When William Came, Saki [red scrolls of magic .txt] 📗

scrap of gratitude towards the one or two friends who had helped him disinterestedly, but his most intimate associates could not have guessed at the existence of such feelings.  Tony Luton was just a merry-eyed dancing faun, whom Fate had surrounded with streets instead of woods, and it would have been in the highest degree inartistic to have sounded him for a heart or a heartache.

The dancing of the faun took one day a livelier and more assured turn, the joyousness became more real, and the worst of the vicissitudes seemed suddenly over.  A musical friend, gifted with mediocre but marketable abilities, supplied Tony with a song, for which he obtained a trial performance at an East End hall.  Dressed as a jockey, for no particular reason except that the costume suited him, he sang, “They quaff the gay bubbly in Eccleston Square” to an appreciative audience, which included the manager of a famous West End theatre of varieties.  Tony and his song won the managerial favour, and were immediately transplanted to the West End house, where they scored a success of which the drooping music-hall industry was at the moment badly in need.

It was just after the great catastrophe, and men of the London world were in no humour to think; they had witnessed the inconceivable befall them, they had nothing but political ruin to stare at, and they were anxious to look the other way.  The words of Tony’s song were more or less meaningless, though he sang them remarkably well, but the tune, with its air of slyness and furtive joyousness, appealed in some unaccountable manner to people who were furtively unhappy, and who were trying to appear stoically cheerful.

“What must be, must be,” and “It’s a poor heart that never rejoices,” were the popular expressions of the London public at that moment, and the men who had to cater for that public were thankful when they were able to stumble across anything that fitted in with the prevailing mood.  For the first time in his life Tony Luton discovered that agents and managers were a leisured class, and that office boys had manners.

He entered Cicely’s drawing-room with the air of one to whom assurance of manner has become a sheathed weapon, a court accessory rather than a trade implement.  He was more quietly dressed than the usual run of music-hall successes; he had looked critically at life from too many angles not to know that though clothes cannot make a man they can certainly damn him.

“Thank you, I have lunched already,” he said in answer to a question from Cicely.  “Thank you,” he said again in a cheerful affirmative, as the question of hock in a tall ice-cold goblet was propounded to him.

“I’ve come to tell you the latest about the Gorla Mustelford evening,” he continued.  “Old Laurent is putting his back into it, and it’s really going to be rather a big affair.  She’s going to out-Russian the Russians.  Of course, she hasn’t their technique nor a tenth of their training, but she’s having tons of advertisement.  The name Gorla is almost an advertisement in itself, and then there’s the fact that she’s the daughter of a peer.”

“She has temperament,” said Cicely, with the decision of one who makes a vague statement in a good cause.

“So Laurent says,” observed Tony.  “He discovers temperament in every one that he intends to boom.  He told me that I had temperament to the finger-tips, and I was too polite to contradict him.  But I haven’t told you the really important thing about the Mustelford début.  It is a profound secret, more or less, so you must promise not to breathe a word about it till half-past four, when it will appear in all the six o’clock newspapers.”

Tony paused for dramatic effect, while he drained his goblet, and then made his announcement.

“Majesty is going to be present.  Informally and unofficially, but still present in the flesh.  A sort of casual dropping in, carefully heralded by unconfirmed rumour a week ahead.”

“Heavens!” exclaimed Cicely, in genuine excitement, “what a bold stroke.  Lady Shalem has worked that, I bet.  I suppose it will go down all right.”

“Trust Laurent to see to that,” said Tony, “he knows how to fill his house with the right sort of people, and he’s not the one to risk a fiasco.  He knows what he’s about.  I tell you, it’s going to be a big evening.”

“I say!” exclaimed Ronnie suddenly, “give a supper party here for Gorla on the night, and ask the Shalem woman and all her crowd.  It will be awful fun.”

Cicely caught at the suggestion with some enthusiasm.  She did not particularly care for Lady Shalem, but she thought it would be just as well to care for her as far as outward appearances went.

Grace, Lady Shalem, was a woman who had blossomed into sudden importance by constituting herself a sort of foster-mother to the fait accompli.  At a moment when London was denuded of most of its aforetime social leaders she had seen her opportunity, and made the most of it.  She had not contented herself with bowing to the inevitable, she had stretched out her hand to it, and forced herself to smile graciously at it, and her polite attentions had been reciprocated.  Lady Shalem, without being a beauty or a wit, or a grand lady in the traditional sense of the word, was in a fair way to becoming a power in the land; others, more capable and with stronger claims to social recognition, would doubtless overshadow her and displace her in due course, but for the moment she was a person whose good graces counted for something, and Cicely was quite alive to the advantage of being in those good graces.

“It would be rather fun,” she said, running over in her mind the possibilities of the suggested supper-party.

“It would be jolly useful,” put in Ronnie eagerly; “you could get all sorts of interesting people together, and it would be an excellent advertisement for Gorla.”

Ronnie approved of supper-parties on principle, but he was also thinking of the advantage which might accrue to the drawing-room concert which Cicely had projected (with himself as the chief performer), if he could be brought into contact with a wider circle of music patrons.

“I know it would be useful,” said Cicely, “it would be almost historical; there’s no knowing who might not come to it—and things are dreadfully slack in the entertaining line just now.”

The ambitious note in her character was making itself felt at that moment.

“Let’s go down to the library, and work out a list of people to invite,” said Ronnie.

A servant entered the room and made a brief announcement.

“Mr. Yeovil has arrived, madam.”

“Bother,” said Ronnie sulkily.  “Now you’ll cool off about that supper party, and turn down Gorla and the rest of us.”

It was certainly true that the supper already seemed a more difficult proposition in Cicely’s eyes than it had a moment or two ago.

“‘You’ll not forget my only daughter,
E’en though Saphia has crossed the sea,’”

quoted Tony, with mocking laughter in his voice and eyes.

Cicely went down to greet her husband.  She felt that she was probably very glad that he was home once more; she was angry with herself for not feeling greater certainty on the point.  Even the well-beloved, however, can select the wrong moment for return.  If Cicely Yeovil’s heart was like a singing-bird, it was of a kind that has frequent lapses into silence.

CHAPTER II: THE HOMECOMING

Murrey Yeovil got out of the boat-train at Victoria Station, and stood waiting, in an attitude something between listlessness and impatience, while a porter dragged his light travelling kit out of the railway carriage and went in search of his heavier baggage with a hand-truck.  Yeovil was a grey-faced young man, with restless eyes, and a rather wistful mouth, and an air of lassitude that was evidently only a temporary characteristic.  The hot dusty station, with its blended crowds of dawdling and scurrying people, its little streams of suburban passengers pouring out every now and then from this or that platform, like ants swarming across a garden path, made a wearisome climax to what had been a rather wearisome journey.  Yeovil glanced quickly, almost furtively, around him in all directions, with the air of a man who is constrained by morbid curiosity to look for things that he would rather not see.  The announcements placed in German alternatively with English over the booking office, left-luggage office, refreshment buffets, and so forth, the crowned eagle and monogram displayed on the post boxes, caught his eye in quick succession.

He turned to help the porter to shepherd his belongings on to the truck, and followed him to the outer yard of the station, where a string of taxi-cabs was being slowly absorbed by an outpouring crowd of travellers.

Portmanteaux, wraps, and a trunk or two, much be-labelled and travel-worn, were stowed into a taxi, and Yeovil turned to give the direction to the driver.

“Twenty-eight, Berkshire Street.”

“Berkschirestrasse, acht-und-zwanzig,” echoed the man, a bulky spectacled individual of unmistakable Teuton type.

“Twenty-eight, Berkshire Street,” repeated Yeovil, and got into the cab, leaving the driver to re-translate the direction into his own language.

A succession of cabs leaving the station blocked the roadway for a moment or two, and Yeovil had leisure to observe the fact that Viktoria Strasse was lettered side by side with the familiar English name of the street.  A notice directing the public to the neighbouring swimming baths was also written up in both languages.  London had become a bi-lingual city, even as Warsaw.

The cab threaded its way swiftly along Buckingham Palace Road towards the Mall.  As they passed the long front of the Palace the traveller turned his head resolutely away, that he might not see the alien uniforms at the gates and the eagle standard flapping in the sunlight.  The taxi driver, who seemed to have combative instincts, slowed down as he was turning into the Mall, and pointed to the white pile of memorial statuary in front of the palace gates.

“Grossmutter Denkmal, yes,” he announced, and resumed his journey.

Arrived at his destination, Yeovil stood on the steps of his house and pressed the bell with an odd sense of forlornness, as though he were a stranger drifting from nowhere into a land that had no cognisance of him; a moment later he was standing in his own hall, the object of respectful solicitude and attention.  Sprucely garbed and groomed lackeys busied themselves with his battered travel-soiled baggage; the door closed on the guttural-voiced taxi driver, and the glaring July sunshine.  The wearisome journey was over.

“Poor dear, how dreadfully pulled-down you look,” said Cicely, when the first greetings had been exchanged.

“It’s been a slow business, getting well,” said Yeovil.  “I’m only three-quarter way there yet.”

He looked at his reflection in a mirror and laughed ruefully.

“You should have seen what I looked like five or six weeks ago,” he added.

“You ought to have let me come out and nurse you,” said Cicely; “you know I wanted to.”

“Oh, they nursed me well enough,” said Yeovil, “and it would have been a shame dragging you out there; a small Finnish health resort, out of the season, is not a very amusing place, and it would have been worse for any one who didn’t talk Russian.”

“You must have been buried alive there,” said Cicely, with commiseration in her voice.

“I wanted to be buried alive,” said Yeovil.  “The news from the outer world was not of a kind that helped a despondent invalid towards convalescence.  They spoke to me as little as possible about what was happening, and I was grateful for your letters because they also told me very little.  When one is abroad, among foreigners, one’s country’s misfortunes cause one an acuter, more personal distress, than they would at home even.”

“Well, you are at home now, anyway,” said Cicely, “and you can jog along the road to complete recovery at your own pace.  A little quiet shooting this