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 prizes 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 note-book.
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 "Tit-Bits."
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.
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 passers-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 to-night 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:
"Great Titchfield Street—Branscombe 15, Churchill 11, Langtry 8, Gladstone 4. Mortimer Street—Langtry 11, Branscombe 9, Gladstone 6, Mary Anderson 6, Churchill 3.
" "Margaret Street—Churchill 7, Anderson 6, Branscombe 5, Gladstone 4, Chamberlain 4. Smaller streets—Churchill 14, Branscombe 13, Gladstone 9, Langtry 9. Totals for to-day: Churchill 35, Langtry 28, Gladstone 23, Branscombe 42, Anderson 12, Chamberlain nowhere."" Then followed, as if in a burst of passion, ""Branscombe still leading—confound her.""
"Andrew saw that Lord Randolph had been calculating fame from vesta boxes.
For a moment this discovery sent Andrew's mind wandering. Miss Branscombe's photographs obstructed the traffic. Should not this be put a stop to? Ah, but she was a woman!
This recalled him to himself. Lord Randolph had departed, probably for St. Stephen's.
Andrew jumped into a hansom. He felt like an exotic in a glass frame.
The House, he said.
What a pity his mother could not have seen him then!
Perhaps Andrew was prejudiced. Undoubtedly he was in a mood to be easily pleased.
In his opinion at any rate. Lord Randolph's speech that night on the Irish question was the best he ever delivered.
It came on late in the evening, and he stuck to his text like a clergyman. He quoted from Hansard to prove that Mr. Gladstone did not know what he was talking about; he blazed out against the Parnellites till they were called to order. The ironical members who cried "Hear, hear," regretted it.
He had never been wittier, never more convincing, never so magnificently vituperative.
Andrew was lifted out of himself. He jumped in ecstasy to his feet. It was he who led the applause.
He felt that this was a worthy close to a brilliant career.
We oldsters looking on more coolly could have seen where the speech was lacking, so far as Andrew was concerned. It is well known that when a great man, of whom there will be biographers, is to die a violent death, his last utterances are strangely significant, as if he foresaw his end.
There was nothing of this in Lord Randolph's speech.
The House was thinning when the noble lord rose to go. Andrew joined him at the gate.
The Scotchman's nervous elation had all gone. A momentary thrill passed through his veins as he remembered that in all probability they would never be together again. After that he was quite calm.
The night was black.
The rain had ceased, but for an occasional drop shaken out of a shivering star.
But for a few cabs rolling off with politicians, Whitehall was deserted.
The very tax-collectors seemed to have got to bed.
Lord Randolph shook hands with two or three other members homeward bound, walked a short distance with one of them, and then set off towards his hotel alone.
His pace was leisurely, as that of a man in profound thought.
There was no time to be lost; but Andrew dallied.
Once he crept up and could have done it. He thought he would give him another minute. There was a footstep behind, and he fell back. It was Sir William Harcourt. Lord Randolph heard him, and, seeing who it was, increased his pace.
The illustrious Liberal slackened at the same moment.
Andrew bit his lip and hurried on.
Some time was lost in getting round Sir William.
He was advancing in strides now.
Lord Randolph saw that he was pursued.
When Andrew began to run, he ran too.
There were not ten yards between them at Whitehall Place.
A large man turning the corner of Great Scotland Yard fell against Andrew. He was wheeled aside, but Mr. Chaplin had saved a colleague's life.
With a cry Andrew bounded on, his knife glistening.
Trafalgar Square was a black mass.
Lord Randolph took Northumberland Avenue in four steps, Andrew almost on the top of him.
As he burst through the door of the Grand Hotel, his pursuer made one tremendous leap, and his knife catching Lord Randolph in the heel, carried away his shoe.
Andrew's face had struck the steps.
He heard the word "Fenian."
There was a rushing to and fro of lights.
Springing to his feet, he thrust the shoe into his pocket and went home.
"Tie this muffler round your neck."
It was the president who spoke. Andrew held his thesis in his hand.
But the rooms are so close, he said.
That has nothing to do with it, said the president. The blood rushed to his head, and then left him pale.
But why? asked Andrew.
For God's sake, do as I bid you, said his companion, pulling himself by a great effort to the other side of the room.
You have done it? he asked, carefully avoiding Andrew's face.
Yes, but—
Then we can go in to the others. Remember what I told you about omitting the first seven pages. The society won't stand introductory remarks in a thesis.
The committee were assembled in the next room.
When the young Scotchman entered with the president, they looked him full in the neck.
He is suffering from cold, the president said.
No one replied, but angry eyes were turned on the speaker. He somewhat nervously placed his young friend in a bad light, with a table between him and his hearers.
Then Andrew began.
The Society for Doing Without, he read, "has been tried and found wanting. It has now been in existence for some years, and its members have worked zealously, though unostentatiously.
I am far from saying a word against them. They are patriots as true as ever petitioned against the Channel Tunnel.
No compliments, whispered the president, warningly. Andrew hastily turned a page, and continued:
"But what have they done? Removed an individual here and there. That is the extent of it. You have been pursuing a half-hearted policy. You might go on for centuries at this rate before you made any perceptible difference in the streets.
" "Have you ever seen a farmer thinning turnips? Gentlemen, there is an example for you. My proposal is that everybody should have to die on reaching the age of forty-five years. It has been the wish of this society to avoid the prejudices engendered of party strife. But though you are a social rather than a political organisation, you cannot escape politics. You do not call yourselves Radicals, but you work for Radicalism. What is Radicalism? It is a desire to get a chance. This is an aspiration inherent in the human breast. It is felt most keenly by the poor.
" "Make the poor rich, and the hovels, the misery, the immorality, and the crime of the East End disappear. It is infamous, say the Socialists, that this is not done at once. Yes, but how is it to be done? Not, as they hold, by making the classes and the masses change places. Not on the lines on which the society has hitherto worked. There is only one way, and I make it my text to-night. Fortunately, it presents no considerable difficulties. It is well known in medicine that the simplest—in other words, the most natural—remedies may be the most efficacious.
" "So it is in the social life. What shall we do, Society asks, with our boys? I reply. Kill off the parents. There can be little doubt that forty-five years is long enough for a man to live. Parents must see that. Youth is the time to have your fling.
" "Let us see how this plan would revolutionise the world. It would make statesmen hurry up. At present, they are nearly fifty before you hear of them. How can we expect the country to be properly governed by men in their dotage? Again, take the world of letters. Why does the literary aspirant have such a struggle? Simply because the profession is over-stocked with seniors. I would like to know what Tennyson's age is, and Ruskin's, and Browning's. Every one of them is over seventy, and all writing away yet as lively as you like. It is a crying scandal.
" "Things are the same in medicine, art, divinity, law—in short, in every profession and in every trade. Young ladies cry out that this is not a marrying age. How can it be a marrying age, with grey-headed parents everywhere? Give young men their chance, and they will marry younger than ever, if only to see their children grown up before they die.
" "A word in conclusion. Looking around me, I cannot but see that most, if not all, of my hearers have passed what should plainly be the allotted span of life to man. You would have to go. But, gentlemen, you would do so feeling that you were setting a noble example. Younger, and—may I say?—more energetic men would fill your places and carry on your work. You would hardly be missed.""
"Andrew rolled up his thesis blandly, and strode into the next room to await the committee's decision. It cannot be said that he felt the slightest uneasiness.
The president followed, shutting the door behind him.
You have just two minutes, he said.
Andrew could not understand it.
His hat was crushed on to his head, his coat flung at him; he was pushed out at a window, squeezed through a grating and tumbled into a passage.
What is the matter? he asked, as the president dragged him down a back street.
The president pointed to the window they had just left.
Half a dozen infuriated men were climbing from it in pursuit. Their faces, drunk with rage, awoke Andrew to a sense of his danger.
They were drawing lots for you when I left the room, said the president.
But what have I done? gasped Andrew.
They didn't like your thesis. At least, they make that their excuse.
Excuse?
Yes; it was really your neck that did it.
By this time they were in a cab, rattling into Gray's Inn Road.
They are a poor lot, said Andrew fiercely, "if they couldn't keep their heads over my neck."
They are only human, retorted the president. "For Heaven's sake, pull up the collar of your coat."
His fingers were itching, but Andrew did not notice it.
Where are we going? he asked.
To King's Cross. The midnight express leaves in twenty minutes. It is your last chance.
Andrew was in a daze. When the president had taken his ticket for Glasgow he was still groping.
The railway officials probably thought him on his honeymoon.
They sauntered along the platform beyond the lights.
Andrew, who was very hot, unloosened his greatcoat.
In a moment a great change came over his companion. All the humanity went from his face, his whole figure shook, and it was only by a tremendous effort that he chained his hands to his side.
Your neck, he cried; "cover it up."
Andrew did not understand. He looked about him for the committee.
There are none of them here, he said feebly.
The president had tried to warn him.
Now he gave way.
The devil that was in him leapt at Andrew's throat.
The young Scotchman was knocked into a goods waggon, with the president twisted round him.
At that moment there was heard the whistle of the Scotch express.
Your blood be on your own head, cried the president, yielding completely to temptation.
His fingers met round the young man's neck.
My God! he murmured, in a delirious ecstasy, "what a neck, what a neck!"
Just then his foot slipped.
He fell. Andrew jumped up and kicked him as hard as he could three times.
Then he leapt to the platform, and, flinging himself into the moving train, fell exhausted on the seat.
Andrew never thought so much of the president again. You cannot respect a man and kick him.
The first thing Andrew did on reaching Wheens was to write to his London landlady to send on his box with clothes by goods train; also his tobacco pouch, which he had left on the mantelpiece, and two pencils which she would find in the tea-caddy.
Then he went around to the manse.
The minister had great news for him.
The master of the Wheens Grammar School had died. Andrew had only to send in his testimonials, and the post was his.
The salary was 200 pounds per annum, with an assistant and the privilege of calling himself rector.
This settled, Andrew asked for Clarrie. He was humbler now than he had been, and in our disappointments we turn to woman for solace.
Clarrie had been working socks for him, and would have had them finished by this time had she known how to turn the heel.
It is his sweetheart a man should be particular about. Once he settles down it does not much matter whom he marries.
All this and much more the good old minister pointed out to Andrew. Then he left Clarrie and her lover together.
The winsome girl held one of the socks on her knee—who will chide her?—and a tear glistened in her eye.
Andrew was a good deal affected.
Clarrie, he said softly, "will you be my wife?"
She clung to him in reply. He kissed her fondly.
Clarrie, beloved, he said nervously, after a long pause, "how much are seven and thirteen?"
Twenty-three, said Clarrie, putting up her mouth to his.
Andrew laughed a sad vacant laugh.
He felt that he would never understand a woman. But his fingers wandered through her tobacco-coloured hair.
He had a strange notion.
Put your arms round my neck, he whispered.
Thus the old, old story was told once more.
A month afterwards the president of the Society for Doing Without received by post a box of bride-cake, adorned with the silver gilt which is also largely used for coffins.
More than two years have passed since Andrew's marriage, and already the minister has two sweet grandchildren, in whom he renews his youth.
Except during school-hours their parents' married life is one long honeymoon.
Clarrie has put Lord Randolph Churchill's shoe into a glass case on the piano, and, as is only natural, Andrew is now a staunch Conservative.
Domesticated and repentant, he has renounced the devil and all her works.
Sometimes, when thinking of the past, the babble of his lovely babies jars upon him, and, still half-dreaming, he brings their heads close together.
At such a time all the anxious mother has to say is:
Andrew!
Then with a start he lays them gently in a heap on the floor, and, striding the room, soon regains his composure.
For Andrew has told Clarrie all the indiscretions of his life in London, and she has forgiven everything.
Ah, what will not a wife forgive!