VOX POPULI VOX DEI
“I AM SURE,” Mr. Leveson, the Secretary, had said, with a somewhat
constrained smile, “that after the eloquent and epoch-making speech to
which we have listened there will be some questions asked, and we hope
to have a debate afterwards. I am sure somebody will ask a question.”
Then he looked interrogatively at one weary looking gentleman in the
fourth row and said, “Mr. Hinch?”
Mr. Hinch shook his head with a pallid passion of refusal, wonderful to
watch, and said, “I couldn’t! I really couldn’t!”
“We should be very pleased,” said Mr. Leveson, “if any lady would ask a
question.”
In the silence that followed it was somehow psychologically borne in on
the whole audience that one particular great large lady (as the lecturer
would say) sitting at the end of the second row was expected to ask a
question. Her own wax-work immobility was witness both to the
expectation and its disappointment. “Are there any other questions?”
asked Mr. Leveson—as if there had been any yet. He seemed to speak with
a slight air of relief.
There was a sort of stir at the back of the hall and half way down one
side of it. Choked whispers could be heard of “Now then, Garge!”—“Go it
Garge! Is there any questions! Gor!”
Mr. Leveson looked up with an alertness somewhat akin to alarm. He
realised for the first time that a few quite common men in coarse,
unclean clothes, had somehow strolled in through the open door. They
were not true rustics, but the semi-rustic labourers that linger about
the limits of the large watering-places. There was no “Mr.” among them.
There was a general tendency to call everybody George.
Mr. Leveson saw the situation and yielded to it. He modelled himself on
Lord Ivywood and did much what he would have done in all cases, but with
a timidity Lord Ivywood would not have shown. And the same social
training that made him ashamed to be with such men, made him ashamed to
own his shame. The same modern spirit that taught him to loathe such
rags, also taught him to lie about his loathing.
“I am sure we should be very glad,” he said, nervously, “if any friends
from outside care to join in our inquiry. Of course, we’re all
Democrats,” and he looked round at the grand ladies with a ghastly
smile, “and believe in the Voice of the People and so on. If our friend
at the back of the hall will put his question briefly, we need not
insist, I think, on his putting it in writing?”
There were renewed hoarse encouragements to George (that rightly
christened champion) and he wavered forward on legs tied in the middle
with string. He did not appear to have had any seat since his arrival,
and made his remarks standing half way down what we may call the central
aisle.
“Well, I want to ask the proprietor,” he began.
“Questions,” said Mr. Leveson, swiftly seizing a chance for that
construction of debate which is the main business of a modern chairman,
“must be asked of the chair, if they are points of order. If they
concern the address, they should be asked of the lecturer.”
“Well, I ask the lecturer,” said the patient Garge, “whether it ain’t
right that when you ’ave the thing outside you should ’ave the thing
inside.” (Hoarse applause at the back.)
Mr. Leveson was evidently puzzled and already suspicious that something
was quite wrong. But the enthusiasm of the Prophet of the Moon sprang up
instantly at any sort of question and swept the Chairman along with it.
“But it iss the essence of our who-ole message,” he cried, spreading out
his arms to embrace the world, “that the outer manifestation should be
one with the inner manifestation. My friendss, it iss this very tru-uth
our friend has stated, that iss responsible for our apparent lack of
symbolism in Islam! We appear to neglect the symbol because we insist on
the satisfactory symbol. My friend in the middle will walk round all our
mosques and say loudly, ‘Where is the statue of Allah?’ But can my
friend in the middle really execute a complete and generally approved
statue of Allah?”
Misysra Ammon sat down greatly satisfied with his answer, but it was
doubted by many whether he had conveyed the satisfaction to his friend
in the middle. That seeker after truth wiped his mouth with the back of
his hand with an unsatisfied air and said:
“No offence, sir. But ain’t it the Law, sir, that if you ’ave that
outside we’re all right? I came in ’ere as natural as could be. But
Gorlumme, I never see a place like this afore.” (Hoarse laughter
behind.)
“No apology is needed, my friend,” cried the Eastern sage, eagerly, “I
can conceive you are not perhaps du-uly conversant with such schools of
truth. But the Law is All. The Law is Allah. The inmost u-unity of—”
“Well, ain’t it the Law?” repeated the dogged George, and every time he
mentioned the Law the poor men who are its chief victims applauded
loudly. “I’m not one to make a fuss. I never was one to make a fuss. I’m
a law-abidin’ man, I am. (More applause.) Ain’t it the Law that if so be
such is your sign and such is your profession, you ought to serve us?”
“I fear I not quite follow,” cried the eager Turk. “I ought?”
“To serve us,” shouted a throng of thick voices from the back of the
hall, which was already much more crowded than before.
“Serve you!” cried Misysra, leaping up like a spring released, “The Holy
Prophet came from Heaven to serve you! The virtue and valour of a
thousand years, my friends, has had no hunger but to serve you! We are
of all faiths, the most the faith of service. Our highest prophet is no
more than the servant of God, as I am, as you all are. Even for our
symbol we choose a satellite, and honour the Moon because it only serves
the Earth, and does not pretend to be the Sun.”
“I’m sure,” cried Mr. Leveson, jumping up with a tactful grin, “that the
lecturer has answered this last point in a most eloquent and effective
way, and the motor cars are waiting for some of the ladies who have come
from some distance, and I really think the proceedings—”
All the artistic ladies were already getting on their wraps, with faces
varying from bewilderment to blank terror. Only Lady Joan lingered,
trembling with unexplained excitement. The hitherto speechless Hinch had
slid up to the Chairman’s seat and whispered to him:
“You must get all the ladies away. I can’t imagine what’s up, but
something’s up.”
“Well?” repeated the patient George. “So be it’s the Law, where is it?”
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” said Mr. Leveson, in his most ingratiating
manner, “I think we have had a most delightful evening, and—”
“No, we ain’t,” cried a new and nastier voice from a corner of the room.
“Where is it?”
“That’s what we got a right to know,” said the law-abiding George.
“Where is it?”
“Where is what?” cried the nearly demented secretary in the chair. “What
do you want?”
The law-abiding Mr. George made a half turn and a gesture towards the
man in the corner and said:
“What’s yours, Jim?”
“I’ll ’ave a drop of Scotch,” said the man in the corner.
Lady Enid Wimpole, who had lingered a little in loyalty to Joan, the
only other lady still left, caught both her wrists and cried in a
thrilling whisper,
“Oh, we must go to the car, dear! They’re using the most awful
language!”
* * * * *
Away on the wettest edge of the sands by the sea the prints of two
wheels and four hoofs were being slowly washed away by a slowly rising
tide; which was, indeed, the only motive of the man Humphrey Pump,
leading the donkey cart, in leading it almost ankle deep in water.
“I hope you’re sober again now,” he said with some seriousness to his
companion, a huge man walking heavily and even humbly with a straight
sword swinging to and fro at his hip—“for honestly it was a mug’s game
to go and stick up the old sign before that tin place. I haven’t often
spoken to you like this, Captain, but I don’t believe any other man in
the county could get you out of the hole as I can. But to go down there
and frighten the ladies—why there’s been nothing so silly here since
Bishop’s Folly. You could hear the ladies screaming before we left.”
“I heard worse than that long before we left,” said the large man,
without lifting his head. “I heard one of them laugh.... Christ, do you
think I shouldn’t hear her laugh?”
There was a silence. “I didn’t mean to speak sharp,” said Humphrey Pump
with that incorruptible kindliness which was the root of his Englishry,
and may yet save the soul of the English. “But it’s the truth I was
pretty well bothered about how to get out of this business. You’re
braver than I am, you see, and I own I was frightened about both of us.
If I hadn’t known my way to the lost tunnel, I should be fairly
frightened still.”
“Known your way to what?” asked the Captain, lifting his red head for
the first time.
“Oh, you know all about No More Ivywood’s lost tunnel,” said Pump,
carelessly. “Why, we all used to look for it when we were boys. Only I
happened to find it.”
“Have mercy on an exile,” said Dalroy, humbly. “I don’t know which hurt
him most, the things he forgets or the things he remembers.”
Mr. Pump was silent for a little while and then said, more seriously
than usual, “Well, the people from London say you must put up placards
and statues and subscriptions and epitaphs and the Lord knows what, to
the people who’ve found some new trick and made it come off. But only a
man that knows his own land for forty miles round, knows what a lot of
people, and clever people too, there were who found new tricks, and had
to hide them because they didn’t come off. There was Dr. Boone, up by
Gill-in-Hugby, who held out against Dr. Collison and the vaccination.
His treatment saved sixty patients who had got small-pox; and Dr.
Collison’s killed ninety-two patients who hadn’t got anything. But Boone
had to keep it dark; naturally, because all his lady patients grew
mustaches. It was a result of the treatment. But it wasn’t a result he
wishes to dwell on. Then there was old Dean Arthur, who discovered
balloons if ever a man did. He discovered them long before they were
discovered. But people were suspicious about such things just then—there
was a revival of the witch business in spite of all the parsons—and he
had to sign a paper saying where he’d got the notion. Well, it stands to
reason, you wouldn’t like to sign a paper saying you’d got it from the
village idiot when you were both blowing soap-bubbles; and that’s all he
could have signed, for he was an honest gentleman, the poor old Dean.
Then there was Jack Arlingham and the diving bell—but you remember all
about that. Well, it was just the same with the man that made this
tunnel—one of the mad Ivywoods. There’s many a man, Captain, that has a
statue in the great London squares for helping to make the
railway-trains. There’s many a man has his name in Westminster Abbey for
doing something in discovering steamboats. Poor old Ivywood discovered
both at once; and had to be put under control. He had a notion that a
railway train might be made to rush right into the sea and turn into a
steamboat; and it seemed all right, according as he worked it out. But
his family were so ashamed of the thing, that they didn’t like the
tunnel even mentioned. I don’t think anybody knows where it is but me
and Bunchy Robinson. We shall be there in a minute or two. They’ve
thrown the rocks about at this end; and let the thick plantation grow at
the other, but I’ve got a race horse through before now, to save it from
Colonel Chepstow’s little games, and I think I can manage this donkey.
Honestly, I think it’s the only place we’ll be safe in after what we’ve
left behind us at Pebblewick. But it’s the best place in the world,
there’s no doubt, for lying low and starting afresh. Here we are. You
think you can’t get behind that rock, but you can. In fact, you have.”
Dalroy found himself, with some bewilderment, round the corner of a rock
and in a long bore or barrel of blackness that ended in a very dim spot
of green. Hearing the hoofs of the ass and the feet of his friend behind
him, he turned his head, but could see nothing but the pitch darkness of
a closed coal cellar. He turned again to the dim green speck, and
marching forward was glad to see it grow larger and brighter, like a big
emerald, till he came out on a throng of trees, mostly thin, but growing
so thickly and so close to the cavernous entrance of the tunnel that it
was quite clear the place was meant to be choked up by forests and
forgotten. The light that came glimmering through the trees was so
broken and tremulous that it was hard to tell whether it was daybreak or
moonrise.
“I know there’s water here,” said Pump. “They couldn’t keep it out of
the stone-work when they made the tunnel, and old Ivywood hit the
hydraulic engineer with a spirit level. With the bit of covert here and
the sea behind us we ought to be able to get food of one kind or
another, when the cheese has given out, and donkeys can eat anything. By
the way,” he added with some embarrassment, “you don’t mind my saying
it, Captain, but I think we’d better keep that rum for rare occasions.
It’s the best rum in England, and may be the last, if these mad games
are going on. It’ll do us good to feel it’s there, so we can have it
when we want it. The cask’s still nearly full.”
Dalroy put out his hand and shook the other’s. “Hump,” he said,
seriously, “you’re right. It’s a sacred trust for Humanity; and we’ll
only drink it ourselves to celebrate great victories. In token of which
I will take a glass now, to celebrate our glorious victory over Leveson
and his tin tabernacle.”
He drained one glass and then sat down on the cask, as if to put
temptation behind him. His blue ruminant bull’s eye seemed to plunge
deeper and deeper into the emerald twilight of the trees in front of
him, and it was long before he spoke again.
At last he observed, “I think you said, Hump, that a friend of yours—a
gentleman named Bunchy Robinson, I think—was also a _habitué_ here.”
“Yes, he knew the way,” answered Pump, leading the donkey to the most
suitable patch of pasturage.
“May we, do you think, have the pleasure of a visit from Mr. Robinson?”
inquired the Captain.
“Not unless they’re jolly careless up in Blackstone Gaol,” replied Pump.
And he moved the cheese well into the arch of the tunnel. Dalroy still
sat with his square chin on his hand, staring at the mystery of the
little wood.
“You seem absent-minded, Captain,” remarked Humphrey.
“The deepest thoughts are all commonplaces,” said Dalroy. “That is why I
believe in Democracy, which is more than you do, you foul blood-stained
old British Tory. And the deepest commonplace of all is that Vanitas
Vanitatem, which is not pessimism but is really the opposite of
pessimism. It is man’s futility that makes us feel he must be a god. And
I think of this tunnel, and how the poor old lunatic walked about on
this grass, watching it being built, the soul in him on fire with the
future. And he saw the whole world changed and the seas thronged with
his new shipping; and now,” and Dalroy’s voice changed and broke, “now
there is good pasture for the donkey and it is very quiet here.”
“Yes,” said Pump, in some way that conveyed his knowledge that the
Captain was thinking of other things also. The Captain went on dreamily:
“And I think about another Lord Ivywood recorded in history who also had
a great vision. For it is a great vision after all, and though the man
is a prig, he is brave. He also wants to drive a tunnel—between East and
West—to make the Indian Empire more British; to effect what he calls the
orientation of England, and I call the ruin of Christendom. And I am
wondering just now whether the clear intellect and courageous will of a
madman will be strong enough to burst and drive that tunnel, as
everything seems to show at this moment that it will. Or whether there
be indeed enough life and growth in your England to leave it at last as
this is left, buried in English forests and wasted by an English sea.”
The silence fell between them again, and again there was only the slight
sound the animal made in eating. As Dalroy had said, it was very quiet
there.
But it was not quiet in Pebblewick that night; when the Riot Act was
read, and all the people who had seen the sign-board outside fought all
the people who hadn’t seen the sign-board outside; or when babies and
scientists next morning, seeking for shells and other common objects of
the sea-shore, found that their study included fragments of the outer
clothing of Leveson and scraps of corrugated iron.
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