V
Wynne arrived at the theatre earlier than usual that night, and met Eve in one of the corridors.
“Well,” he said.
“Well?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t worked all day—I couldn’t.”
“I’m sorry. What have you done?”
“Walked about—and thought.”
“Of what?”
“Of you mostly.”
“Have you? I’m glad. I wanted you to think of me today.”
“Why today?”
“It’s my birthday.”
“No!”
She nodded.
“How old?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Twenty-one!”
It seemed rather sad. Twenty-one is a great birthday. Had she been an earl’s daughter there would have been laughter and dancing in the hall that night—white flowers and scarlet in happy clusters everywhere. There would have been pearls from her father, and a dream dress to wear. Wax candles would have glittered the silver on the board, and pink-coated huntsmen would have led her to the dance.
It seemed rather sad she should be walking-on in a crowd to earn three shillings and sixpence. And with this reflection there came to Wynne an idea—one of the first that did not actually concern himself. It smote him gloriously, and sent a pulsation of delight throbbing through his veins. But all he said was:
“You will come to the rooms after the play?”
She hesitated. “I said I would not.”
“But it’s your birthday.”
“Then, if I shan’t disturb you.”
“Even if you do, I want you to come.”
“Very well. Will you wait for me?”
“No. Follow me round. I’ve something to do first. Here, take a key and keep it if you will. I give you the freedom of the rooms.”
“I wish you’d wait,” she said.
“Sorry,” he replied, shaking his head.
“After all, a birthday means very little to a man,” thought Eve. Yet she was disappointed he had refused so small a service.
When his scene was over, Wynne dressed quickly and hurried from the theatre. In his pocket was a sum of six shillings and threepence. He counted it by touch as he walked down Maiden Lane and struck across Covent Garden. Before a modest wine shop in Endell Street he stopped and considered. In the window was a pyramid of champagne bottles, the base composed of magnums, the first tier of quarts, the second of pints, and, resting proudly on top, a single half-pint. Each size was carefully priced, even the tiny bottle showing a ticket on which was printed, “Two shillings and eightpence.”
Wynne squared his shoulders and entered the shop with an air of some importance.
“This Dry Royal,” he said, “is it a wine you can recommend?”
“It is a very drinkable wine,” replied the merchant. “Of course it does not compare—”
But Wynne interrupted with:
“I’ll take one of the half-pints to sample.”
“I have no half-pints.”
“There is one in the window.”
“It is not for sale.”
“Why not?”
“There is no demand for that size.”
“I am supplying the demand.” His tone was irritatingly precise, and the merchant was offended.
“I regret, sir, I cannot undertake to spoil my window dressing for so small an order.” He spoke with finality that could not be misconstrued.
“Good God!” exclaimed Wynne. “You call it a small order? It is nearly half of all I possess. Am I to be cheated of a celebration for the sake of your damned ideas of symmetry?”
His very genuine concern excited interest.
“I should be very sorry to cheat you of anything,” came the answer in a more kindly voice. “Perhaps if you would explain—”
“What explanation is needed? Why does any one buy champagne except to celebrate an event? Must I sacrifice the desire to please and the hope of giving a sparkle of happiness because your hide-bound conventions won’t let you knock the top off a triangle? Is the expression of a kindly wish to be nullified because my worldly wealth won’t run to a pint? Would you decline to serve a rich man with a quart because you stock magnums? There’s no damned sense of justice in it.”
It so happened there were warm springs in the heart of the little Endell Street wine merchant—and imagination too. As he listened to this intemperate outburst he pictured very vividly the event which the small gold-braided bottle was destined to enliven. A man does not spend half his belongings for no purpose, and accordingly he said:
“I never wish to disappoint a customer, sir. If you would accept a pint for the price of the half, you would be doing me a service.”
But the rancour had not abated, and Wynne replied:
“This is a celebration—not a damned charity.”
“I see—of course not. Please forgive me,” said the little man, and opening a panelled door he took the tiny bottle from the top of the pyramid and wrapped it up.
Wynne placed two shillings and eightpence on the counter, pocketed the parcel, and walked to the door. Arrived there, he turned and came back with an outstretched hand.
“You’re a good sort,” he said.
“Thank you, sir, and a very merry evening.”
They shook hands warmly.
At a very special fruiterer’s in Southampton Row Wynne bought a quarter of a pound of hothouse grapes, and argued fiercely with the shop assistant who did not consider the purchase warranted placing the fruit on vine leaves in a basket. He next made his way to a confectioner’s, and forced an entrance as they were putting up the shutters. Here he had a windfall, and secured a small but beautifully iced cake for a shilling, on the double account of the lateness of the hour and a slight crack in the icing.
On the pavement outside he counted what remained of his original capital.
“One and tenpence—good!” he remarked.
The red and green lights of a chemist lured him to enter, and he emerged, after a period of exquisite indecision, with two elegant packages—one containing a tablet of soap, and the other a tiny bottle of perfume.
Carrying his treasures with prodigious care he hastened toward his rooms, but had hardly covered half the distance when an appalling thought occurred to him. Under the weight of it he stopped short, and beat his forehead with a closed fist.
“I’ve forgotten the candles,” he gasped. “The fairy candles—the twenty-one candles!”
Without those twenty-one candles the whole affair would be flat and meaningless. In being able to obtain them reposed the success of the scheme. He tried an oilshop, but without success—he tried another with the same result.
“My God!” he exclaimed in an ecstasy of anxiety, “where can I get the things?”
And the good angel who listens for such prayers heard, and sent toward him a small boy of pleasing exterior who whistled gaily.
“I say,” said Wynne, “ever had a Christmas-tree?”
The boy grinned and nodded.
“One with candles on it, I mean—coloured candles?”
“Yus, it was a proper tree.”
“I want some candles—want ’em tremendously. Know where I could get some?”
Appealed to as a specialist, the urchin adopted a professional mien, and paused for consideration. Eventually he said:
“Dad got ours at Dawes’s, rahnd the street. She’s still got some, ’cos my mate, Joe, bought one for his bull’s-eye.”
“Round which street?”
“Over there.”
Wynne waited for no more, and broke into a run. By a kindly Providence Mrs. Dawes had not put up the shutters, being a lady who traded sweets to little voyagers whose parents were not over particular as to the hours they kept.
“I dessay I could lay my ’and on a few,” she replied to Wynne’s fervent appeal, “though it isn’t the season for them, you understand.”
With that she opened, or rattled, an incredible number of wrong boxes, taken from beneath the counter. The sweat had beaded Wynne’s forehead when at last she discovered what she had been seeking. She did not appear to be in any hurry, and conversed on technical subjects during the search.
“There isn’t the sale for coloured candles that there used to be. Of course you may say as it is more the peg-top season, and that might account for it; but it doesn’t—not altogether, that is. Putting the Christmas trade on one side, boys don’t go for bull’s-eye lanterns as once they did—no, nor Chinese neither. It’s all iron ’oops, or roller skates nowadays, as you may say. Why, I dessay I sell as much as ten or a dozen ’oops a week.”
“Do you indeed?”
“Quite that. Let’s see! Candles! Ah, I think this is them.” And it was.
“Thank God!” exclaimed Wynne. “I want twenty-one.”
He watched in an agony of suspense as she turned out precisely that number.
“Five a penny,” she said.
“Lord!” he gasped. “I’ve only fourpence.”
“You can pay me the odd farthing when you are passing.”
Greatly to the good lady’s surprise the extraordinary young man leant across the counter and planted a kiss upon her ample cheek, then seizing his purchases raced from the shop and scuttled down the street.
“Well I never!” she exclaimed—“must be a bit mad.” But nevertheless she rubbed the spot where the kiss had fallen with a kindly touch.