the world held finer things than those surrounding him. To strengthen this belief were certain passages in the books he read. On the whole, however, he was rather disappointed with reading. This in itself was not surprising, in view of the quality of the books to which he had access. It seemed to him that a man might very easily devise more romantic imaginings than any with which he had come into contact.

To test the truth of this theory, he took a pencil stump and some paper into the garden and tried to write about pleasing things. But the words he desired were hard to find, hard to spell, and difficult to string together. So, instead, he decided to draw the little Princess who was the heroine of his unwritten tale. In this he was more successful and achieved a dainty little figure with an agreeable smile. To some extent this pleased him, but not altogether. He was painfully conscious that her feet were clumsy, and her eyes ill drawn, and that the picture did not express half he desired to express. A picture was stationary, and lacked the movement and variety of words. Words could describe the picture, but the picture could not speak the words. Thus his first artistic experiment was fraught with disappointment. As luck would have it, his father chanced by and flicked the paper from his fingers.

“What’s this, eh?” he demanded. “Wasting your time drawing! Why aren’t you at play?”

“I’m ’musing myself,” replied Wynne, sulkily.

“You amuse yourself with a ball, then, like anybody else.”

It is curious how closely a ball is associated with amusement. The average man is incapable of realizing entertainment that does not include the use of a ball. Reputations have been made and lost through ability or inability to handle it in the proper manner. A man is considered a very poor sort of fellow if he expresses disdain and contempt for the ball. Conceive the catastrophic consequences that would result if a law were passed forbidding the manufacture of balls? A shudder runs through the healthy-minded at the bare thought of such a thing.

Mr. Rendall’s anger can readily be appreciated, then, when his son made answer:

“There isn’t any fun in that.”

“No fun?” roared Mr. Rendall. “Time you got some proper ideas into your head, young fellow. Be ashamed of yourself! Fetch a ball from the nursery at once, and let me see you enjoying yourself with it, or you’ll hear something. Understand this, too—there’s not going to be any drawing in this household, or a lot of damn high-falutin artistic business either. Get that into your head as soon as you can. Be off.”

Ten minutes later, in a white heat of fury, Wynne was savagely kicking a silly woollen ball from one end of the grass patch to the other.

“That’s not the way,” said his father.

“Damn the ball,” screamed Wynne, and made his first acquaintance with a willow twig across the back.

It is a matter for speculation as to what extent environment can smother natural impulses. Surrounded on all sides by convention and routine, the spark of originality is in a fair way to become dampened or altogether extinguished.

Such was the case with Wynne Rendall. He was half confident that many existing ideals were not ideals at all, and that much that was desirable to develop was wilfully undeveloped; but weighing in the balance against this view were the actions and opinions of those with whom he came into contact. Was it, then, he who was at fault? A glance to the right and left seemed to point to that conclusion. And yet there was nature to support his view: nature with its thousand intricate moods of growth and illumination—nature who pranked the water to laughing wavelets and tasselled the sky with changing clouds—nature who made night a castle of mystery where invisible kings held court, and mischievous hobgoblins gobbled at the fairies’ toes as they tripped it beneath the laurel bushes in the garden. Surely, surely these things mattered more greatly than half-past eight breakfast, and the 9:15 to town? Surely there was greater happiness to be found thinking of these than in flinging a ball at ninepins or kicking it through a goal?

And yet his father beat him because he drew a fairy, and his mother threatened him with an early bed when he desired to do as others had never done before.

His brother and sister played at “shop,” and comforted their parents exceedingly by so doing. They never asked “silly questions,” he was constantly told. They were all right, and only he was wrong.

It is hard indeed to preserve faith with so great a consensus of opinion against one, and it is probable Wynne Rendall would have dulled into a very ordinary lad had it not been for a chance visit from his father’s brother. Wynne had often heard his parents speak of Clem Rendall. They referred to him as a “ne’er-do-well,” a term which Wynne took to imply a person who did not go to the City in the morning.

“Idle and good for nothing,” said his father—“never do anything useful in this world.”

If by doing anything useful he implied the achievement of business success his remarks were certainly true, and yet there were features in Clementine Rendall which called for and deserved a kindlier mention.

He was born, it will be remembered, at a time when his father’s virility had to some extent abated. He was, in a way, an old man’s child, free from all ambitions toward personal advancement. Heredity had endowed him with imagination, appreciation, a charming exterior, a fascinating address, and an infinite capacity for doing nothing. At the clubs—and he was a member of many—his appearance was always greeted with enthusiasm. Few men could claim a greater popularity with both men and women, and his generosity was as unfailing as his good humour.

There was no real occasion for Clementine Rendall to work, for he had inherited what little money his father had to leave, and a comfortable fortune from his mother, which he made no effort to enlarge.

Wynne’s father, who had not profited by the decease of either of his parents, did not love his brother Clementine any the better in consequence. He was a man who liked money and desired it greatly. He was fond of its appearance, its power, and the pleasing sounds it gave when jingled in the pocket.

At the reading of the will there had been something of a scene on account of a piece of posthumous fun from the late Edward’s pen:

“To my son Clementine I will and bequeath my entire fortune and estate, real and personal.” And written in pencil at the foot of the page—“To that pillar of commerce, Robert Everett Rendall, who was once my son, I bequeath a quarter of a pound of China tea, to be chosen according to his taste.”

It was on a bright Sunday morning that Clem Rendall appeared at “The Cedars,” and his visit was entirely unexpected.

“Morning,” he greeted the maid who opened the door. “Family at home?”

Wynne’s father came out into the hall to see who the visitor might be.

“Hullo, Robert,” said Clem, “coming for a walk?”

Nearly ten years had elapsed since their last meeting, and Mr. Rendall, senior, conceived that the tone of his brother’s address lacked propriety.

“This is a surprise, Clem,” he observed, soberly enough. His eyes travelled disapprovingly over his brother’s loose tweed suit, yellow-spotted necktie, and soft felt hat.

“Such a lovely day, I took a train to Wimbledon and determined to walk over to Richmond Park. Passing your house reminded me. Are you coming?”

“I don’t go for walks on Sunday, Clem.”

“Do you not?”

It was at this point that Wynne, who was coming down the stairs, halted and noted with admiration and surprise the bluff, hearty figure of the strange visitor, who wore no gloves and carried no cane, and whose clothes seemed to breathe contempt for Sabbatical traditions.

“Do you not? Why not?”

“Some of us go to church on Sunday.”

“Do you go because you want to go or because it’s Sunday?”

Wynne’s heart almost stopped beating. Those were his feelings about half-past eight breakfast expressed in words. Apparently Clem neither desired nor expected a reply, for he put another question:

“How’s tea, Robert? ’Strordinary thing, here are you—most respectable fellow living—deliberately supplying a beverage that causes more scandal among its consumers than any other in the world. Opium’s a joke to it. Ever thought of that?”

“No, and don’t intend to.”

“Ha, well—it’s worth while. Hullo! Who’s this?” His eye fell upon Wynne.

“This is my younger son. Wynne—come along, my boy—gaping there! Shake hands with your Uncle Clementine.”

Wynne did not require a second invitation, but descended the stairs two at a time.

“Frail little devil, aren’t you?” said Clem, enveloping the small hand of his nephew. “Jove! Robert, but there’s a bit of the old man in him—notice it? Something about the eyes—and mouth. How old are you, youngster?”

“I’m nine,” said Wynne.

“Nine, eh! Fine age. Just beginning to break the bud and feel the sun. Wish I were nine, and all to make. Don’t you wish you were nine, Robert?”

“I do not.”

“ ’Course you do. If you were breaking the bud at nine you wouldn’t graft the stem with a tea-plant. Would he, youngster? Not on purpose. He’d pitch it a bit higher than that—see himself a larkspur or a foxglove before he’d be satisfied. Well, what about this walk? Bring the youngster too.”

“I think his mother has already arranged⁠—”

“Nonsense! If you don’t care to come he and I’ll go together. Get your hat, son.”

For the first time in memory Wynne was grateful for the hat-rack being in the hall. He snatched his cap from a peg and ran into the front garden before his father had time to say no.

Apparently Clem realized that an embargo would in all probability be placed on the expedition, for he only waited long enough to say:

“Expect us when you see us,” and followed Wynne, closing the front door behind him.

“Come on, youngster,” he ordered; “we must sprint the first mile or they’ll put bloodhounds on our track.”

He gripped Wynne’s hand and raced him down the road. At the corner a fly was standing, with the driver dozing upon the box.

“Jump in,” shouted Uncle Clem. Then “Drive like the devil, Jehu. We’ve broken into the Bank of England and Bow Street runners are after us.”

The driver was a cheerful soul, and he whipped up the horse to a galumphing canter.

Wynne was quite speechless from laughter and excitement. When at last he recovered his voice it was to say:

“But you haven’t told him where to go, Uncle.”

“Wouldn’t be half such fun if we knew. Besides, he’s a fellow with imagination—he knows what to do. He’ll take us to a secret place in the heart of the country where we can bury the treasure. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he took us to Richmond Park.”

He spoke loud enough for the driver to hear, and was rewarded for his subtlety by an almost imperceptible inclination of the shiny black hat, and the cab took a sharp turn to the left along a road leading over the common in the direction of Sheen Gate.

Uncle Clem preserved the hunted attitude until they had covered the best part of a mile; then he leant back with a sigh of relief.

“I believe we have shaken off our pursuers,” he declared, “and can breathe easily once more. Hullo!” pointing to the sky, “that’s a hawk—see him? Wonderful fellows, hawks! Always up in the clouds rushing through space, and only coming to earth to snatch at a bit of food. That’s the right idea, y’know. Never do any good if you stick to the ground all the while. ’Course he’s a nasty-tempered fellow, and a bit of a buccaneer, but there’s a good deal to be said in favour of him.”

The look of admiration on Wynne’s face made him smile and shake his head.

“No, you are wrong in thinking that, youngster. There’s nothing of the hawk about me. I lack the energy that compels his headlong flights. One might say that I was a bit of a lark, for I enjoy a flutter in the blue, and I can’t help lifting a song of praise when I get there.”

Wynne did not dare to open his lips, lest he should stay the course of this wonderful being’s reflections. It was almost too good to be true to find himself actually in contact with some one who spoke with such glorious enthusiasm and spirit about these delightful unearthly matters, and whose conversation seemed to bear no relation to time-tables and ordinary concerns of life. So he nodded very gravely and edged a little nearer the big man in the rough tweed suit.

Uncle Clem understood the impulse, and slipped his hand through his little nephew’s arm. He took possession of Wynne’s hand and raised it in his palm.

“All of us have five fingers and five senses, and most of us use none of them. Yes, most of us are like mussels on a rock, who do no more than open their shells for the tide to drift victuals into their mouths. That’s the thing to avoid, y’know—molluscry. What are you going to do with your five fingers and your five senses, youngster?”

“I—I don’t quite know what I will do with them, Uncle,” Wynne replied, hesitatingly. Then, with more assurance—“But I know what I shan’t do with them.”

“Yes?”

“I shan’t do things because they always have been done before.”

Clementine laughed. “Not a bad beginning,” he said; “but you want to be very sure of the alternative. No good pushing over a house if you can’t build a better. You didn’t know your grandfather—no end of a fine fellow he was—used his brain and his hands to some effect. He was an artist.”

“Oh, was he?” said Wynne, with a shade of disappointment. He had never been told before.

“Doesn’t that please you?”

“I don’t know, Uncle. I think it would be nice to be an artist, but⁠—”

“Yes?”

“We’ve got some pictures at home, and they don’t seem very nice.”

“Ah, they wouldn’t. But there are all sorts of pictures, and perhaps yours are the wrong sort. Now, your grandfather painted the right sort. Here, wait a minute.” He fumbled in his pocket and produced a letter-case. “There!” taking a photograph from one compartment. “This is a copy of one of his pictures. Look at it. A faun playing his pipe to stupid villagers. D’you see the expression on his face? He looks very serious, doesn’t he, and yet you and I know that he’s laughing. Can you guess why he’s laughing?”

Wynne took the photograph and studied it carefully. At length he said:

“He’s laughing because they can’t understand the tune he’s playing.”

“Bravo!” cried Uncle Clem, and clapped him on the back. “Any more?”

Wynne turned to the picture again.

“Some of them aren’t paying attention. Look at that one—he’s cutting a piece of stick to amuse himself. And this—he looks just like his father does when he’s wondering if he has time to catch the train.”

“Oh, excellent! That’s precisely what he is doing. If he had been born in a later age he’d have been looking at his watch—as it is he is telling the time by the sun—see it falling there between the trees?—and he seems to be saying, ‘If this fellow goes on much longer I shall miss my tea.’ Don’t you think that picture was worth painting?”

“Yes,” said Wynne; “but I’ve never seen a picture like that before. Ours are all lighthouses and things. What is the name of the man who is playing the pipe?”

“He’s a faun—or, as some people would say—a satyr.”

“I’d like to be a faun,” said Wynne, “but if I were I should get into a fearful temper with the people who didn’t like my tunes. I should hit them over the head with my pipe.”

“You’d cease to be a satyr if you did that. To be a proper satyr you must smile and go on playing until at last they do understand. That’s the artist’s job in this world, and it is a job too—a job and a fearful responsibility.”

“Why is it?”

“Because at heart the villagers don’t want to understand, and if you feel it’s your duty to make them—your duty to stir their souls with music—then you must be doubly sure that you give them the right music. A mistake in a row of figures doesn’t matter—any one can alter that—but a false note of music—a false word upon the page—a false brush-mark upon a canvas stands for all time.”

“I see,” breathed Wynne. “I hadn’t thought of that. I’d only thought it mattered to make people believe something different.”

“Hullo! We’re through the gates,” exclaimed Uncle Clem. “Drive on somewhere near the ponds, Jehu, and deposit us there. Ever been in the Royal Park of Richmond before, young fellow?”

Wynne shook his head. His mind did not switch over to a new train of thought as rapidly as his uncle’s, and it still hovered over the subject of the picture, which he kept in his hand.

“Keep it if you like,” said Uncle Clem, following the train of his nephew’s thoughts. “Keep it and think about it.”

“Oh, may I really? It would be lovely if I might.” His eyes feasted on his new possession. “Uncle, there are two of the villagers who seem to understand, aren’t there? These two, holding hands.”

“Ah, to be sure they do. That’s because they are lovers.”

“Lovers?”

“Yes, lovers understand all manner of things that other people don’t. In fact, only a lover can properly understand. But I’ll tell you all about that later on.”

“Later on” is so much kindlier a phrase than “When you are old enough.”

“There, put it in your pocket. What—afraid of crumpling it? Half a minute, then; I’ll turn out the letter-case and you can have that too.”

And so Wynne came to possess a most marvellous picture and a crocodile case, bearing in silver letters “C. R.”

“I think,” said Clem to the driver, as they descended by the rhododendrons near the ponds, “it would be a good idea if you drove to Kingston and bought us a lunch. You know the sort of thing—meat pies, jam tarts, ginger beer, fairy cakes—anything you can think of. We’ll meet you here in an hour and a half.”

He gave the driver a five-pound note and smiled him farewell.

It was very splendid to be associated with a man who would trust a stranger with so huge a fortune without so much as taking the number of the cab. Wynne could not help recalling the precautions his father had taken when once he had despatched a messenger to collect a parcel from the chemist’s. The comparison was greatly to the detriment of Mr. Rendall, senior.

“This is one of the wildest parts of the park,” announced Uncle Clem. “If we go hushily we shall see rabbits before they see us, and perhaps almost get within touch of a deer.”

“What, real deer—stags?”

“Any amount of them. They bell in the mating season, and have battles royal on the mossy sward.”

“And can you get near enough to touch one?”

“Not quite. You think you will, and tiptoe toward him with your hand outstretched, and then, just as you almost feel the warmth of him at the tips of your fingers—hey presto! Zing! he’s gone, and divots of earth are flying round your ears. That’s why the stag is the ideal beast—because he’s elusive.”

“You could shoot him,” suggested Wynne.

“Yes, you can kill an ideal, and a lot of good may it do you dead. Shooting is no good, but if you run after him, as like as not he’ll lead you through lovely, unheard-of places. Here’s an umbrageous oak. We’ll spread ourselves out beneath it and praise God for the sunshine that makes us appreciate the shade.”

He threw himself luxuriously on the soft green carpet, and felt in his pocket for a pipe. It was not until he had carefully filled it that he found he had no matches.

“This,” he said, “is really terrible. What is to be done?”

“I’ll run off and find some one,” exclaimed Wynne, enthusiastic at the chance of rendering a service. But Uncle Clem restrained him.

“No, no,” he said, “we must think of more ingenious methods than that. You and I are alone on a desert island, but we possess a watch. Casting our eyes around we discover a rotten bough. Look!” He broke a little fallen branch that lay in the grass beside his hand. “The inside you see is mere tinder. Now we will roll out into the sun and operate.”

It was some while before the concentrated ray from the watch-glass produced a spark upon the wood.

“Blow for all you are worth,” cried Uncle Clem. “Splendid—it is beginning to catch! Oh! blow again, Friday—see it smoulders! One more blow—a gale this time. Oh, excellent Man Friday!—what a lucky fellow Robinson Crusoe is!”

He dropped the ember into his pipe and sucked furiously. At last tiny puffs of rewarding smoke began to emerge from his lips. His features relaxed and he grinned.

“We have conquered,” he declared—“earned the reward for our labours! But the odd thing is that now the pipe is alight I am not at all sure if I really want it.”

Every boy must possess a hero—it is the lodestar of his being. He can lie awake at night, happy in the mere reflection of that wonderful being’s prowess. In imagination, enemies, one by one, are arraigned before the protecting hero, who, with the justice of gods admixed with a finely-tempered satire, judges their sins and sends them forth repentant. But this is not all. He can lift the soul to empiric heights, and open at a touch new and wonderful doors of thought and action. He can enthuse, inspire, illumine, refresh old ideals—inspirit new—make dark become light, and light so brilliant that the eyes are dazzled by the whiteness thereof.

The hero occurs by circumstance or deed, and his responsibility is boundless. He must think as a king thinks when the eyes of the nation rest upon him—he must tread all ways with a sure foot and proud bearing—chest out and head high. He must not slip upon the peel that lies in the highway, nor turn aside to escape its menace; he must crush it beneath his heel as he strides along, a smile upon his lips, his cane swinging—the veriest picture of majesty and resource.

Wynne Rendall found his hero that Sunday in Richmond Park, and worshipped him with the intense devotion of which only a boy is capable. God, he conceived, must have had some very personal handiwork in the fashioning of Uncle Clem. He saw him as a man possessed of every possible charm and virtue, without one single unpleasing factor to offset them. It is not unnatural, therefore, that Wynne should have fallen down and worshipped, and not unnatural that there should have been a dry ache in his throat as, in the lavender twilight, the cab turned the corner of their street and slackened speed.

“Let’s say good-night outside, Uncle,” he suggested, huskily.

Perhaps he hoped his uncle would give him a kiss, but Clementine had something far better in store. He threw an arm round the narrow little shoulders and gave Wynne a combined pat and hug. The broad comradeship of the action was fine—magnificent. Pals both! One good man to another! it seemed to say. Stanley and Livingstone must have met and parted in suchwise.

“A capital day,” said Uncle Clem. “We must repeat it—you and I. Better wait, Jehu, for I shan’t be long.”

The atmosphere of the drawing-room struck a chill as they entered. From the reserve displayed it was clear that Wynne’s parents had been discussing the expedition adversely.

“Go and change your boots, Wynne,” said his mother.

It was a cold welcome, he reflected, as he departed in obedience to the command.

“That’s a good boy,” remarked Uncle Clem.

“I hope he will prove so,” said Mr. Rendall, devoutly, as befitted a Sunday evening.

Mrs. Rendall said nothing. She had nothing to say. Granted the necessary degree of courage she would have been glad to ask Clem to change his boots, but circumstances being as they were she was denied the privilege, and kept silent.

“Yes, there’s a lot in him. You’ll have to go to work pretty carefully to bring it out. A rare bulb with delicate shoots. Touch ’em the wrong way and they’ll wither, but with the right amount of nursing and the right degree of temperature there are illimitable possibilities. Interesting thing education!”

“Yes,” concurred Mr. Rendall. “A sound business education fits a boy for after life.”

“Business! H’m! Think he suggests a likely subject for business, Robert? I fancy, when the time comes, the boy’s bent may lie in other directions.”

“The boy will do as he is told, Clem.”

Clem smiled, looked at the ceiling, and shook his head.

“Which of us do?” he said. “Never even the likely ones. You may bend a twig, but it springs straight again when your hand is removed. Seems to me our first duty toward our children is to encourage their mental direction and not deflect it. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Rendall?”

“Oh, yes,” replied that lady, with her inevitable falling inflection.

“No, you don’t,” snapped her husband, “so why say you do? No reason at all! In the matter of educating children, Clem, I cannot see you are qualified to hold an opinion. The first duty of a parent is to instil in the child a sense of duty to its parent.”

“Oh, bosh!” said Clem, pleasantly. “Absolute bosh. Respect and duty are not a matter of convention or of heredity, they must be inspired.”

“We are not likely to agree, so why proceed?”

“If we only proceeded on lines of agreement we should come to an immediate standstill. Let’s thrash out the matter. To my thinking, the father should respect the child more than the child should respect the father. It must be so. The poor little devil comes into the world through no impulse of its own. It had no choice in the matter. Its coming is impressed—it is conscripted into being—that’s indisputable. Then, surely to goodness, it is up to us to give it, as it were, the Freedom of the City—the freedom of the fields, and every possible latitude for expansion and self-expression. To do less were an intolerable injustice. Our only excuse for producing life is that we may admire its beauty—not that it may admire ours.”

“This is wild talk,” began Mr. Rendall. But Clem was too advanced to heed interruption.

“The most degrading thing you can hear a man say to his child is, ‘After all I’ve done for you.’ It should be, ‘Have I done enough for you? Have I made good?’ That is the straightforward attitude; but to bring a child into the world against its will and to force it along lines that lead away from its own inclination is dastardly.” He turned suddenly to Mrs. Rendall. “It must be so wonderful to be a mother, so glorious to have accepted that mighty responsibility.”

Mrs. Rendall fumbled at the threading of her silk and dropped her scissors to the floor. As he stooped to pick them up Clem continued:

“To know that within oneself there lies the power to fashion a body for those tiny souls that flicker out there in the beyond.”

“Clem!” Mr. Rendall tapped his foot warningly.

“Ah, Robert, we know nothing of these matters—they are beyond our ken.”

“A very good reason for not discussing them. The subject seems to be rather⁠—”

“Rather what?”

“Distasteful.”

“Is it? Good God! And yet we discuss our colds in the most polite society, and bear witness to their intensity by quoting the number of handkerchiefs we’ve used. We have no shame in trumpeting our petty thoughts of the day, but that faint bugle-call that sounds in the night and summons us⁠—”

“I think supper is waiting,” said Mrs. Rendall, rising to her feet. “I suppose you will be staying.”

“Delighted,” said Clem, affably. “And I’ll bring the bugle-call with me.”

“I trust you won’t forget that servants will be in the room,” remarked Mr. Rendall.

“We can send ’em out to ask my cabby to wait.”

Clem did not delay his departure over long. His conversational tide was somewhat dammed by the cold mutton and cold potatoes that formed the basis of his brother’s hospitality.

He allowed Mr. Rendall to do the talking, and was oppressed by a great pity for his little nephew, who had to listen to such irritable and melancholy matter at every meal.

Wallace and Eva, the two elder children, behaved with precision and did not open their lips, save for the reception of food. Wynne was discouraged on the few occasions he spoke, and was the recipient of injunctions not to “crumble his bread,” and to “sit up properly.” These recurred with a clockwork regularity that deprived them of the essence of command.

The result was to make Clem feel very dejected and forlorn.

He said good-bye on the doorstep and walked, alone as he thought, to the front gate. Arrived there he said in a very heartfelt manner:

“God! What a night!” and was not a little taken aback when his brother, who had followed, in soft shoes, demanded:

“I beg your pardon?”

Clem recovered himself a little too intensely.

“All these damn stars,” he replied, with a broad gesture.

“H’m!” said Mr. Rendall. Then: “I hope you haven’t been putting ideas into that boy’s head, Clem.”

“They are there already,” came the response. “Take care of them, Robert.”

He jumped into the cab and drove away.

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