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.”
“Where will you go to?”
“No idea.”
“How very extraordinary! But you might turn up anywhere?”
“Yes.” He fidgeted. It was hard to find anything to say. “I’d better be off.”
“Have you any money?”
“No. But I want none of father’s—I’ll take none of that.”
“You would take some of mine?”
“Why should I?”
“Because you can’t go away to nowhere without any money. Wait a minute.”
He demurred, but she took no notice, and went upstairs to her room. When she returned she gave him two ten-pound notes.
“I should have given you these on your eighteenth birthday, Wynne, so you may as well have them now. I did the same for Wallace when he was eighteen.”
It was the old symmetry coming out again—a clock in the middle, and a candlestick on either side.
“Thanks awfully much,” said Wynne.
“It is part of what I inherited from your Great-uncle Bryan.”
Uncle Clem had spoken the truth when he said, “Others will build the pulpit from which you hope to preach.” Wynne was going out to face the world on the reflected gilt of an agreeable counter-manner!
“Good-bye, mother.”
“Good-bye, Wynne.”
It was surprising when he kissed her she should have said,
“I think I am going to cry.”
He answered quickly,
“I shouldn’t—really I shouldn’t.”
Crying is so infectious.
“Perhaps I needn’t—but I could—I—I’m not sure I shan’t have to.”
“It’s quite all right,” said Wynne. He kissed her again and hurried down the steps.
The wind blowing through the broken window slammed the front door noisily. It occurred to Mrs. Rendall that the curtains might knock over the palm pedestal. Following the direction of her thoughts she moved to the dining-room to take steps. Her husband had said Wynne would return—“would crawl back on hands and knees”—and suppose he did not return? Well, then he wouldn’t.
Hers was the kind of concentration that attaches more importance to airing a person’s sheets than to the person himself. Crying was of little service, and the impulse had lessened with the peril of the palm pedestal to be considered.