The Fortunate Youth | Page 8

of fairyland. Once also
the long pile-of the Tudor house came into view, flashing-white in the
sunshine. The teacher in charge of the brake explained that it was the
Marquis of Chudley's residence. It was more beautiful than anything
Paul had ever seen; it was bigger than many churches put together; the
word "Palace" came into his head--it transcended all his preconceived

ideas of palaces: yet in such a palace only could dwell the radiant and
sweet-smelling lady of his dream. The certainty gave him a curious
satisfaction.
They arrived at the spot where the marquees were erected, and at once
began the traditional routine of the school treat-games for the girls,
manlier sports for the boys. Lord Chudley, patron of the living of St.
Luke's, Bludston, and Lord Bountiful of the feast, had provided
swing-boats and a merry-go-round which discoursed infernal music to
enraptured ears. Paul stood aloof for a while from these delights, his
eye on the section of the girls among whom his goddess moved. As
soon as she became detached and he could approach her without
attracting notice, he crept within the magic circle of the scent and lay
down prone, drinking in its intoxication, and, as she moved, he
wriggled toward her on his stomach like a young snake.
After a time she came near him. "Why aren't you playing with the other
boys?" she asked.
Paul sat on his heels. "Dunno, miss," he said shyly.
She glanced at his rapscallion attire, blushed, and blamed herself for the
tactless question. "This is a beautiful place, isn't it?"
"It's heavenly," said Paul, with his eyes on her.
"One scarcely wants to do anything but just-just-well, be here." She
smiled.
He nodded and said, "Ay!" Then he grew bolder. "I like being alone,"
he declared defiantly.
"Then I'll leave you," she laughed.
The blood flushed deep under his unwashed olive skin, and he leaped
to his feet. "Aw didn't mean that!" he protested hotly. "It wur them
other boys."

She was touched by his beauty and quick sensitiveness. "I was only
teasing. I'm sure you like being with me."
Paul had never heard such exquisite tones from human lips. To his ears,
accustomed to the harsh Lancashire burr, her low, accentless voice was
music. So another of his senses was caught in the enchantment.
"Yo' speak so pretty," said he.
At that moment a spruce but perspiring young teacher came up. "We're
going to have some boys' races, miss, and we want the ladies to look on.
His lordship has offered prizes. The first is a boys' race-under eleven."
"You can join in that, anyhow," she said to Paul. "Go along and let me
see you win."
Paul scudded off, his heart aflame, his hand, as he ran, tucking in the
shirt whose evasion from the breeches was beyond the control of the
single brace. Besides, crawling on your stomach is dislocating even to
the most neatly secured attire. But his action was mechanical. His
thoughts were with his goddess. In his inarticulate mind he knew
himself to be her champion. He sped under her consecration. He knew
he could run. He could run like a young deer. Though despised, could
he not outrun any of the youth in Budge Street? He took his place in the
line of competing children. Far away in the grassy distance were two
men holding a stretched string. On one side of him was a tubby boy
with a freckled face and an amorphous nose on which the perspiration
beaded; on the other a lank, consumptive creature, in Eton collar and
red tie and a sprig of sweet William in his buttonhole, a very superior
person. Neither of them desired his propinquity. They tried to hustle
him from the line. But Paul, born Ishmael, had his hand against them.
The fat boy, smitten beneath the belt, doubled up in pain and the
consumptive person rubbed agonized shins. A curate, walking down
repressing bulges and levelling up concavities, ordained order. The line
stood tense. Away beyond, toward the goal, appeared a white mass,
which Paul knew to be the ladies in their summer dresses; and among
them, though he could not distinguish her, was she in whose eyes he
was to win glory. The prize did not matter. It was for her that he was

running. In his childish mind he felt passionately identified with her.
He was her champion.
The word was given. The urchins started. Paul, his little elbows squared
behind him and his eyes fixed vacantly in space, ran with his soul in the
toes that protruded through the ragged old boots. He knew not who was
in front or who was behind. It was the madness of battle. He ran and
ran, until somebody put his arms round him and stopped