At one o’clock in the afternoon of December the twentieth a motor car left Tavistock station and tore fiercely westward until it reached the excellent village of Cherton Widger. Then it panted up an abrupt hill and, passing a lodge, ran up a short drive to The Steading, a square low-roofed house surrounded by irreproachable lawns that sloped away to the coverts. The chauffeur descended and carried on to the steps a portmanteau and a corded play-box. Martin, looking uncouthly smart in a new overcoat (with a strap behind) and a bowler hat, stood rather nervously by the door. He had come home for the holidays.

In the hall he met his aunt. He kissed her: or rather she kissed him. His uncle burst out of his study and shook hands with him: his cousin Margaret, aged fifteen, also appeared and shyly shook hands. It seemed that his cousin Robert, aged seventeen, would not escape from Rugby till to-morrow. Everybody began to ask him questions which he mechanically answered.

“You must have left Elfrey very early,” said his aunt.

“About seven.”

“And in December too! Had you got to?”

“No; but everybody does.”

These well-meaning people did not realise that you do not stay at school after term has ended. Though you perish with cold and lack of sleep, the first possible train is the only train. Martin had secured an hour’s sleep, breakfasted at six, and caught his train at seven. All the way to Exeter he had smoked. About this smoking he had felt afraid, for here was another new experience: but everyone else in the carriage had smoked and there was no escape. One of the boys had dealt in cigars, another produced a pipe which he cleaned extensively and smoked but little. Martin had kept with the majority to cigarettes and had laboured to disguise the swift nervous action of the novice beneath the languid air of the connoisseur. One thing at any rate was certain: he had not been sick. By the time he reached Exeter he was feeling a little queer, but with a supreme effort he had staved off a disaster which would have been fatal to his reputation. And now he was intensely hungry and found cold chicken and ham a very pleasant substitute for the ‘roast or boiled’ with which the board of Berney’s was laden. It was heavenly to sit once more in a comfortable chair in a fire-warmed room and to have chicken and fresh bread and lemonade.

Martin was an orphan. His guardian, John Berrisford, to whose house he had just come, was his mother’s brother. His father had been most things to most men, and despite, or possibly because of, his very considerable ability he had achieved a rich versatility in failure. He had started by being a captain of industry, or perhaps a sub-lieutenant would be a more accurate description; but his complete inability to remain awake in the office between the hours of two and four had put a sudden end to his commission. On parting from his general he had said:

“It’s no use your getting chaps from the varsity to give the show tone. They won’t work till they have had their tea.” The general had sworn and taken his advice.

Richard Leigh then discovered that he had been so damnably well educated that there was nothing for him to do but think. So he thought and wrote and went hungry. Now and then, to give his creditors a run for their money, he became a commission agent or an architect or a producer of plays. But he never paid very much in the pound. At the time when he met Joan Berrisford, a young woman of property, he was once more engaged in thought. She was beginning to feel the need of permanence in her life and was quickly interested in his work and the giant despair which he swore was the greatest of his creations. Virginity bored her: Richard attracted her: possibly her conscience stung her: for she was suddenly struck by the idea that she might repay society for her dividends by rescuing for society an artist whom it didn’t want. Nowadays this would seem reasonable enough, because we don’t believe in democracy any longer and shower divine rights on anyone who chooses to call himself an intelligent minority and make himself sufficiently objectionable: but at the time when the incident occurred Joan Berrisford was certainly thinking in advance of her age. Everybody said she was a fool to pay any attention to the creature, for she came of the class that thinks every artist has necessarily something wrong with him. Only her brother John pointed out that Joan’s husband was, primarily, Joan’s affair, and then, to her intense delight, he had added that he didn’t care twopence whom she married as long as the rest of the family hated him.

The marriage was a success. Richard threw off his despair and gave society some excellent books of which it took no notice. They lived in Italy, and there Martin was born. When he was only eight his mother died suddenly and his father came to London. He had been left comfortably off by his wife, but after her death the old restlessness returned: he gave up writing and gambled gracefully on the Stock Exchange that is to say, he bore his continual losses with an exquisite nonchalance. Martin used to go to a day school and was enabled by his brains and some sound teaching to win a good scholarship at Elfrey. Then in August his father had succumbed to a long illness and the boy was left to the guardianship of his uncle, John Berrisford, to whom Richard Leigh had written the following letter:

Dear John, You are the only one of my relations by blood or marriage with whom neither Joan nor I ever quarrelled. And so, just because you left us alone, I can’t leave you alone. I want you to be Martin’s guardian, in case this illness should do for me: you have seen something of him and I know you like him. There is no home in the world to which I would sooner entrust my son than yours. I have only a thousand pounds and I want him to be decently educated. You have a family and I should hate to think that I was burdening you. So you must just go for the capital: he has a good scholarship at Elfrey and ought to get one at Oxford. In that case the thousand pounds ought just to see him through. It’s plainly no use investing for fifty pounds a year. Don’t encourage him to be an artist: he can’t afford it. Besides it’s a poor life to be a wanderer when you’re old, and that’s what he would be without money. If he seems inclined for safety and the Civil Service, let him take his chance. Anyhow I trust you absolutely. Yours ever,

Richard Leigh.

So Martin had spent the last three weeks of his summer holiday at The
Steading and thither he had now returned.

John Berrisford was a round, ruddy little man who was too English to be like Napoleon and too Napoleonic to be like an English squire. In all matters of theory, especially moral and political, he was fiercely progressive, in all matters of taste a conservative. He combined revolutionary fervour with a strong belief in old customs, old cheese, and old wine. He ran a small estate on which he gave his labourers a twenty-shilling minimum, decent cottages, and free beer on festal occasions, and to the grief of the neighbouring farmers he made it pay. Sport of all kinds attracted him, and on Saturdays in the autumn and winter he would bring down partridges and pheasants with remarkable certainty, but he was sufficiently logical not to cap his battues by going to church on the following day. He made friends with everybody and was criticised by the squires for being a rebel and by the rebels, of whom the village had two, for being a squire. This amused him intensely and his first answer to all criticism was a drink. Then he would start out magnificently to justify his position. “I get the best of everything,” he said, and meant it.

Martin, of course, missed his father’s companionship: they had lived on very intimate terms and the customary limitations of the parental relationship had been broken through. But it is the privilege of youth to forget easily, and it was fortunate for Martin that almost directly after his father’s death he should have been plunged into a new world, a world whose thronging cares and pleasures gave few moments for reflection. By the time he had returned to The Steading his personality had so grown and developed that he was freed from painful memories and able to enjoy his holidays.

The Berrisfords were people of sound sense, and seeing what manner of boy he was made no effort to entertain him. Robert, the son at Rugby, was seventeen and a prefect, so that Martin was afraid of him and kept aloof: of Margaret, as a girl, he was naturally shy. He preferred to wander alone in the fields and coverts, now marking the ways of bird and beast, now plotting out his future and building up strange fantasies of thought. Ever since he had been a tiny boy he had played with himself a game of imagination in which he fused his personality with that of a mysterious hero called Daniel. Always when he got into bed he would become Daniel until he fell asleep and in imagination he would go through great adventures and sufferings and triumphs. Daniel was very strong and brave and perfect: perhaps Martin had been influenced by Henty’s heroes. Daniel’s life varied with Martin’s own vicissitudes. When Martin read Ballantyne, Daniel was the son of a trapper and wrought wonderful deeds among the Esquimaux and Redskins on the shores of Hudson’s Bay: when Martin was under his father’s influence he abandoned trapping and came home to write wonderful books about grizzly bears: when Martin’s thoughts were centred on his preparatory school, Daniel had laboured at the verbs in [Greek: -mi] and been the finest athlete in the land. At Elfrey, Daniel had suffered an eclipse, as always happened when Martin had anything very much to think about: at Berney’s he had either been tired enough to fall asleep immediately or else he had had something on his mind, to-morrow’s repetition, an order of Leopard’s, or a game of football. And, besides, Martin had reflected that such methods of amusement as the ‘Daniel game’ were childish and quite incompatible with the dignity of a Public School boy. But at The Steading the temptation to restore Daniel to life became very urgent and Martin at length swallowed his scruples. While he lay in his bed or wandered in the woods he would become Daniel once more, a Daniel at Elfrey, a prodigious Daniel, who surpassed all records in popularity, played stand-off half for the school at the age of fourteen, endured the most tremendous swipings without a moan or a movement, and was irresistible at every game he took up.

Mrs Berrisford was somewhat distressed by Martin’s solitary walks and quiet ways and made several efforts to draw him from his shell. But she made the mistake of trying to base the conversation on his experiences at school and the result was not encouraging.

“And who is your form master?” she began one evening.

“Chap called Vickers.”

“Is he nice?”

“Oh, he’s all right. Bit of a terror sometimes.”

“Does he go for you?”

“Not for me very much.”

A pause. “And what’s Mr Berney like? Do you get on with him?”

“Oh, he’s all right.”

“Do you like the house?”

“Yes; it’s quite all right.”

“Have you any special friends?”

“No one in particular. I like most of the chaps.”

“How do you get on with football?”

“Fairly well.”

And then she gave it up. Without being openly rude Martin had made it plain that he was not to be bolted from his earth of modified optimism.

When Martin had gone to bed John Berrisford pointed out to his wife that she had taken the wrong line. “Martin is just old enough and wise enough to be thoroughly self-conscious,” he said. “He resents questions about school because he thinks you’re regarding him as a schoolboy and playing down to him. Talk to him about Botticelli or Free Trade or Beerbohm Tree.”

“What nonsense,” said Mrs Berrisford. “He’s only fourteen. It’s just shyness.”

But on the following morning she took her husband’s advice and found that, as usual, he was right.

There was a good collection of books in the house and Martin was allowed to pick and choose. John Berrisford suffered some anxiety from the problem of free choice: he was not concerned about the boy’s morality; because he knew that no power in the world can alter human nature. So when he noticed that Martin took down Tom Jones and read only a portion of it, and later on paid great heed to The Sentimental Journey, he had the good sense to say nothing at all. What worried him was the fear that Martin would read many really good things before he was able to appreciate them and might thus be prevented or prejudiced from reading them in after life. For instance, when Martin struggled with Robert Louis Stevenson and called him dull, his uncle knew well enough what was wrong. On the other hand, he dreaded dictating a course of reading or advising the boy in any way, for he knew the value of spontaneous selection and remembered the vivid loathing which he himself had felt for ‘advised’ books and the infinite lure of the forbidden fruit. So he discreetly held his peace, hoping that Martin would be able to return to Stevenson without prejudice.

A few days before the end of the holidays the whole family went up to town to see the theatres. Martin was old enough to appreciate the pantomime and would have sat there till three in the morning readily. He was bored by the interminable ballet and the garish medley of flashing lights and countless colours which most of the audience liked so much, but the comedians and the more humorous scenic effects he found perfect. Besides, as a Public School boy and grown-up person, he had to admire Robinson Crusoe when, in gleaming fur-trimmed tights, he, or rather she, so irresistibly sang:

“Somebody wants me surely,
Some heart bleeds for mine.”

No less fascinating was the comedienne with her: ’Cupid got a Bull that Time,’ and the comic man’s triumph: ’There are Lots of Funny Things about a Clothes-Line.’

At last the end came and Martin went to meet the special to Elfrey. He was afraid that his uncle and aunt were making a great mistake in proposing to see him off. He wondered whether it was done, whether you could possibly appear on the platform surrounded by relations. As usual his fears were not justified and he found the station full of mothers and sisters. Everything went well, and as they walked through the crowd Martin noticed a group of bloods with Leopard in their midst. Spots saw him and greeted him quite effusively. It was a tremendous moment, and afforded Martin a fine thrill of pride.

“Who was that?” asked his aunt.

“Oh, that was Leopard. He’s a pre at Berney’s. An awful blood, and ripping too.”

Somehow or other he had never informed the Berrisfords that he did menial work or wrote Greek prose for another.

Then he came across Cullen and Neave, resplendent with white spats and yellow canes. They too were ready to greet him, almost as if he were one of their chosen circle.

“Got a seat?” said Neave.

“No.”

“Well come into our carriage. We want to get a gang of Berney’s. Two swine from Randall’s had the cheek to shove their bags in here, but when they sloped away to get papers we plugged their stuff into the guard’s van and now they can’t find their carriage. You’d better bag a pew here.”

This was fame and ecstasy indeed. Martin hurriedly said good-bye to his uncle and aunt and made certain of his place in Neave’s carriage. When the train had left the station they settled down to talk and for a splendid half-hour they refought the battle of the pitchers. Then they talked theatres and ultimately the more experienced told of amorous conquests. Martin had been content to listen for the most part and now he relapsed into complete silence. He supposed there must be something in this girl business, though as yet he didn’t understand. But he was not unhappy. He sat with the forefinger and thumb of his right hand in his waistcoat pocket and felt the milled edges of two sovereigns which his uncle had just given him. Two pounds, forty shillings, four hundred and eighty pence! He possessed the equivalent of one hundred and sixty poached eggs or two hundred and forty ham rolls. It was a ravishing thought.