"All those, sir?" said the grocer, with greatly increased interest.
"Yes, yes; all those," replied Wayne, still a little bewildered, like a man splashed with cold water.
"Very good, sir; thank you, sir," said the grocer with animation. "You may count upon my patriotism, sir."
"I count upon it already," said Wayne, and pa.s.sed out into the gathering night.
The grocer put the box of dates back in its place.
"What a nice fellow he is!" he said. "It"s odd how often they are nice. Much nicer than those as are all right."
Meanwhile Adam Wayne stood outside the glowing chemist"s shop, unmistakably wavering.
"What a weakness it is!" he muttered. "I have never got rid of it from childhood--the fear of this magic shop. The grocer is rich, he is romantic, he is poetical in the truest sense, but he is not--no, he is not supernatural. But the chemist! All the other shops stand in Notting Hill, but this stands in Elf-land. Look at those great burning bowls of colour. It must be from them that G.o.d paints the sunsets. It is superhuman, and the superhuman is all the more uncanny when it is beneficent. That is the root of the fear of G.o.d. I am afraid. But I must be a man and enter."
He was a man, and entered. A short, dark young man was behind the counter with spectacles, and greeted him with a bright but entirely business-like smile.
"A fine evening, sir," he said.
"Fine indeed, strange Father," said Adam, stretching his hands somewhat forward. "It is on such clear and mellow nights that your shop is most itself. Then they appear most perfect, those moons of green and gold and crimson, which from afar oft guide the pilgrim of pain and sickness to this house of merciful witchcraft."
"Can I get you anything?" asked the chemist.
"Let me see," said Wayne, in a friendly but vague manner. "Let me have some sal volatile."
"Eightpence, tenpence, or one and sixpence a bottle?" said the young man, genially.
"One and six--one and six," replied Wayne, with a wild submissiveness.
"I come to ask you, Mr. Bowles, a terrible question."
He paused and collected himself.
"It is necessary," he muttered--"it is necessary to be tactful, and to suit the appeal to each profession in turn."
"I come," he resumed aloud, "to ask you a question which goes to the roots of your miraculous toils. Mr. Bowles, shall all this witchery cease?" And he waved his stick around the shop.
Meeting with no answer, he continued with animation--
"In Notting Hill we have felt to its core the elfish mystery of your profession. And now Notting Hill itself is threatened."
"Anything more, sir?" asked the chemist.
"Oh," said Wayne, somewhat disturbed--"oh, what is it chemists sell?
Quinine, I think. Thank you. Shall it be destroyed? I have met these men of Bayswater and North Kensington--Mr. Bowles, they are materialists. They see no witchery in your work, even when it is wrought within their own borders. They think the chemist is commonplace. They think him human."
The chemist appeared to pause, only a moment, to take in the insult, and immediately said--
"And the next article, please?"
"Alum," said the Provost, wildly. "I resume. It is in this sacred town alone that your priesthood is reverenced. Therefore, when you fight for us you fight not only for yourself, but for everything you typify. You fight not only for Notting Hill, but for Fairyland, for as surely as Buck and Barker and such men hold sway, the sense of Fairyland in some strange manner diminishes."
"Anything more, sir?" asked Mr. Bowles, with unbroken cheerfulness.
"Oh yes, jujubes--Gregory powder--magnesia. The danger is imminent. In all this matter I have felt that I fought not merely for my own city (though to that I owe all my blood), but for all places in which these great ideas could prevail. I am fighting not merely for Notting Hill, but for Bayswater itself; for North Kensington itself. For if the gold-hunters prevail, these also will lose all their ancient sentiments and all the mystery of their national soul. I know I can count upon you."
"Oh yes, sir," said the chemist, with great animation; "we are always glad to oblige a good customer."
Adam Wayne went out of the shop with a deep sense of fulfilment of soul.
"It is so fortunate," he said, "to have tact, to be able to play upon the peculiar talents and specialities, the cosmopolitanism of the grocer and the world-old necromancy of the chemist. Where should I be without tact?"
CHAPTER II--_The Remarkable Mr. Turnbull_
After two more interviews with shopmen, however, the patriot"s confidence in his own psychological diplomacy began vaguely to wane.
Despite the care with which he considered the peculiar rationale and the peculiar glory of each separate shop, there seemed to be something unresponsive about the shopmen. Whether it was a dark resentment against the uninitiate for peeping into their masonic magnificence, he could not quite conjecture.
His conversation with the man who kept the shop of curiosities had begun encouragingly. The man who kept the shop of curiosities had, indeed, enchanted him with a phrase. He was standing drearily at the door of his shop, a wrinkled man with a grey pointed beard, evidently a gentleman who had come down in the world.
"And how does your commerce go, you strange guardian of the past?"
said Wayne, affably.
"Well, sir, not very well," replied the man, with that patient voice of his cla.s.s which is one of the most heart-breaking things in the world. "Things are terribly quiet."
Wayne"s eyes shone suddenly.
"A great saying," he said, "worthy of a man whose merchandise is human history. Terribly quiet; that is in two words the spirit of this age, as I have felt it from my cradle. I sometimes wondered how many other people felt the oppression of this union between quietude and terror.
I see blank well-ordered streets and men in black moving about inoffensively, sullenly. It goes on day after day, day after day, and nothing happens; but to me it is like a dream from which I might wake screaming. To me the straightness of our life is the straightness of a thin cord stretched tight. Its stillness is terrible. It might snap with a noise like thunder. And you who sit, amid the _debris_ of the great wars, you who sit, as it were, upon a battlefield, you know that war was less terrible than this evil peace; you know that the idle lads who carried those swords under Francis or Elizabeth, the rude Squire or Baron who swung that mace about in Picardy or Northumberland battles, may have been terribly noisy, but were not like us, terribly quiet."
Whether it was a faint embarra.s.sment of conscience as to the original source and date of the weapons referred to, or merely an engrained depression, the guardian of the past looked, if anything, a little more worried.
"But I do not think," continued Wayne, "that this horrible silence of modernity will last, though I think for the present it will increase.
What a farce is this modern liberality! Freedom of speech means practically, in our modern civilisation, that we must only talk about unimportant things. We must not talk about religion, for that is illiberal; we must not talk about bread and cheese, for that is talking shop; we must not talk about death, for that is depressing; we must not talk about birth, for that is indelicate. It cannot last.
Something must break this strange indifference, this strange dreamy egoism, this strange loneliness of millions in a crowd. Something must break it. Why should it not be you and I? Can you do nothing else but guard relics?"
The shopman wore a gradually clearing expression, which would have led those unsympathetic with the cause of the Red Lion to think that the last sentence was the only one to which he had attached any meaning.
"I am rather old to go into a new business," he said, "and I don"t quite know what to be, either."
"Why not," said Wayne, gently having reached the crisis of his delicate persuasion--"why not be a colonel?"
It was at this point, in all probability, that the interview began to yield more disappointing results. The man appeared inclined at first to regard the suggestion of becoming a colonel as outside the sphere of immediate and relevant discussion. A long exposition of the inevitable war of independence, coupled with the purchase of a doubtful sixteenth-century sword for an exaggerated price, seemed to resettle matters. Wayne left the shop, however, somewhat infected with the melancholy of its owner.
That melancholy was completed at the barber"s.