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 the
act which I contemplate is symbolical, and must in no sense be taken
as implying either weariness of life or that surrender to misfortune
which is unbecoming to an English public gentleman.” (Over this
description of himself Mr. Lavender was obliged to pause some time
hovering between the two designations, and finally combining them as
the only way out of his difficulty.) “Long and painful experience
has convinced me that only by retiring from the former can I retain
the latter character, and only by retiring from both can I point the
moral ever demanded by my countrymen. Conscious, indeed, that a
mere act of private resignation would have no significance to the
body politic, nor any deflecting influence on the national life, I
have chosen rather to disappear in blue flame, so that every
Englishman may take to heart my lesson, and learn from my strange
fate how to be himself uninfluenced by the verbiage of others. At
the same time, with the utmost generosity, I wish to acknowledge in
full my debt towards all those great writers and speakers on the war
who have exercised so intoxicating an influence on my mind.” (Here
followed an alphabetical list of names beginning with B and ending
with S.)
“I wish to be dissociated firmly from the views of my chauffeur Joe
Petty, and to go to my last account with an emphatic assertion that
my failure to become a perfect public gentleman is due to private
idiosyncrasies rather than to any conviction that it is impossible,
or to anything but admiration of the great men I have mentioned. If
anybody should wish to paint me after I am dead, I desire that I may
be represented with my face turned towards the Dawn; for it is at
that moment so symptomatic of a deep adoration—which I would scorn
to make the common property of gossiping tongues—that I intend to
depart. If there should be anything left of me—which is less than
probable considering the inflammatory character of the material I
design for my pyre—I would be obliged if, without giving anybody
any trouble, it could be buried in my garden, with the usual
Hampstead tablet.
“'JOHN LAVENDER,
THE PUBLIC MAN, WHO DIED FOR HIS
COUNTRY'S GOOD, LIVED HERE.'
“In conclusion, I would say a word to that land I have loved and
served: 'Be not extreme! Distrust the words, of others. To
yourself be true! As you are strong be gentle, as you are brave be
modest! 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,
“Aurora, my heart I bring,
For I know well it will not burn,
Oh! when the leaves puff out in Spring
And when the leaves in Autumn turn
Think, think of me!
Aurora, I pass away!
Upon my horse of air I ride;
Here let my grizzled ashes stay,
But take, ah! take my heart inside!
Aurora! Aurora!”
At this moment, just as a fit of the most uncontrollable laughter was
about to seize her, she saw a flame which had just consumed the word
Horatio reach Mr. Lavender's right calf.
“Oh!” he cried out in desperate tones, stretching up his arms to the
sky. “Now is my hour come! Sweet-sky, open and let me see her face!
Behold! behold her with the eyes of faith. It is enough. Courage,
brother; let me now consume in silence!” So saying, he folded his arm
tightly across his breast and closed his lips. The flame rising to the
bottom of the weekly which had indeed been upside down, here nipped him
vigorously, so that with a wholly unconscious movement he threw up his
little legs, and, losing his balance, fell backwards into the arms of
Aurora, watchfully outstretched to receive him. Uplifted there, close to
that soft blue bosom away from the reek of the flame, he conceived that
he was consumed and had passed already from his night of ghosts and
shadows into the arms of the morning, and through his swooning lips came
forth the words:
“I am in Paradise.”