Chapter II: Part TWO: The Purple Patch (1)

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.”