VII
Five minutes later he was speeding northward in a taxi. He had given the driver his home address, but he said a second later:
“No; drive me out Hampstead way—keep going—any old where.”
Then he lay back and let the wind rush through his hair, while his thoughts ran riot.
His last words to Esme had been:
“In a few days—I’ll arrange something.”
He had meant it—he meant it still. She was nothing to him—only youth. But youth was splendid. What did anything else matter? He felt like some wild young thing of the forests when the “spring running” was in the air. A great sense of release possessed him. It was unlike any other sensation he had ever known. He was amazed it should have sprung from so trivial a source, but ignored to inquire more deeply into this line of thought. Had he but known it, the change that had come about in him—that curious, half-wicked ecstasy—was of the same emotional coinage that attacks the average boy when first he kisses a pretty chambermaid in the dark of a dormitory corridor.
As the taxi climbed the Hampstead hill his thoughts turned to Eve, and he wondered how he should approach her in the telling of the affair. After all, there was nothing to tell yet—but later there would be.
In his insane exuberance he decided that he would make no attempt to mask his actions. If he were not ashamed he would not act as though he were. Emphatically not. Let people say what they might, he would steer his own course—go his own way for all the world to see.
Would Eve mind a great deal? Why should she? After all, there was but a partnership of brain and work which bound each to each. He wondered even if there would be any infidelity in what he proposed to do.
But what had infidelity or partnership, or obligation or anything else, to do with it? He was an artist, unruled by law or convention. If he desired an excess of the brain he had indulged the desire—why not, then, an excess of the body.
In the middle of the Heath he left the taxi, and tramped across the soft turf. He walked fast and in a large circle. As he went he sang to himself, and once, hat in hand, chased a butterfly as a schoolboy might have done. In the little clearing among the trees he came upon some boys and girls playing a boisterous laughing game. The girls were flappers with short skirts, and cheeks rosy with running. He stayed to watch them, and, fired by enthusiasm, shouted encouragement to pursuer and pursued. One of the bolder shouted back that he should join in, and without a thought he threw aside his coat and was racing and laughing with the rest. The game was postman’s knock, and as postman he caught the prettiest after a spirited chase, and kissed her as they collapsed into the tangled brambles.
Still laughing and breathless, he picked up his coat and followed his way.
The sun was falling red, and the chill evening air tasted like champagne.
Champagne—yes—he would go to the club and drink champagne—lots of it. He wanted to hear men talk—listen to and applaud their tales of adventure. He had laughed at them—hurled at their frailty lampoons through the press, and yet tonight he would laugh with them—yes, with them, for they were right, and he, for all his wisdom, had been wrong—wrong—wrong.
God gave unto each man one life—to make the most of. That was the wise man’s creed.
“Of making many books there is no end:
and much study is a weariness of the flesh.”
He arrived at the club about seven o’clock, and was informed that a gentleman was waiting to see him.
“I don’t want to see anybody. Who is he?”
The page produced a card bearing the name, “Mr. Sefton Wainwright,” and below, “New British Drama Association.”
Every one had heard of the New British Drama Association. It was rumoured that it would be the greatest and most progressive theatrical enterprise in England. The scaffold-poles of the façade of their splendid new theatre were already being taken down, and it was said that the opening would be in the coming autumn.
“How long had he been waiting?”
“Nearly an hour, sir.”
“Then he deserves to see me.”
Mr. Wainwright was very affable, also he was very businesslike.
“We want three producers on our permanent staff—a business producer, a classic producer, and one with a flair like yourself. We mean to do things at our theatre, Mr. Rendall!”
“Aha.”
“Well, what about it?”
“I’m a writer.”
“So much the better. You’ll have plenty of time.”
“I believe I’m a mercenary too.”
“A thousand a year any good?”
Wynne smiled.
“I have lived on less,” he said.
“Then I repeat, what about it?”
“If you’ll do a play of mine I’ll think more kindly of the offer.”
“Send it right along. And in the meantime—”
“You let me know about the play and I’ll let you know about the producing.”
“Very well—today is Friday. Shall we say Friday week?”
“I’ll come and see you at eleven o’clock.”
“And you like the idea?”
“I like everything. I’m in love with the world today.”
At dinner Wynne drank a large quantity of champagne, and insisted that every one else in the immediate neighbourhood should do likewise. As he drank his spirits rose, and so also did his voice. There was a great deal of laughter and much wit—and the wit was accorded more laughter than it deserved. After dinner there were brandies and sodas and more wit—lots of wit—so much wit that every one was witty at once and missed their neighbour’s scintillations. Under the influence of the brandies and sodas wit ripened to adventure. Many and glorious were the adventures recited, and it seemed that all save Wynne had adventured deeply. He leaned against the mantelshelf and looked at the brave with bright eyes.
“Oh, you marvellous Lotharios!” he cried. “To think that you, Anson—and you, too, Braithwaite—should have adventured along paths denied to myself.”
Many wise heads were shaken at this improbable suggestion.
“No, no, no, I assure you—innocent, my lords and gentlemen—hand on heart I say it” (much laughter and ironical cheers). “But I will turn over a new leaf. The spring is in the air—the call! Guide me with your wise lights to glades of Eros, for honestly”—he dropped into the commonplace—“if I ran away with a girl I shouldn’t know where to run. Tell me, some one.”
“Depends on how secret you wish to be,” the some one replied.
“Secret no—to hell with subterfuge!” cried Wynne, who had many drinks beneath his waistcoat. “Love is for the light, the sunshine, and the sea.”
“Nothing for it but the Cosmopolis, Brighton.”
“Right—every time. Marvellous Lotharios! Every time right. The Cosmopolis, Brighton. I shan’t forget—write it down, some one, ’case I do. Hullo, that you Quiltan?”
Lane Quiltan, who had entered the room five minutes earlier, nodded.
“Made an appointment, and you didn’t turn up.”
“Yes.”
“Lost a fine chance! Might have had an interest in something of mine.”
“Might I?”
“Had your chance—didn’t take it. Too late now!”
“Is it?” said Quiltan.