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

“He doesn’t talk you know,” said Cicely; “he’s only brilliant to look at.”

“Well, I could have looked at him,” said the Gräfin.

“There’ll be thousands of other boys to look at presently,” said Cicely, laughing at the old woman’s frankness.

“Do you think there will be thousands?” asked the Gräfin, with an anxious lowering of the voice; “really, thousands?  Hundreds, perhaps; there is some uncertainty.  Every one is not sanguine.”

“Hundreds, anyway,” said Cicely.

The Gräfin turned to the little banker and spoke to him rapidly and earnestly in German.

“It is most important that we should consolidate our position in this country; we must coax the younger generation over by degrees, we must disarm their hostility.  We cannot afford to be always on the watch in this quarter; it is a source of weakness, and we cannot afford to be weak.  This Slav upheaval in south-eastern Europe is becoming a serious menace.  Have you seen to-day’s telegrams from Agram?  They are bad reading.  There is no computing the extent of this movement.”

“It is directed against us,” said the banker.

“Agreed,” said the Gräfin; “it is in the nature of things that it must be against us.  Let us have no illusions.  Within the next ten years, sooner perhaps, we shall be faced with a crisis which will be only a beginning.  We shall need all our strength; that is why we cannot afford to be weak over here.  To-day is an important day; I confess I am anxious.”

“Hark!  The kettledrums!” exclaimed the commanding voice of Lady Bailquist.  “His Majesty is coming.  Quick, bundle into the car.”

The crowd behind the police-kept lines surged expectantly into closer formation; spectators hurried up from side-walks and stood craning their necks above the shoulders of earlier arrivals.

Through the archway at Hyde Park Corner came a resplendent cavalcade, with a swirl of colour and rhythmic movement and a crash of exultant music; life-guards with gleaming helmets, a detachment of Würtemberg lancers with a flutter of black and yellow pennons, a rich medley of staff uniforms, a prancing array of princely horsemen, the Imperial Standard, and the King of Prussia, Great Britain, and Ireland, Emperor of the West.  It was the most imposing display that Londoners had seen since the catastrophe.

Slowly, grandly, with thunder of music and beat of hoofs, the procession passed through the crowd, across the sward towards the saluting base, slowly the eagle standard, charged with the leopards, lion and harp of the conquered kingdoms, rose mast-high on the flag-staff and fluttered in the breeze, slowly and with military precision the troops and suite took up their position round the central figure of the great pageant.  Trumpets and kettledrums suddenly ceased their music, and in a moment there rose in their stead an eager buzz of comment from the nearest spectators.

“How well the young Prince looks in his scout uniform.” . . . “The King of Würtemberg is a much younger man than I thought he was.” . . . “Is that a Prussian or Bavarian uniform, there on the right, the man on a black horse?” . . .  “Neither, it’s Austrian, the Austrian military attaché” . . .  “That is von Stoppel talking to His Majesty; he organised the Boy Scouts in Germany, you know.” . . .  “His Majesty is looking very pleased.”  “He has reason to look pleased; this is a great event in the history of the two countries.  It marks a new epoch.” . . .  “Oh, do you see the Abyssinian Envoy?  What a picturesque figure he makes.  How well he sits his horse.” . . . “That is the Grand Duke of Baden’s nephew, talking to the King of Würtemberg now.”

On the buzz and chatter of the spectators fell suddenly three sound strokes, distant, measured, sinister; the clang of a clock striking three.

“Three o’clock and not a boy scout within sight or hearing!” exclaimed the loud ringing voice of Joan Mardle; “one can usually hear their drums and trumpets a couple of miles away.”

“There is the traffic to get through,” said Sir Leonard Pitherby in an equally high-pitched voice; “and of course,” he added vaguely, “it takes some time to get the various units together.  One must give them a few minutes’ grace.”

Lady Bailquist said nothing, but her restless watchful eyes were turned first to Hyde Park Corner and then in the direction of the Marble Arch, back again to Hyde Park Corner.  Only the dark lines of the waiting crowd met her view, with the yellow newspaper placards flitting in and out, announcing to an indifferent public the fate of Essex wickets.  As far as her searching eyes could travel the green stretch of tree and sward remained unbroken, save by casual loiterers.  No small brown columns appeared, no drum beat came throbbing up from the distance.  The little flags pegged out to mark the positions of the awaited scout-corps fluttered in meaningless isolation on the empty parade ground.

His Majesty was talking unconcernedly with one of his officers, the foreign attachés looked steadily between their chargers’ ears, as though nothing in particular was hanging in the balance, the Abyssinian Envoy displayed an untroubled serenity which was probably genuine.  Elsewhere among the Suite was a perceptible fidget, the more obvious because it was elaborately cloaked.  Among the privileged onlookers drawn up near the saluting point the fidgeting was more unrestrained.

“Six minutes past three, and not a sign of them!” exclaimed Joan Mardle, with the explosive articulation of one who cannot any longer hold back a truth.

“Hark!” said some one; “I hear trumpets!”

There was an instant concentration of listening, a straining of eyes.

It was only the toot of a passing motorcar.  Even Sir Leonard Pitherby, with the eye of faith, could not locate as much as a cloud of dust on the Park horizon.

And now another sound was heard, a sound difficult to define, without beginning, without dimension; the growing murmur of a crowd waking to a slowly dawning sensation.

“I wish the band would strike up an air,” said the Gräfin von Tolb fretfully; “it is stupid waiting here in silence.”

Joan fingered her watch, but she made no further remark; she realised that no amount of malicious comment could be so dramatically effective now as the slow slipping away of the intolerable seconds.

The murmur from the crowd grew in volume.  Some satirical wit started whistling an imitation of an advancing fife and drum band; others took it up and the air resounded with the shrill music of a phantom army on the march.  The mock throbbing of drum and squealing of fife rose and fell above the packed masses of spectators, but no answering echo came from beyond the distant trees.  Like mushrooms in the night a muster of uniformed police and plain clothes detectives sprang into evidence on all sides; whatever happened there must be no disloyal demonstration.  The whistlers and mockers were pointedly invited to keep silence, and one or two addresses were taken.  Under the trees, well at the back of the crowd, a young man stood watching the long stretch of road along which the Scouts should come.  Something had drawn him there, against his will, to witness the Imperial Triumph, to watch the writing of yet another chapter in the history of his country’s submission to an accepted fact.  And now a dull flush crept into his grey face; a look that was partly new-born hope and resurrected pride, partly remorse and shame, burned in his eyes.  Shame, the choking, searing shame of self-reproach that cannot be reasoned away, was dominant in his heart.  He had laid down his arms—there were others who had never hoisted the flag of surrender.  He had given up the fight and joined the ranks of the hopelessly subservient; in thousands of English homes throughout the land there were young hearts that had not forgotten, had not compounded, would not yield.

The younger generation had barred the door.

And in the pleasant May sunshine the Eagle standard floated and flapped, the black and yellow pennons shifted restlessly, Emperor and Princes, Generals and guards, sat stiffly in their saddles, and waited.

And waited. . . .

***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHEN WILLIAM CAME***