But our English climate is not always amenable. Sometimes it replies through the mouth of a nipping norther, or by the hard, white hands of frost, and down go the flowers, one by one, till only the sturdiest remain standing.
It would be no exaggeration to say that Wynne Rendall’s soul had been opened out, in that one day with his uncle, from forty-five to ninety degrees. So many things he had doubted had been made sure, and so many fears had been swept aside, to be replaced by finer understandings.
Through Uncle Clem the world had become a new place for him. It was no longer a public park, with railings and finger-boards pointing the directions in which one might or might not proceed. He did not quite know what sort of place it had become, but he was radiantly confident of glorious possibilities. Clearly it would be the duty of all who had eyes to see, and ears to hear, to perform something in praise of this marvellous planet, and the wonderful people (vide Uncle Clem) who walked upon it.
He, Wynne, would do something—he felt the immediate need to do something—he would do something great. People, beholding what he had done, would exclaim, “This is marvellous! Why have we not been shown these wonders before?” Then they would feel for him the same admiration he felt for Uncle Clem.
In the midst of these rapturous reflections came the thought that perhaps he was a little young to become the leader of a new movement. This, however, in no wise oppressed him. The younger the better. The distillations of his soul would be none the less rare for being contained in a small vessel. He would play upon a pipe to foolish villagers. There were foolish villagers around him in abundance. He knew of two in their own kitchen—hide-bound creatures who excused themselves from doing anything he asked on the grounds of suffering from “bones in their legs.” Were there not others, beside, with whom he sat daily at table? Charity should begin at home (there was a motto to that effect hanging on the wall in the spare bedroom), it should therefore begin with the lowest storey and work up to the highest. These people were of proven folly—that much he knew from personal investigation; it was his duty to pipe them to a better understanding. And then arrived a really disturbing thought. He possessed no pipe, nor any skill to play upon it had he possessed one. From exaltation his spirits fell to despair. Was the world to be denied enlightenment for so poor a reason? Such a pass would be unendurable.
Wynne Rendall was nothing if not courageous. If he felt an impulse of sufficient force he would accept any hazard to give it expression. His bodily frailty and susceptibility to pain were no deterrents. He decided, therefore, while the spirit moved him the supreme moment must not be lost. He would have to rely upon circumstance and the fertility of his imagination in carrying out the campaign, and not allow his thoughts to be damped by knowledge of their unpreparedness. He recalled how yesterday the sweet environment had lent colour to much that his uncle had said, and reflected it would be well to profit by that lesson, and set the scene for his new teachings in a fashion calculated to promote a sympathetic atmosphere. To speak to his parents of a freer life and purer outlook in their drawing-room, as they had arranged it, would be to court failure. His father was at the City, his mother was out—this, then, was the ideal moment to strike a blow against symmetry and in favour of æsthetics.
With heart sledge-hammering against his ribs, Wynne descended the stairs and entered the drawing-room. With disfavour his eyes roamed over the accustomed arrangements. Balance was the inspiring motive which had dominated the Rendalls’ mind when they set out their ornaments and hung their pictures, and balance was the motive which Wynne determined to destroy.
Beginning with his old enemy, the mantelpiece, he cleared everything from it. None of these detested examples of art should remain, he decided. The marble clock, ticking menacingly, was crammed into the cabinet, where it was speedily followed by the equestrian bronzes and the wrought-iron candlesticks.
Wynne gasped with ecstasy as he viewed the straight marble line denuded of these ancient eyesores. He had decided that this should be the abiding place for a china bowl containing tulips, a flat silver box and some books. They should repose there in natural positions as though set down by a thoughtless hand. He tried the effect, and was disappointed; it lacked the spirit of negligé he had designed. Then came an inspiration—of course, it looked wrong because of the mirrors of the overmantel. These immoral reflectors were at the desperate work of duplication, and were forcing symmetry and balance despite his precautions.
This being the case, but one course of action was open—the overmantel would have to go. It was a massive affair, securely fastened to the wall with large brass-headed nails, and Wynne was a very small person to undertake its removal. To his credit it stands that he did not wilt before the task. He climbed upon a table and shook it to and fro until the nails worked loose, then, exerting all his strength he heaved mightily. For awhile it defied his efforts, but just as he was beginning to despair the plaster gave way and the mighty mass of wood and mirrors tilted forward. Nothing but the presence of two little legs in front which supported a pair of flimsy shelves prevented Wynne from being telescoped in the subsequent collapse. He had just time to spring to the floor and hand it off as the legs broke and the whole affair slithered to the hearthrug. The fine swept top broke like a carrot, and two of the side mirrors cracked from end to end. Wynne lay under the debris breathing very hard, and wondering if the crash had been loud enough to reach the ears of the servants below. Fortunately for him the kitchen was at the other end of the house, and there came no rush of feet from that direction. He waited a few terribly anxious moments, then crawled out and surveyed his handiwork.