A TOTTERING EMPIRE.
The excitement in the theatre had increased, and the curtain had been
rung down. Death shadows, grimly apparent, had fallen upon the house,
and the scene was an extraordinary and unprecedented one. No such wild
restlessness and impetuous agitation had ever before been witnessed
within those walls. Some enthusiast of the pit, springing to his feet,
and drawing a large red handkerchief from his pocket, waved it,
shouting--
"Three cheers for good Old England!" to which, after a moment's silence,
the audience responded lustily.
Then, almost before the last sound had died away, another patriot of the
people mounted upon his seat, crying--
"No one need fear. The British Lion will quickly hold the French Eagle
and the Russian Bear within his jaws. Let the enemy come; we will mow
them down like hay."
This raised a combined laugh and cheer, though it sounded forced and
hollow. Immediately, however, some buoyant spirits in the gallery
commenced singing "Rule, Britannia," the chorus of which was taken up
vigorously, the orchestra assisting by playing the last verse.
Outside, the scene in the streets was one of momentarily increasing
excitement. The news had spread with marvellous rapidity, and the whole
city was agog. An elbowing, waving, stormy crowd surged down the Strand
to Trafalgar Square, where an impromptu demonstration was being held,
the Government being denounced by its opponents, and spoken of with
confidence by its supporters. The Radical, the Socialist, the Anarchist,
each aired his views, and through the throng a hoarse threatening murmur
condensed into three words, "Down with Russia! Down with France!" The
cry, echoed by a thousand throats, mingled weirdly with the shouts of
the newsmen and the snatches of patriotic songs.
London was anxious, fevered, and turbulent, that hot, moonless August
night. At that hour all the shops were closed, and the streets only
lighted by the lamps. From the unlighted windows the indistinct shapes
of heads looking out on the scene could be distinguished.
On the pavements of Piccadilly and Knightsbridge knots of people stood
arguing and wrangling over the probable turn of events. From uncouth
Whitechapel to artistic Kensington, from sylvan Highgate to the villadom
of Dulwich, the amazing intelligence had been conveyed by the presses of
Fleet Street, which were still belching forth tons of damp news-sheets.
At first there was confidence among the people; nevertheless little by
little this confidence diminished, and curiosity gave place to surprise.
But what could it be? All was shrouded in the darkest gloom. In the
atmosphere was a strange and terrible oppression that seemed to weigh
down men and crush them. London was, it appeared, walled in by the
unknown and the unexpected.
But, after all, England was strong; it was the mighty British Empire; it
was the world. What was there to fear? Nothing. So the people continued
to shout, "Down with France! Down with the Autocrat! Down with the
Tsar!"
A young man, who had been sitting alone in the stalls, had risen,
electrified at the alarming news, and rushing out, hailed a passing cab,
and drove rapidly away up Northumberland Avenue. This conduct was
remarkable, for Geoffrey Engleheart was scarcely the man to flinch when
danger threatened. He was a tall, athletic young fellow of twenty-six,
with wavy brown hair, a dark, smartly-trimmed moustache, and handsome,
well-cut features. He was happy and easy-going, always overflowing with
genuine _bonhomie_. As the younger son of a very distinguished officer,
he contrived to employ himself for a couple of hours a day at the
Foreign Office, where, although a clerk, he held a very responsible
position. Belonging to a rather good set, he was a member of several
fashionable clubs, and lived in cosy, well-furnished chambers in St.
James's Street.
Driving first to the house of his _fiancee_, Violet Vayne, at Rutland
Gate, he informed her family of the startling intelligence; then,
re-entering the conveyance, he subsequently alighted before the door of
his chambers. As he paid the cabman, an ill-clad man pushed a newspaper
into his face, crying, "'Ere y'are, sir. Extrur-special edition o' the
_People_. Latest details. Serious scandal at the Forrin' Office."
Geoffrey started. He staggered, his heart gave a bound, and his face
blanched. Thrusting half a crown into the man's dirty palm, he grasped
the paper, and rushing upstairs to his sitting-room, cast himself into a
chair. In breathless eagerness he glanced at the front page of the
journal, and read the following:--
SCANDAL AT THE FOREIGN OFFICE.
A STATE SECRET DIVULGED.
An extraordinary rumour is going the round of the Service clubs
to-night. It is alleged that the present Declaration of War
would have been impossible but for the treachery of some person
through whose hands the transcript of a secret treaty between
England and Germany passed to-day.
A prominent Cabinet Minister, on being questioned by our
reporter on the subject, admitted that he had heard the rumour,
but declined to make any definite statement whether or not it
was true.
There must be a good deal behind the rumour of treachery,
inasmuch as none of the prominent men who have already been
interviewed gave a denial to the statement.
Geoffrey sat pale and motionless, with eyes fixed upon the printed
words. He read and re-read them until the lines danced before his gaze,
and he crushed the paper in his hands, and cast it from him.
The little French clock on the mantelshelf chimed the hour of one upon
its silvery bell; the lamp spluttered and burned dim. Still he did not
move; he was dumfounded, rooted to the spot.
Blacker and blacker grew the crowd outside. The density of the cloud
that hung over all portended some direful tragedy. The impending
disaster made itself felt. An alarming sense of calmness filled the
streets. A silence had suddenly fallen, and was becoming complete and
threatening. What was it that was about to issue from these black
storm-clouds? Who could tell?