by Unknown
If it was slightly over-charged, the temptation was great. Andrew was keenly desirous of carrying his point, and he wanted his host to see that he was only thinking of his good.
“Well, but what is it you would have me do?” asked Mr. Labouchere, who often had claimants on his bounty and his autographs.
“I want you,” said Andrew eagerly, “to die.”
The two men looked hard at each other. There was not even a clock in the room to break the silence. At last the statesman spoke.
“Why?” he asked.
His visitor sank back in his chair relieved. He had put all his hopes in the other’s common-sense.
It had never failed Mr. Labouchere, and now it promised not to fail Andrew.
“I am anxious to explain that,” the young man said glibly. “If you can look at yourself with the same eyes with which you see other people, it won’t take long. Make a lookingglass of me, and it is done.
“You have now reached a high position in the worlds of politics and literature, to which you have cut your way unaided.
“You are a great satirist, combining instruction with amusement, a sort of comic Carlyle.
“You hate shams so much that if man had been constructed for it I dare say you would kick at yourself.
“You have your enemies, but the very persons who blunt their weapons on you do you the honour of sharpening them on ‘Truth.’ In short, you have reached the summit of your fame, and you are too keen a man of the world not to know that fame is a touch-and-go thing.”
Andrew paused.
“Go on,” said Mr. Labouchere.
“Well, you have now got fame, honour, everything for which it is legitimate in man to strive.
“So far back as I can remember, you have had the world laughing with you. But you know what human nature is.
“There comes a morning to all wits, when their public wakes to find them bores. The fault may not be the wit’s, but what of that? The result is the same.
“Wits are like theatres: they may have a glorious youth and prime, but their old age is dismal. To the outsider, like myself, signs are not wanting — to continue the figure of speech — that you have put on your last successful piece.
“Can you say candidly that your last Christmas number was more than a reflection of its predecessors, or that your remarks this year on the Derby day took as they did the year before?
“Surely the most incisive of our satirists will not let himself degenerate into an illustration of Mr. Herbert Spencer’s theory that man repeats himself, like history.
“Mr. Labouchere, sir, to those of us who have grown up in your inspiration it would indeed be pitiful if this were so.”
Andrew’s host turned nervously in his chair.
Probably he wished that he had gone to church now.
“You need not be alarmed,” he said, with a forced smile.
“You will die,” cried Andrew, “before they send you to the House of Lords?”
“In which case the gain would be all to those left behind.”
“No,” said Andrew, who now felt that he had as good as gained the day; “there could not be a greater mistake.
“Suppose it happened tonight, or even put it off to the end of the week; see what would follow.
“The ground you have lost so far is infinitesimal. It would be forgotten in the general regret.
“Think of the newspaper placards next morning, some of them perhaps edged with black; the leaders in every London paper and in all the prominent provincial ones; the six columns obituary in the ‘Times’; the paragraphs in the ‘World’; the motion by Mr. Gladstone or Mr. Healy for the adjournment of the House; the magazine articles; the promised memoirs; the publication of posthumous papers; the resolution in the Northampton Town Council; the statue in Hyde Park! With such a recompense where would be the sacrifice?”
Mr. Labouchere rose and paced the room in great mental agitation.
“Now look at the other side of the picture,” said Andrew, rising and following him: “‘Truth’ reduced to threepence, and then to a penny; yourself confused with Tracy Turnerelli or Martin Tupper; your friends running when you looked like jesting; the House emptying, the reporters shutting their notebooks as you rose to speak; the great name of Labouchere become a synonym for bore!”
They presented a strange picture in that room, its owner’s face now a greyish white, his supplicant shaking with a passion that came out in perspiration.
With trembling hand Mr. Labouchere flung open the window. The room was stifling.
There was a smell of new-mown hay in the air, a gentle breeze tipped the well-trimmed hedge with life, and the walks crackled in the heat.
But a stone’s throw distant the sun was bathing in the dimpled Thames.
There was a cawing of rooks among the tall trees, and a church-bell tinkled in the ivy far away across the river.
Mr. Labouchere was far away too.
He was a round-cheeked boy again, smothering his kitten in his pinafore, prattling of Red Riding Hood by his schoolmistress’s knee, and guddling in the brook for minnows.
And now — and now!
It was a beautiful world, and, ah, life is sweet!
He pressed his fingers to his forehead.
“Leave me,” he said hoarsely.
Andrew put his hand upon the shoulder of the man he loved so well.
“Be brave,” he said; “do it in whatever way you prefer. A moment’s suffering, and all will be over.”
He spoke gently. There is always something infinitely pathetic in the sight of a strong man in pain.
Mr. Labouchere turned upon him.
“Go,” he cried, “or I will call the servants.”
“You forget,” said Andrew, “that I am your guest.”
But his host only pointed to the door.
Andrew felt a great sinking at his heart. They prate who say it is success that tries a man. He flung himself at Mr. Labouchere’s feet.
“Think of the public funeral,” he cried.
His host seized the bell-rope and pulled it violently.
“If you will do it,” said Andrew solemnly, “I promise to lay flowers on your grave every day till I die.”
“John,” said Mr. Labouchere, “show this gentleman out.”
Andrew rose.
“You refuse?” he asked.
“I do.”
“You won’t think it over? If I call again, say on Thursday—”
“John!” said Mr. Labouchere.
Andrew took up his hat. His host thought he had gone. But in the hall his reflection in a lookingglass reminded the visitor of something. He put his head in at the doorway again.
“Would you mind telling me,” he said, “whether you see anything peculiar about my neck?”
“It seems a good neck to twist,” Mr. Labouchere answered, a little savagely.
Andrew then withdrew.
CHAPTER VII
This unexpected rebuff from Mr. Labouchere rankled for many days in Andrew’s mind. Had he been proposing for the great statesman’s hand he could not have felt it more. Perhaps he did not make sufficient allowance for Mr. Labouchere; it is always so easy to advise.
But to rage at a man (or woman) is the proof that we can adore them; it is only his loved ones who infuriate a Scotchman.
There were moments when Andrew said to himself that he had nothing more to live for.
Then he would upbraid himself for having gone about it too hurriedly, and in bitter self-contempt strike his hand on the railings, as he rushed by.
Work is the sovereign remedy for this unhealthy state of mind, and fortunately Andrew had a great deal to do.
Gradually the wound healed, and he began to take an interest in Lord Randolph Churchill.
Every day the Flying Scotchman shoots its refuse of clever young men upon London who are too ambitious to do anything.
Andrew was not one of these.
Seeking to carry off one of the greatest pri
zes in his profession, he had aimed too high for a beginner.
When he realised this he apprenticed himself, so to speak, to the president, determined to acquire a practical knowledge of his art in all its branches. Though a very young man, he had still much to learn. It was only in his leisure moments that he gave way to dreams over a magnum opus.
But when he did set about it, which must be before his period of probation closed, he had made up his mind to be thorough.
The months thus passed quietly but not unprofitably in assisting the president, acquainting himself with the favourite resorts of interesting persons and composing his thesis.
At intervals the monotony was relieved by more strictly society work. On these occasions he played a part not dissimilar to that of a junior counsel.
The president found him invaluable in his raid on the gentlemen with umbrellas who read newspapers in the streets.
It was Andrew — though he never got the credit of it — who put his senior in possession of the necessary particulars about the comic writers whose subject is teetotalism and spinsters.
He was unwearying, indeed, in his efforts with regard to the comic journals generally, and the first man of any note that he disposed of was “Punch’s” favourite artist on Scotch matters. This was in an alley off Fleet Street.
Andrew took a new interest in the House of Lords, and had a magnificent scheme for ending it in half an hour.
As the members could never be got together in any number, this fell through.
Lord Brabourne will remember the young man in a straw hat, with his neck covered up, who attended the House so regularly when it was announced that he was to speak. That was Andrew.
It was he who excitedly asked the Black Rod to point out Lord Sherbrooke, when it was intimated that this peer was preparing a volume of poems for the press.
In a month’s time Andrew knew the likeliest places to meet these and other noble lords alone.
The publishing offices of “England,” the only Conservative newspaper, had a fascination for him.
He got to know Mr. Ashmead Bartlett’s hours of calling, until the sight of him on the pavement was accepted as a token that the proprietor was inside.
They generally reached the House of Commons about the same time.
Here Andrew’s interest was discriminated among quite a number of members. Mr. Bradlaugh, Mr. Sexton, and Mr. Marjoribanks, the respected member for Berwickshire, were perhaps his favourites; but the one he dwelt with most pride on was Lord Randolph Churchill.
One night he gloated so long over Sir George Trevelyan leaning over Westminster Bridge that in the end he missed him.
When Andrew made up his mind to have a man he got to like him. This was his danger.
With press tickets, which he got very cheap, he often looked in at the theatres to acquaint himself with the faces and figures of the constant frequenters.
He drew capital pencil sketches of the leading critics in his notebook.
The gentleman next him that night at “Manteaux Noirs” would not have laughed so heartily if he had known why Andrew listened for his address to the cabman.
The young Scotchman resented people’s merriment over nothing; sometimes he took the Underground Railway just to catch clerks at “TitBits.”
One afternoon he saw some way in front of him in Piccadilly a man with a young head on old shoulders.
Andrew recognized him by the swing of his stick; he could have identified his plaid among a hundred thousand morning coats. It was John Stuart Blackie, his favourite professor.
Since the young man graduated, his old preceptor had resigned his chair, and was now devoting his time to writing sonnets to himself in the Scotch newspapers.
Andrew could not bear to think of it, and quickened his pace to catch him up. But Blackie was in great form, humming “Scots wha hae.” With head thrown back, staff revolving and chest inflated, he sang himself into a martial ecstasy, and, drumming cheerily on the doors with his fist, strutted along like a band of bagpipers with a clan behind him, until he had played himself out of Andrew’s sight.
Far be it from our intention to maintain that Andrew was invariably successful. That is not given to any man.
Sometimes his hands slipped.
Had he learned the piano in his younger days this might not have happened. But if he had been a pianist the president would probably have wiped him out — and very rightly. There can be no doubt about male pianists.
Nor was the fault always Andrew’s. When the society was founded, many far-seeing men had got wind of it, and had themselves elected honorary members before the committee realised what they were after.
This was a sore subject with the president; he shunned discussing it, and thus Andrew had frequently to discontinue cases after he was well on with them.
In this way much time was lost.
Andrew was privately thanked by the committee for one suggestion, which, for all he knows, may yet be carried out. The president had a wide interest in the press, and on one occasion he remarked to Andrew:
“Think of the snobs and the prigs who would be saved if the ‘Saturday Review’ and the ‘Spectator’ could be induced to cease publication!”
Andrew thought it out, and then produced his scheme.
The battle of the clans on the North Inch of Perth had always seemed to him a master-stroke of diplomacy.
“Why,” he said to the president, “not set the ‘Saturday’s’ staff against the ‘Spectator’s.’ If about equally matched, they might exterminate each other.”
So his days of probation passed, and the time drew nigh for Andrew to show what stuff was in him.
CHAPTER VIII
Andrew had set apart July 31 for killing Lord Randolph Churchill.
As his term of probation was up in the second week of August, this would leave him nearly a fortnight to finish his thesis in.
On the 30th he bought a knife in Holborn suitable for his purpose. It had been his original intention to use an electric rifle, but those he was shown were too cumbrous for use in the streets.
The eminent statesman was residing at this time at the Grand Hotel, and Andrew thought to get him somewhere between Trafalgar Square and the House. Taking up his position in a window of Morley’s Hotel at an early hour, he set himself to watch the windows opposite. The plan of the Grand was well known to him, for he had frequently made use of it as overlooking the National Liberal Club, whose membership he had already slightly reduced.
Turning his eyes to the private sitting-rooms, he soon discovered Lord Randolph busily writing in one of them.
Andrew had lunch at Morley’s, so that he might be prepared for any emergency. Lord Randolph wrote on doggedly through the forenoon, and Andrew hoped he would finish what he was at in case this might be his last chance.
It rained all through the afternoon. The thick drizzle seemed to double the width of the street, and even to Andrew’s strained eyes the shadow in the room opposite was obscured.
His eyes wandered from the window to the hotel entrance, and as cab after cab rattled from it he became uneasy.
In ordinary circumstances he could have picked his man out anywhere, but in rain all men look alike. He could have dashed across the street and rushed from room to room of the Grand Hotel.
His self-restraint was rewarded.
Late in the afternoon Lord Randolph came to the window. The flashing waterproofs and scurrying umbrellas were a surprise to him, and he knitted his brows in annoyance.
By-and-by his face was convulsed with laughter.
He drew a chair to the window and stood on it, that he might have a better view of the pavement beneath.
For some twenty minutes he remained there smacking his thighs, his shoulders heaving with glee.
Andrew could not see what it was, but he formulated a theory.
Heavy blobs of rain that had gathered on the window-sill slowly released their hold from time to time and fell with a plump on the hats of pas
sers-by. Lord Randolph was watching them.
Just as they were letting go he shook the window to make the wayfarers look up. They got the rain-drops full in the face, and then he screamed.
About six o’clock Andrew paid his bill hurriedly and ran downstairs. Lord Randolph had come to the window in his greatcoat. His follower waited for him outside. It was possible that he would take a hansom and drive straight to the House, but Andrew had reasons for thinking this unlikely. The rain had somewhat abated. Lord Randolph came out, put up his umbrella, and, glancing at the sky for a moment, set off briskly up St. Martin’s Lane.
Andrew knew that he would not linger here, for they had done St. Martin’s Lane already.
Lord Randolph’s movements these last days had excited the Scotchman’s curiosity. He had been doing the London streets systematically during his unoccupied afternoons. But it was difficult to discover what he was after.
It was the tobacconists’ shops that attracted him.
He did not enter, only stood at the windows counting something.
He jotted down the result on a piece of paper and then sped on to the next shop.
In this way, with Andrew at his heels, he had done the whole of the W. C. district, St. James’s, Oxford Street, Piccadilly, Bond Street, and the Burlington Arcade.
On this occasion he took the small thoroughfares lying between upper Regent Street and Tottenham Court Road. Beginning in Great Titchfield Street he went from tobacconist’s to tobacconist’s, sometimes smiling to himself, at other times frowning. Andrew scrutinised the windows as he left them, but could make nothing of it.
Not for the first time he felt that there could be no murder tonight unless he saw the paper first.
Lord Randolph devoted an hour to this work. Then he hailed a cab.
Andrew expected this. But the statesman still held the paper loosely in his hand.
It was a temptation.
Andrew bounded forward as if to open the cab door, pounced upon the paper and disappeared with it up an alley. After five minutes’ dread lest he might be pursued, he struck a match and read: