Our Wonderful Selves

by Roland Pertwee

VIII

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.