On the Sunday following this interview with the Truth Mr. Lavender, who ever found the day of rest irksome to his strenuous spirit, left his house after an early supper. It, had been raining all day, but the sinking sun had now emerged and struck its level light into the tree tops from a still cloudy distance. Followed by Blink, he threaded the puddled waste which lies to the west of the Spaniard's Road, nor was it long before the wild beauty of the scene infected his spirit, and he stood still to admire the world spread out. The smoke rack of misted rain was still drifting above the sunset radiance in an apple-green sky; and behind Mr. Lavender, as he gazed at those clouds symbolical of the world's unrest, a group of tall, dark pine-trees, wild and witch-like, had collected as if in audience of his cosmic mood. He formed a striking group for a painter, with the west wind flinging back his white hair, and fluttering his dark moustache along his cheeks, while Blink, a little in front of him, pointed at the prospect and emitted barks whose vigour tossed her charming head now to this side now to that.
“How beautiful is this earth!” thought Mr. Lavender, “and how simple to be good and happy thereon. Yet must we journey ten leagues beyond the wide world's end to find justice and liberty. There are dark powers like lions ever in the path. Yes,” he continued, turning round to the pinetrees, who were creaking slightly in the wind, “hate and oppression, greed, lust, and ambition! There you stand malevolently regarding me. Out upon you, dark witches of evil! If I had but an axe I would lay you lower than the dust.” But the poor pine-trees paid no attention save to creak a little louder. And so incensed was Mr. Lavender by this insensibility on the part of those which his own words had made him perceive were the powers of darkness that he would very likely have barked his knuckles on them if Blink by her impatience had not induced him to resume his walk and mount on to the noble rampart of the Spaniard's Road.
Along this he wandered and down the hill with the countless ghosts and shadows of his brain, liberating the world in fancy from all the hindrances which beset the paths of public men, till dark fell, and he was compelled to turn towards home. Closely attended by the now sobered Blink he had reached the Tube Station when he perceived in the inky war-time dusk that a woman was following him. Dimly aware that she was tall and graceful he hurried to avoid her, but before long could but note that she was walking parallel and turning her face towards him. Her gloved hand seemed to make a beckoning movement, and perceiving at once that he was the object of that predatory instinct which he knew from the many letters and protests in his journals to be one of the most distressing features of the War, he would have broken into a run if he had not been travelling up-hill; being deprived of this means of escape, his public nature prevailed, and he saw that it was his duty to confront the woman, and strike a blow at, the national evil stalking beside him. But he was in a difficulty, for his natural delicacy towards women seemed to preclude him from treating her as if she were what she evidently was, while his sense of duty—urged him with equal force to do so.
A whiff of delicious scent determined him. “Madam,” he said, without looking in her face, which, indeed, was not visible—so great was the darkness, “it is useless to pursue one who not only has the greatest veneration for women but regards you as a public danger at a time when all the energies of the country should be devoted to the defeat of our common enemies.”
The woman, uttering a sound like a laugh, edged towards him, and Mr. Lavender edged away, so that they proceeded up the street crabwise, with Blink adhering jealously to her master's heels.
“Do you know,” said Mr. Lavender, with all the delicacy in his power, “how terribly subversive of the national effort it is to employ your beauty and your grace to snare and slacken the sinews of our glorious youth? The mystery of a woman's glance in times like these should be used solely to beckon our heroes on to death in the field. But you, madam, than whom no one indeed has a more mysterious glance, have turned it to ends which, in the words of a great public man, profane the temple of our—our——”
Mr. Lavender stopped, for his delicacy would not allow him even in so vital a cause to call bodies bodies. The woman here edged so close that he bolted across her in affright, and began to slant back towards the opposite side of the street.
“Madam,” he said, “you must have perceived by now that I am, alas! not privileged by age to be one of the defenders of my country; and though I am prepared to yield to you, if by so doing I can save some young hero from his fate, I wish you to clearly understand that only my sense of duty as a public man would induce me to do any such thing.” At this he turned his eyes dreadfully upon her graceful form still sidling towards him, and, conscious again of that delightful scent, felt a swooning sensation which made him lean against a lamp-post. “Spare me, madam,” he said in a faint voice, “for my country's sake I am ready to do anything, but I must tell you that I worship another of your sex from afar, and if you are a woman you will not seek to make me besmirch that adoration or imperil my chivalry.”
So saying, he threw his arms round the lamppost and closed his eyes, expecting every moment to be drawn away against his will into a life of vice.
A well-known voice, strangled to the pitch almost of inaudibility, said in his ear:
“Oh, Don Pickwixote, Don Pickwixote, you will be the death of me!”
Electrified, Mr. Lavender opened his eyes, and in the dull orange rays of the heavily shaded lamp he saw beside him no other than the writhing, choking figure of Aurora herself. Shocked beyond measure by the mistake he had made, Mr. Lavender threw up his hands and bolted past her through the gateway of his garden; nor did he cease running till he had reached his bedroom and got under the bed, so terribly was he upset. There, in the company of Blink, he spent perhaps the most shame-stricken hours of his existence, cursing the memory of all those bishops and novelists who had caused him to believe that every woman in a dark street was a danger to the State; nor could the persuasion of Mrs. Petty or Joe induce him to come out, so that in despair they were compelled to leave him to pass the night in this penitential position, which he did without even taking out his teeth.
Fully a week elapsed before Mr. Lavender recovered from the effects of the night which he had spent under his bed and again took his normal interest in the course of national affairs. That which at length tore him from his torpid condition and refixed his imagination was an article in one of, his journals on the League of Nations, which caused him suddenly to perceive that this was the most important subject of the day. Carefully extracting the address of the society who had the matter in hand, he determined to go down forthwith and learn from their own lips how he could best induce everybody to join them in their noble undertaking. Shutting every window, therefore and locking Blink carefully into his study, he set forth and took the Tube to Charing Cross.
Arriving at the premises indicated he made his way in lifts and corridors till he came to the name of this great world undertaking upon the door of Room 443, and paused for a moment to recover from the astonishment he felt that the whole building at least was not occupied by the energies of such a prodigious association.
“Appearances, however, are deceptive,” he thought; “and from a single grain of mustard-seed whole fields will flower.” He knocked on the door, therefore, and receiving the reply, “Cub id,” in a female voice, he entered a room where two young ladies with bad colds were feebly tapping type-writers.
“Can I see the President?” asked Mr. Lavender.
“Dot at the bobent,” said one of the young ladies. “Will the Secretary do?”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Lavender “for I seek information.”
The young ladies indulged in secret confabulation, from which the perpetual word “He” alone escaped to Mr. Lavender's ears.
Then one of them slipped into an inner room, leaving behind her a powerful trail of eucalyptus. She came back almost directly, saying, “Go id.”
The room which Mr Lavender entered contained two persons, one seated at a bureau and the other pacing up and down and talking in a powerful bass voice. He paused, looked at Mr. Lavender from under bushy brows, and at once went on walking and talking, with a sort of added zest.
“This must be He,” thought Mr. Lavender, sitting down to listen, for there was something about the gentleman which impressed him at once. He had very large red ears, and hardly a hair on his head, while his full, bearded face and prominent eyes were full of force and genius.
“It won't do a little bit, Titmarsh,” he was saying, “to allow the politicians to meddle in this racket. We want men of genius, whose imaginations carry them beyond the facts of the moment. This is too big a thing for those blasted politicians. They haven't shown a sign so far of paying attention to what I've been telling them all this time. We must keep them out, Titmarsh. Machinery without mechanism, and a change of heart in the world. It's very simple. A single man of genius from each country, no pettifogging opposition, no petty prejudices.”
The other gentleman, whom Mr. Lavender took for the Secretary, and who was leaning his head rather wearily on his hand, interjected: “Quite so! And whom would you choose besides yourself? In France, for instance?”
He who was walking stopped a moment, again looked at Mr. Lavender intently, and again began to speak as if he were not there.
“France?” he said. “There isn't anybody—Anatole's too old—there isn't anybody.”
“America, then?” hazarded the Secretary.
“America!” replied the other; “they haven't got even half a man. There's that fellow in Germany that I used to influence; but I don't know—no, I don't think he'd be any good.”
“D'Annunzio, surely——” began the Secretary.
“D'Annunzio? My God! D'Annunzio! No! There's nobody in Italy or Holland—she's as bankrupt as Spain; and there's not a cat in Austria. Russia might, perhaps, give us someone, but I can't at the moment think of him. No, Titmarsh, it's difficult.”
Mr. Lavender had been growing more and more excited at each word he overheard, for a scheme of really stupendous proportions was shaping itself within him. He suddenly rose, and said: “I have an idea.”
The Secretary sat up as if he had received a Faradic shock, and he who was walking up and down stood still. “The deuce you have, sir,” he said.
“Yes,” cried Mr. Lavender and in concentration and marvellous simplicity, “it has, I am sure, never been surpassed. It is clear to me, sir, that you, and you alone, must be this League of Nations. For if it is entirely in your hands there will be no delay. The plan will spring full fledged from the head of Jove, and this great and beneficial change in the lot of mankind will at once become an accomplished fact. There will be no need for keeping in touch with human nature, no call for patience and all that laborious upbuilding stone by stone which is so apt to discourage mankind and imperil the fruition of great reforms. No, sir; you—you must be this League, and we will all work to the end that tomorrow at latest there may be perfected this crowning achievement of the human species.”
The gentleman, who had commenced to walk again, looked furtively from Mr. Lavender to the Secretary, and said:
“By Jingo! some idea!”
“Yes,” cried Mr. Lavender, entranced that his grand notion should be at once accepted; “for it is only men like you who can both soaringly conceive and immediately concrete in action; and, what is more, there will be no fear of your tiring of this job and taking up another, for you will be IT; and one cannot change oneself.”
The gentleman looked at Mr. Lavender very suddenly at the words “tiring of this job,” and transferred his gaze to the Secretary, who had bent his face down to his papers, and was smothering a snigger with his hand.
“Who are you, sir?” he said sharply.
“Merely one,” returned Mr. Lavender, “who wishes to do all in his power to forward a project so fraught with beneficence to all mankind. I count myself fortunate beyond measure to have come here this morning and found the very Heart of the matter, the grain of mustard-seed.”
The gentleman, who had begun to walk again, here muttered words which would have sounded like “Damned impudence” if Mr. Lavender had not been too utterly carried away by his idea to hear them.
“I shall go forth at once,” he said, “and make known the good tidings that the fields are sown, the League formed. Henceforth there are no barriers between nations, and the reign of perpetual Peace is assured. It is colossal.”
The gentleman abruptly raised his boot, but, seeming to think better of it, lowered it again, and turned away to the window.
Mr. Lavender, having bowed to his back, went out, and, urged on by his enthusiasm, directed his steps at once towards Trafalgar Square.
Arriving at this hub of the universe he saw that Chance was on his side, for a meeting was already in progress, and a crowd of some forty persons assembled round one of the lions. Owing to his appearance Mr. Lavender was able without opposition to climb up on the plinth and join the speaker, a woman of uncertain years. He stood there awaiting his turn and preparing his oration, while she continued her discourse, which seemed to be a protest against any interference with British control of the freedom of the seas. A Union Jack happened to be leaning against the monument, and when she had at last finished, Mr. Lavender seized it and came forward to the edge.
“Great tidings!” he said at once, waving the flag, and without more ado plunged into an oration, which, so far as it went, must certainly be ranked among his masterpieces. “Great tidings, Friends! I have planted the grain of mustard seed or, in common parlance, have just come from the meeting which has incepted the League of Nations; and it will be my task this morning briefly to make known to you the principles which in future must dominate the policy of the world. Since it is for the closer brotherhood of man and the reign of perpetual peace that we are struggling, we must first secure the annihilation of our common enemies. Those members of the human race whose infamies have largely placed them beyond the pale must be eliminated once for all.”
Loud cheers greeted this utterance, and stimulated by the sound Mr. Lavender proceeded: “What, however, must the civilized nations do when at last they have clean sheets? In the first place, all petty prejudices and provincial aspirations must be set aside; and though the world must be firmly founded upon the principle of nationality it must also act as one great people. This, my fellow-countrymen, is no mere contradiction in terms, for though in their new solidarities each nation will be prouder of itself, and more jealous of its good name and independence than ever, that will not prevent its' sacrificing its inalienable rights for the good of the whole human nation of which it is a member. Friends, let me give you a simple illustration, which in a nutshell will make the whole thing clear. We, here in Britain, are justly proud and tenacious of our sea power—in the words of the poet, 'We hold all the gates of the water.' Now it is abundantly and convincingly plain that this reinforced principle of nationality bids us to retain and increase them, while internationalism bids us give—them up.”
His audience—which had hitherto listened with open mouths, here closed them, and a strident voice exclaimed:
“Give it a name, gov'nor. D'you say we ought to give up Gib?”
This word pierced Mr. Lavender, standing where he was, to the very marrow, and he fell into such confusion of spirit that his words became inaudible.
“My God!” he thought, appalled; “is it possible that I have not got to the bottom of this question?” And, turning his back on the audience, he gazed in a sort of agony at the figure of Nelson towering into the sky above him. He was about to cry out piteously: “Countrymen, I know not what I think. Oh! I am unhappy!” when he inadvertently stepped back over the edge of the plinth, and, still entangled in the flag, was picked up by two policemen and placed in a dazed condition and a deserted spot opposite the National Gallery.
It was while he was standing there, encircled by, pigeons and forgotten by his fellow man, that there came to him a spiritual revelation. “Strange!” he thought; “I notice a certain inconsistency in myself, and even in my utterances. I am two men, one of whom is me and one not me; and the one which is not me is the one which causes me to fall into the arms of policemen and other troubles. The one which is me loves these pigeons, and desires to live quietly with my dog, not considering public affairs, which, indeed, seem to be suited to persons of another sort. Whence, then, comes the one which is not me? Can it be that it is derived from the sayings and writings of others, and is but a spurious spirit only meet to be outcast? Do I, to speak in the vernacular, care any buttons whether we stick to Gibraltar or not so long as men do but live in kindness? And if that is so, have I the right to say I do? Ought I not, rather, to be true to my private self and leave the course of public affairs to those who have louder voices and no private selves?” The thought was extremely painful, for it seemed to disclose to him grave inconsistency in the recent management of his life. And, thoroughly mortified, he turned round with a view of entering the National Gallery and soothing his spirit with art, when he was arrested by the placard which covered it announcing which town had taken which sum of bonds. This lighted up such a new vista of public utility that his brain would certainly have caught fire again if one of the policemen who had conducted him across the Square had not touched him on the arm, and said:
“How are you now, sir?”
“I am pretty well, thank you, policeman,” replied Mr. Lavender, “and sorry that I occasioned so much disturbance.”
“Don't mention it, sir,” answered the policeman; “you came a nasty crump.”
“Tell me,” said Mr. Lavender, suddenly looking up into his face, “do you consider that a man is justified in living a private life? For, as regards my future, it is largely on your opinion that I shall act.”
The policeman, whose solid face showed traces of astonishment, answered slowly: “As a general thing, a man's private life don't bear lookin' into, as you know, sir.”
“I have not lived one for some time,” said Mr. Lavender.
“Well,” remarked the policeman, “if you take my advice you won't try it a-gain. I should say you 'adn't the constitution.”
“I fear you do not catch my meaning,” returned Mr. Lavender, whose whole body was aching from his fall; “it is my public life which tries me.”
“Well, then, I should chuck it,” said the policeman.
“Really?” murmured Mr. Lavender eagerly, “would you?”
“Why not?” said the policeman.
So excited was Mr. Lavender by this independent confirmation of his sudden longing that he took out half a crown.
“You will oblige me greatly,” he said, “by accepting this as a token of my gratitude.”
“Well, sir, I'll humour you,” answered the policeman; “though it was no trouble, I'm sure; you're as light as a feather. Goin' anywhere in particular?” he added.
“Yes,” said Mr. Lavender, rather faintly, “the Tube Station.”
“Come along with me, then.”
Mr. Lavender went along, not sorry to have the protection of that stalwart form, for his nerve was shaken, not so much by physical suffering as by the revelation he had received.
“If you'll take my tip, sir,” said the policeman, parting from him, “you won't try no private life again; you don't look strong.”
“Thank you, policeman,” said Mr. Lavender musingly; “it is kind of you to take an interest in me. Good-bye!”
Safely seated in the Tube for Hampstead he continued the painful struggle of his meditations. “If, indeed,” he thought, “as a public man I do more harm than good, I am prepared to sacrifice all for my country's sake and retire into private life. But the policeman said that would be dangerous for me. What, then, is left? To live neither a public nor a private life!”
This thought, at once painful and heroic, began to take such hold of him that he arrived at his house in a high fever of the brain.
Now when Mr. Lavender once slept over an idea it became so strong that no power on earth could prevent his putting it into execution, and all night long he kept Blink awake by tramping up and down his bedroom and planning the details of such a retirement as would meet his unfortunate case. For at once he perceived that to retire from both his lives without making the whole world know of it would be tantamount to not retiring. “Only by a public act,” he thought, “of so striking a character that nobody can miss it can I bring the moral home to all public and private men.” And a hundred schemes swarmed like ants in his brain. Nor was it till the cock crew that one adequate to this final occasion occurred to him.
“It will want very careful handling,” he thought, “for otherwise I shall be prevented, and perhaps even arrested in the middle, which will be both painful and ridiculous. So sublime, however, was his idea that he shed many tears over it, and often paused in his tramping to regard the unconscious Blink with streaming eyes. All the next day he went about the house and heath taking a last look at objects which had been dear, and at mealtimes ate and drank even less than usual, absorbed by the pathos of his coming renunciation. He determined to make his preparations for the final act during the night, when Mrs. Petty would be prevented by Joe's snoring from hearing the necessary sounds; and at supper he undertook the delicate and harrowing task of saying good-bye to, his devoted housekeeper without letting her know that he, was doing it.
“Mrs—Petty,” he said, trifling with a morsel of cheese, “it is useless to disguise, from you that I may be going a journey, and I feel that I shall not be able to part from all the care you have, bestowed on me without recording in words my heartfelt appreciation of your devotion. I shall miss it, I shall miss it terribly, if, that is, I am permitted to miss anything.”
Mrs. Petty, whose mind instantly ran to his bed socks, answered: “Don't you worry, sir; I won't forget them. But wherever are you going now?”
“Ah!” said Mr. Lavender subtly, “it is all in the air at present; but now that the lime-trees are beginning to smell a certain restlessness is upon me, and you may see some change in my proceedings. Whatever happens to me, however, I commit my dear Blink to your care; feed her as if she were myself, and love her as if she were Joe, for it is largely on food and affection that dogs depend for happiness.
“Why, good gracious, sir,” said Mrs. Petty, “you talk as if you were going for a month of Sundays. Are you thinking of Eastbourne?”
Mr. Lavender sighed deeply at that word, for the memory of a town where he had spent many happy days added to the gentle melancholy of his feelings on this last evening.
“As regards that I shall not inform you at present; for, indeed, I am by no means certain what my destination will be. Largely speaking, no pub—public man,” he stammered, doubtful whether he was any longer that, “knows where he will be going to-morrow. Sufficient unto the day are the intentions in his head.
“Well, sir,” said Mrs. Petty frankly, “you can't go anywhere without Joe or me, that's flat.”
Mr. Lavender smiled.
“Dear Mrs. Petty,” he murmured, “there are sacrifices one cannot demand even of the most faithful friends. But,” he went on with calculated playfulness, “we need not consider that point until the day after to-morrow at least, for I have much to do in the meantime.”
Reassured by those words and the knowledge that Mr. Lavender's plans seldom remained the same for more than two days, Mrs. Petty tossed her head slightly and went to the door. “Well, it is a mystery, I'm sure,” she said.
“I should like to see Joe,” said Mr. Lavender, with a lingering look at his devoted housekeeper.
“The beauty!” muttered Mrs. Petty; “I'll send him,” and withdrew.
Giving the morsel of cheese to Blink, who, indeed, had eaten practically the whole of this last meal, Mr. Lavender took the moon-cat on his shoulder, and abandoned himself for a moment to the caresses of his two favourites.
“Blink,” he said in a voice which trembled slightly, “be good to this moon-cat while I am away; and if I am longer than you expect, darling, do not be unhappy. Perhaps some day you will rejoin me; and even if we are not destined to meet again, I would not, in the fashion of cruel men, wish to hinder your second marriage, or to stand in the way of your happy forgetfulness of me. Be as light-hearted as you can, my dear, and wear no mourning for your master.”
So saying, he flung his arms round her, and embraced her warmly, inhaling with the most poignant emotion her sheep-like odour. He was still engaged with her when the door was opened, and Joe came in.
“Joe,” said Mr. Lavender resolutely, “sit down and light your pipe. You will find a bottle of pre-war port in the sideboard. Open it, and, drink my health; indeed, I myself will drink it too, for it may give me courage. We have been good friends, Joe,” he went on while Joe was drawing the cork, “and have participated in pleasant and sharp adventures. I have called you in at this moment, which may some day seem to you rather solemn, partly to shake your hand and partly to resume the discussion on public men which we held some days ago, if you remember.”
“Ah!” said Joe, with his habitual insouciance, “when I told you that they give me the 'ump.”
“Yes, what abaht it, sir? 'Ave they been sayin' anything particular vicious?” His face flying up just then with the cork which he was extracting encountered the expression on Mr. Lavender's visage, and he added: “Don't take wot I say to 'eart, sir; try as you like you'll never be a public man.”
Those words, which seemed to Mr. Lavender to seal his doom, caused a faint pink flush to invade his cheeks.
“No,” continued Joe, pouring out the wine; “you 'aven't got the brass in times like these. I dare say you've noticed, sir, that the times is favourable for bringing out the spots on the body politic. 'Ere's 'ealth!”
“Joe,” said Mr. Lavender, raising the glass to his lips with solemnity, “I wish you a most happy and prosperous life. Let us drink to all those qualities which make you par excellence one of that great race, the best hearted in the world, which never thinks of to-morrow, never knows when it is beaten, and seldom loses its sense of humour.
“Ah!” returned Joe enigmatically, half-closing one of his greenish eyes, and laying the glass to one side of his reddish nose. Then, with a quick movement, he swallowed its contents and refilled it before Mr. Lavender had succeeded in absorbing more than a drop.
“I don't say,” he continued, “but what there's a class o' public man that's got its uses, like the little 'un that keeps us all alive, or the perfect English gentleman what did his job, and told nobody nothin' abaht it. You can 'ave confidence in a man like that——that's why 'e's gone an' retired; 'e's civilized, you see, the finished article; but all this raw material, this 'get-on' or 'get-out' lot, that's come from 'oo knows where, well, I wish they'd stayed there with their tell-you-how-to-do-it and their 'ymns of 'ate.”
“Joe,” said Mr. Lavender, “are you certain that therein does not speak the snob inherent in the national bosom? Are you not unconsciously paying deference to the word gentleman?”
“Why not, sir?” replied Joe, tossing off his second glass. “It'd be a fine thing for the country if we was all gentlemen—straight, an' a little bit stupid, and 'ad 'alf a thought for others.” And he refilled his master's glass. “I don't measure a gentleman by 'is money, or 'is title, not even by 'is clothes—I measure 'im by whether he can stand 'avin' power in 'is 'ands without gettin' unscrupled or swollen 'eaded, an' whether 'e can do what he thinks right without payin' attention, to clamour. But, mind you, 'e's got to 'ave right thoughts too, and a feelin' 'eart. 'Ere's luck, sir.”
Mr. Lavender, who, absorbed in his chauffeur's sentiments, had now drunk two glasses, rose from his, chair, and clutching his hair said: “I will not conceal from you, Joe, that I have always assumed every public man came up to that standard, at least.”
“Crikey said Joe. 'Ave you really, sir? My Gawd! Got any use for the rest of this bottle?”
“No, Joe, no. I shall never have use for a bottle again.”
“In that case I might as well,” said Joe, pouring what remained into a tumbler and drinking it off. “Is there any other topic you'd like to mention? If I can 'ave any influence on you, I shall be very glad.”
“Thank you, Joe,” returned Mr. Lavender, “what I have most need of at this moment is solitude and your good wishes. And will you kindly take Blink away, and when she has had her run, place her in my bedroom, with the window closed. Good-night, Joe. Call me late tomorrow morning.
“Certainly, sir. Good-night, sir.”
“Good-night, Joe. Shake hands.”
When Joe was gone, accompanied by the unwilling Blink, turning her beautiful dark eyes back to the last, Mr. Lavender sat down at his bureau, and drawing a sheet of paper to him, wrote at the top of it.
“My last Will and Testament.”
It was a long time before he got further, and then entirely omitted to leave anything in it, completely preoccupied by the preamble, which gradually ran as follows:
“I, John Lavender, make known to all men by these presents that theact which I contemplate is symbolical, and must in no sense be takenas implying either weariness of life or that surrender to misfortunewhich is unbecoming to an English public gentleman.” (Over thisdescription of himself Mr. Lavender was obliged to pause some timehovering between the two designations, and finally combining them asthe only way out of his difficulty.) “Long and painful experiencehas convinced me that only by retiring from the former can I retainthe latter character, and only by retiring from both can I point themoral ever demanded by my countrymen. Conscious, indeed, that amere act of private resignation would have no significance to thebody politic, nor any deflecting influence on the national life, Ihave chosen rather to disappear in blue flame, so that everyEnglishman may take to heart my lesson, and learn from my strangefate how to be himself uninfluenced by the verbiage of others. Atthe same time, with the utmost generosity, I wish to acknowledge infull my debt towards all those great writers and speakers on the warwho have exercised so intoxicating an influence on my mind.” (Herefollowed an alphabetical list of names beginning with B and endingwith S.)“I wish to be dissociated firmly from the views of my chauffeur JoePetty, and to go to my last account with an emphatic assertion thatmy failure to become a perfect public gentleman is due to privateidiosyncrasies rather than to any conviction that it is impossible,or to anything but admiration of the great men I have mentioned. Ifanybody should wish to paint me after I am dead, I desire that I maybe represented with my face turned towards the Dawn; for it is atthat moment so symptomatic of a deep adoration—which I would scornto make the common property of gossiping tongues—that I intend todepart. If there should be anything left of me—which is less thanprobable considering the inflammatory character of the material Idesign for my pyre—I would be obliged if, without giving anybodyany trouble, it could be buried in my garden, with the usualHampstead tablet.“'JOHN LAVENDER,THE PUBLIC MAN, WHO DIED FOR HISCOUNTRY'S GOOD, LIVED HERE.'“In conclusion, I would say a word to that land I have loved andserved: 'Be not extreme! Distrust the words, of others. Toyourself be true! As you are strong be gentle, as you are brave bemodest! Beloved country, farewell!'”
Having written that final sentence he struggled long with himself before he could lay down the pen. But by this time the port he had drunk had begun to have its usual effect, and he fell into a doze, from which he was awakened five hours later by the beams of a full moon striking in on him.
“The hour has come,” he thought, and, opening the French-window, he went out on to the lawn, where the dew lay white. The freshness in the air, the glamour of the moonlight, and the fumes of the port combined to make him feel strangely rhumantic, and if he had possessed a musical instrument he would very likely have begun to play on it. He spent some moments tracking to and fro in the dew before he settled on the centre of the lawn as the most suitable spot for the act which he contemplated, for thence he would be able to turn his last looks towards Aurora's bedroom-window without interference from foliage. Having drawn a twelve-foot circle in the dew with his toe he proceeded in the bright moonlight to the necessary accumulation of his funeral pile, conveying from his study, book by book, journal by journal, pamphlet by pamphlet, the hoarded treasures of the last four years; and as he carefully placed each one, building up at once a firm and cunning structure, he gave a little groan, thinking of the intoxications of the past, and all the glorious thoughts embodied in that literature. Underneath, in the heart of the pile, he reserved a space for the most inflammable material, which he selected from a special file of a special journal, and round the circumference of the lofty and tapering mound he carefully deposited the two hundred and four war numbers of a certain weekly, so that a ring of flame might lick well up the sides and permeate the more solid matter on which he would be sitting. For two hours he worked in the waning moonlight till he had completed this weird and heroic erection; and just before the dawn, sat down by the light of the candle with which he meant to apply the finishing touch, to compose that interview with himself whereby he intended to convey to the world the message of his act.
“I found him,” he began, in the words of the interviewer, “sitting upon a journalistic pile of lovely leaves of thought, which in the dawning of a new day glowed with a certain restrained flamboyance, as though the passion stored within those exotic pages gave itself willingly to the 'eclaircissement' of the situation, and of his lineaments on which suffering had already set their stamp.
“'I should like you,' I said, approaching as near as I could, for the sparks, like little fireflies on a Riviera evening, were playing profoundly round my trousers, 'I should like to hear from your own lips the reasons which have caused you to resign.'
“'Certainly,' he replied, with the courtesy which I have always found characteristic of him in moments which would try the suavity of more ordinary men; and with the utmost calm and clarity he began to tell me the inner workings of his mind, while the growing dawn-light irradiated his wasted and expressive features, and the flames slowly roasted his left boot.
“'Yes,' he said quietly, and his eyes turned inwards, 'I have at last seen the problem clearly, and seen it whole. It is largely because of this that I have elected to seek the seclusion of another world. What that world contains for me I know not, though so many public men have tried to tell me; but it has never been my way to recoil from the Unknown, and I am ready for my journey beyond the wide world's end.'
“I was greatly struck by the large-hearted way in which he spoke those words, and I interrupted him to ask whether he did not think that there was something fundamental in the British character which would leap as one man at such an act of daring sacrifice and great adventure.
“'As regards that,' he replied fearlessly, while in the light of the ever-brightening dawn I could, see the suspender on his right leg gradually charring, so that he must already have been in great pain, 'as regards that, it is largely the proneness of the modern British to leap to verbal extremity which is inducing me to afford them this object-lesson in restraint and commonsense. Ouch!'
“This momentary ejaculation seemed to escape him in spite of all his iron control; and the smell of burning flesh brought home to me as nothing else, perhaps, could have done the tortures he must have been suffering.
“'I feel,' he went on very gravely, 'that extravagance of word and conduct is fatal to my country, and having so profoundly experienced its effects upon myself, I am now endeavouring by a shining example to supply a remedy for a disease which is corroding the vitals and impairing the sanity of my countrymen and making them a race of second-hand spiritual drunkards. Ouch!'
“I confess that at this moment the tears started to my eyes, for a more sublime show than the spectacle of this devoted man slowly roasting himself to death before my eyes for the good of his country I had seldom seen. It had a strange, an appalling interest, and for nothing on earth could I have torn my gaze away. I now realized to the full for the first time the will-power and heroism of the human species, and I rejoiced with a glorious new feeling that I was of the same breed as this man, made of such stern stuff that not even a tear rolled down his cheeks to quench the flames that leaped around him ever higher and higher. And the dawn came up in the eastern sky; and I knew that a great day was preparing for mankind; and with my eyes fixed upon him as he turned blacker and blacker I let my heart loose in a great thanksgiving that I had lived to see this moment. It was then that he cried out in a loud voice:
“'I call Aurora to witness that I have died without a falter, grasping a burning spear, to tilt at the malpractice which has sent me mad!' And I saw that he held in his fast-consuming hand a long roll of journals sharpened to a point of burning flame.
“'Aurora!' he cried again, and with that enigmatic word on his lips was incinerated in the vast and towering belch of the devouring element.
“It was among the most inspiring sights I have ever witnessed.”
When Mr. Lavender had completed that record, whose actuality and wealth of moving detail had greatly affected him, and marked it “For the Press-Immediate,” he felt very cold. It was, in fact, that hour of dawn when a shiver goes through the world; and, almost with pleasurable anticipation he took up his lighted candle and stole shivering out to his pile, rising ghostly to the height of some five feet in the middle of the dim lawn whereon a faint green tinge was coming with the return of daylight. Having reached it, he walked round it twice, and readjusted four volumes of the history of the war as stepping-stones to the top; then lowering the candle, whose flame burned steadily in the stillness, he knelt down in the grey dew and set fire to an article in a Sunday paper. Then, sighing deeply, he returned to his little ladder and, with some difficulty preserving his balance, mounted to the top, and sat down with his legs towards the house and his eyes fixed on Aurora's bedroom-window. He had been there perhaps ten minutes before he realized that nothing was happening below him, and, climbing down again, proceeded to the aperture where he had inserted the burning print. There, by the now considerable daylight, he saw that the flame had gone out at the words “The Stage is now set for the last act of this colossal world drama.” And convinced that Providence had intended that heartening sentence to revive his somewhat drooping courage, he thought, “I, too, shall be making history this morning,” and relighting the journal, went on his hands and knees and began manfully to blow the flames....
Now the young lady in the adjoining castle, who had got out of bed, happened, as she sometimes did, to go to the window for a look at the sun rising over Parliament Hill. Attracted by the smell of burning paper she saw Mr. Lavender in this act of blowing up the flames.
“What on earth is the poor dear doing now?” she thought. “This is really the limit!” And slipping on her slippers and blue dressing-gown she ensconced herself behind the curtain to await developments.
Mr. Lavender had now backed away from the flames at which he had been blowing, and remained on his hands and knees, apparently assuring himself that they had really obtained hold. He then rose, and to her intense surprise began climbing up on to the pile. She watched him at first with an amused astonishment, so ludicrous was his light little figure, crowned by stivered-up white hair, and the expression of eager melancholy on his thin, high-cheekboned face upturned towards her window. Then, to her dismay, she saw that the flame had really caught, and, suddenly persuaded that he had some crazy intention of injuring himself with the view, perhaps, of attracting her attention, she ran out of her room and down the stairs, and emerging from the back door just as she was, circled her garden, so that she might enter Mr. Lavender's garden from behind him, ready for any eventuality. She arrived within arm's reach of him without his having heard her, for Blink, whose anxious face as she watched her master wasting, could be discerned at the bedroom-window, was whining, and Mr. Lavender himself had now broken into a strange and lamentable chantey, which, in combination with the creeping flutter of the flames in the weekly journals encircling the base of the funeral pyre, well-nigh made her blood curdle.
“Aurora,” sang Mr. Lavender, in that most dolorous voice,