GATHERING SHADOWS.
I.
Breakfast at Roselawn was a studiously inconsequential meal. Places
were set as usual by the servants, but the viands and the paraphernalia
necessary for their preparation were placed on a separate table in the
alcove by the great window overlooking the lawn. Having performed this
duty, the servants did nothing more; but one could not help feeling
that they were just outside the door, like a group of prompters, ready
to render instantaneous assistance should the amateurs falter.
Lord Durwent made a kindly and efficient supervisor of the commissariat
table, and--there was no question of it--could boil an egg with any one
in the county. And the guests plying between the source of supply and
the breakfast-table proper created a vagabondish camping-out air of
geniality that did much to dispel the natural stiffness of the morning
intercourse. As the meal had no formal opening, every one arrived at
any time during the breakfast period, and though constant apologies
were offered for the frequent interruptions to Lord Durwent's own meal,
it could be seen that his enjoyment of buffet proprietorship was almost
a professional one.
Lady Durwent's part in the function was to supervise the coffee, and
ask each guest how he or she had slept, expressing regret that the
night had not been cooler, warmer, calmer, or fresher, according to the
polite customs of social dialogue at breakfast.
At nine-fifteen the papers used to arrive from the village, always
causing a flutter of excitement. The sense of solitude at Roselawn
made the outside world something so remote and apart that there was
genuine curiosity to discover what the deuce it had been doing with
itself during the house-party's retreat.
Lord Durwent read the _Morning Post_ as a sort of 'prairie oyster' or
'bromo-seltzer.' It settled him. There was something about that
journal's editorial page and its dignified treatment of events that
made Roselawn seem the embodiment of British principle. Being a man
who prided himself on a catholicity of view-point, he also subscribed
to the _Daily Mail_--that frivolous young thing that has as many
editions as a _débutante_ has frocks, and by its super-delicate
apparatus at Carmelite House can detect a popular clamour before it is
louder than a kitten's miaow.
As a concession to the ladies of the household, he took, in addition,
the _Daily Sketch_ and the _Daily Mirror_, those two energetic
illustrated papers, which, benefiting from the remarkable geographical
fact that every place of consequence in England is exactly two hours
from London, are able to offer photos of riders in Rotten How, bathers
at Brighton, rowers at Oxford, and foreign monarchs walking at Windsor,
the very morning after all these remarkable persons have astonished the
world by riding, bathing, rowing, or walking.
But to Lord Durwent these papers and the _Daily Mail_ were but
interludes. The _Morning Post_ was the real business of life, and
after reading through its solid columns of type, he enjoyed the
sensation of somehow having done something for his country.
II.
It was just before the arrival of the morning papers that Selwyn
descended to the dining-room. Helping himself to porridge, he answered
Lady Durwent's polite conventional questions.
'And _how_ did you sleep?' asked his hostess, putting into the inquiry
that artistic personal touch which made it seem as if this were the
first time she had asked the question, and he the first guest to whom
it had been propounded.
'Lady Durwent,' he answered, smiling, 'I haven't the faintest idea.'
'Then,' said his hostess, triumphantly explaining the obvious, 'you
must have slept well.'
Selwyn thought that when he answered Lady Durwent's query a quick look
of relief had passed across the face of Elise. It was for her peace of
mind he had lied, as into the hours of dawn he had lain awake, trying
to unravel the meaning of the nocturnal scene. He knew that her
prodigal brother had been forbidden the ancestral home, but it was
hardly necessary that he should lie in hiding like a negro slave
dreading the hounds upon his track. And yet, as he recalled the sudden
glimpse of Dick's face, Selwyn remembered that there had been a hunted
look in the dark-shadowed, luminous eyes. Vaguely he felt that this
new development would hinder the understanding reached by Elise and
himself during the evening. If only he could go to her and offer his
help or solace; or if she would come to him frankly and let him share
the unhappy secret, whatever it was, it might prove a bond of
comradeship instead of another element to deepen her consciousness of
aloofness.
Still churning these various thoughts, he smiled his greetings to her,
and affecting an easy unconcern, took his part in the fashionable
agricultural conversation which marks the morning intercourse of
country-living gentle-folk. If it had not been that the pigs mentioned
were Lord Fitz-Guff's, and the cabbages Lady Dingworthy's--and the
accents of the speakers beyond question--Selwyn could have imagined
that he was sitting around Hank Myer's stove in Doanville, N.Y.,
listening to the gossip of the local Doanvillians on earth's produce.
'Ah,' said Lord Durwent, sighting a messenger from over the egg-timer,
'here are the papers.'
Directly afterwards the butler entered with the four morning journals,
solemnly presented them to his master (with a little more dignity than
a Foreign Minister displays in handing the ambassador of an enemy
country his passports), then made his exit with his eyes sedately
raised, to avoid noting more than was necessary of the 'behind-stage'
aspect of his domain.
'Hello!' said Lord Durwent, perusing the _Morning Post_; 'what's this?
Austria has delivered an ultimatum to Servia.'
'What!' cried one of the ladies; 'over that unpronounceable
assassination?'
'Dear me!' said the woman who kept record of retired royalties, 'that
will upset my dear friend Empress----'
But her voice was lost in the clamour, as every one, deserting
breakfast, crowded about Lord Durwent, and half in jest demanded to
know what the ramshackle empire had to say for itself.
In a voice that grew tremulous with anger, the host read the details,
point by point, and as the seriousness of the thing broke upon the
hearers, even the very lightest tongues were for the moment stilled.
With a frown the nobleman looked up as he reached the end of the
ultimatum, in which one nation, for its pride, demanded that another
should hand over its honour, debased and shackled.
'It is infamous,' said Lord Durwent.
'I tell you what,' said a bland youth named Maynard, who was always in
high spirits at breakfast, bored at lunch, 'frightfully bucked' by a
cup of tea at four, and invariably sentimental after dinner; 'it would
do these nasty little Balkans a lot of good to hold 'em all under water
for about three minutes--what?'
'But this is more than a Balkan quarrel,' said Lord Durwent.
'Balkan quarrels always are,' said the youth amiably.
In a chorus of quick questions and answers, in which surmise and
conjecture played ducks and drakes with fact, the party divided into
two camps, the majority taking the stand that it was a local affair and
would lead to nothing; the minority, led by a retired army captain
called Fensome, reading a dark augury for the future. In the midst of
all the chaffing Selwyn noticed, however, that the placidity of decorum
had been dropped, and both men and women were leaning forward in the
unaccustomed stimulus of their brains rallying to meet a new and
powerful situation.
The men did not lose that note of easy banter which seemed the rule
when women were present, but in the faces of the little group who
contended that danger was ahead he could detect the stiffening of the
jaw and the steadying of the eye which come to those who see events
riding towards them with the threat of a prairie fire driven by a wind.
'But, good heavens!' said Selwyn, in answer to some one's prophecy that
war would result, 'surely the big nations can stop it. Germany and you
and America--we three won't let Austria cut Servia's throat in full
daylight.'
The retired army captain turned a monocle on him. 'You have been in
Germany, Mr. Selwyn?'
'Yes, just recently.'
'Did you ever hear them toasting _Der Tag_? My friend, it has
arrived.--Durwent, old boy, if you will excuse me, I think I shall go
to town at noon. If my old bones aren't lying, the thing which a few
of us fossils have been preaching to deaf ears has come to pass, and
there may be a job for a belivered old devil like me yet.'
'But,' cried Lady Durwent, whose easily roused theatrical instinct gave
her the delightful sensation of presiding at a meeting of the Cabinet,
'what have we to do with Austria and Servia?'
'Hear, hear,' said the bland youth. 'Let 'em hop aboard each other if
they like. I think it would be deucedly splendid for us to have
another war; we're all fed up--aren't we?--with just enjoying
ourselves. But I don't see how we can intrude into those blighters'
little show.'
'Exactly,' said Selwyn; 'it's an isolated incident in European affairs.
In what possible way can it lead to a rupture between Britain and
Germany, as Captain Fensome here predicts?'
The officer referred to shrugged his shoulders. 'It's fairly simple,'
he said. 'If, as I think, Germany is behind all this, Servia will
appeal to Russia; and remember that the Great Bear is mother to all the
Slavs. There will, of course, be jockeying for position, bluff,
bravado, and all the rest of it; but France is bound to act with
Russia, and with all that explosive hanging around it will be strange
if some spark doesn't fall among it.'
'But what has that to do with England?'
'Nothing and everything. The greatest hope of maintaining peace lies
with Great Britain. If we had the army we should have, I don't think
there would be a war; but, thanks to our ostrich temperament, we are
reduced to a handful of men and our action is robbed of everything but
merely moral strength.'
'But that is a tremendous factor,' said Selwyn.
'Yes,' admitted the other dryly; 'but I prefer guns.'
'Then you don't think Britain powerful enough to steady the situation
if it comes?'
'N-no. Not unless'---- The monocle dropped from the speaker's eye,
and with annoying coolness he paused to replace it. 'Do you think
America will swallow her doctrine and throw in her lot with us?'
Selwyn bit his lip to keep himself from too impetuous an answer. For
the first time he felt an envy for the cool imperturbability of the
Island Race.
'If you ask me,' he said, 'whether America will plunge into war at the
bidding of a group of diplomats who shuffle the nations like a pack of
cards, then I say no. If you older nations over here allow this thing
to come to a crisis with a rattling of swords and "_Hock der Kaiser!_"
and "Britannia Rules the Waves," count us out. But should the occasion
arise when palpable injustice is being done, and the soul of Britain
calls to the soul of America that Right must be maintained, then the
Republic that was born--if you will permit me to say so--born out of
its resentment against injustice will act instantly.'
'Supposing,' said the other, 'that Germany invades Belgium?'
'But--I understand that Germany has guaranteed Belgium's neutrality.'
The ex-officer showed no signs of having heard him, but shook his head
impatiently as one does when annoyed by a fly. 'Supposing,' he
repeated, 'that Germany invades Belgium.'
'In that case,' said Selwyn sternly, 'America will be the first to
protest.'
'To protest?'
'And fight,' said the American, swallowing a desire to hurl a plate at
the monocle.
'You will pardon me,' said Lord Durwent, 'but I do not think we can
expect America to become mixed up in this thing. She has her own
problems of the New World, and it is too much to hope that she is going
to come over here and become embroiled in a European conflict.'
'But, dad,' said Elise Durwent, speaking for the first time, 'if, as
Mr. Selwyn says, it is clear that a wrong is being committed, America
will insist upon acting.'
'Oh, I don't know,' broke in the youth who was always lively at
breakfast, but who was beginning to be bored; 'it's one thing to get
waxy about your own corns, and quite another when they're on some other
blighter's foot--what? I mean, you chaps over there got awfully hot
under the collar when dear old Georgius Rex--Heaven rest his
soul!--tried to jump down your throat with both spurs on and gallop
your little tum-tums out. But the question is, does it hurt in the
same place if old Frankie-Joseph of Austria pinks Thingmabob of Servia
underneath the fifth rib--what, what?'
'Is Britain great enough for such a situation?' asked Selwyn,
repressing a smile. 'Would she accept Belgium's crisis as her own?'
'Oh, that's another thing,' said the young man a little uncomfortably.
'We've signed the bally thing, and of course we'll play the game,
and'----
'As Maynard says,' interrupted the former army man, 'it's a bigger
thing for America than for us. Mind you, I don't say we need America
to help us to make war, but we do need her help if war is to be
averted; and any move of such a nature on her part demands what you
author fellows would call "a high degree of altruism." How's that,
Durwent, for a chap who never reads anything but the _Pink Un_?'
'Oh, well,' said Lady Durwent complacently, 'it's probably all a storm
in a teacup, anyway. Some Austrian diplomat has been jilted for a
Servian, I suppose. Isn't that the way wars always happen?' and she
sighed heavily, recalling to her mind the classic features of H.
Stackton Dunckley.
'That's what I say,' said the bright youth of the morning splendour.
'Why make a horse cross a bridge if it won't drink? Here goes--heads,
a European war; tails, another thousand years of peace.--Ah, tough
luck, Fensome, old son; it's tails.'
'Then let's begin the thousand years with some tennis,' cried Elise,
whose eyes were sparkling, 'immediately after breakfast.'
'Shall us? Let's,' cried the talkative Maynard. 'So lay on,
comrades--the victuals are waiting--and "damned be he that first cries,
'Hold, enough!"'
III.
With an animated burst of chatter the house-party had given itself over
to a thorough enjoyment of the remainder of breakfast. Ultimatums and
the alarums of war vanished into thin air, like mists dispelled by the
sun. The serious face of the ex-officer and the unwonted air of
distraction on Lord Durwent's countenance were the only indications
that the morning was different from any other. Tongues and hearts were
light, and airy bubbles of badinage were blown into space for the
delectation of all who cared to look.
It was during a fashionable monologue of the Court-Circular lady that
Maynard, the man of moods, who was sitting next to Selwyn, leaned over
and whispered, 'Get hold of the _Sketch_. It's on your right. Pretend
you're looking at the pictures. I've got the _Mirror_.'
Wondering what asinine prank was in the young man's mind, but not
wanting to disturb the monologuist by untimely controversy, Selwyn
reached for the _Sketch_, and assumed a deep interest in the very
latest picture of London's very latest stage favourite who could
neither sing, dance, nor act, and was tremendously popular.
'Excuse me, Lady Durwent,' said the gilded youth when a lull permitted
him to speak, 'but would you pass the _Daily Mail_, please?'
'My dear Horace,' said Elise, 'you haven't taken to reading the _Mail_?'
'No, dear one. Heaven forbid! I merely write for it.'
'What!' There was an _ensemble_ of astonishment.
'Ra-ther. I sent their contributed page a scholarly little thing from
my pen entitled "Should One Kiss in the Park?" If it's in I get three
guineas, and I'm going to start for Fiji to escape old Fensome's war.'
'Mr. Selwyn,' said Lady Durwent, passing the journal along, 'you have a
rival.'
With an air of considerable embarrassment the fair-haired contributor
to newspapers opened the pages of the _Daily Mail_, but protesting that
he was too bashful to endure the gaze of the curious, he begged
permission to retire to the library, there to search in privacy for his
literary child.
'I say, Selwyn,' he said, 'you come along too if you're through
pecking. Nothing like having the opinion of an expert, even if he is
jealous.'
With a promise to return immediately and read the effort aloud, the two
men left the table and adjourned to the adjoining room. With a frown
of impatience Selwyn was about to demand the reason for his inclusion
in the silly affair, when the other stopped him with a gesture and
closed the door.
'Quick!' he said. 'Grab that knife--here's the _Sketch_. Look through
it for anything about Dick Durwent.'
Seeing that the other was serious, Selwyn spread the paper before him
and hurriedly searched its columns.
'Great Scott!' he cried. 'Here it'----
'Sh-sh! Hurry up and cut it out. Right. I'll fix up the _Mirror_ in
the same way. Now skim through the _Mail_. Got it? By Jove! damn
near a whole column. Here'--Maynard ran the knife down the side of the
column. 'Now then, old Fensome has promised to get the thing out of
the _Post_, and to tell Lord Durwent before he goes to town. But he
mustn't hear of it this way, and those women are not to know a word
about it while they're in the house.'
Selwyn nodded and looked at the ragged clippings in his hand:
'ATTEMPTED MURDER IN WEST END.'
'WELL-KNOWN NOBLEMAN ATTACKED BY PEER'S SON.'
'QUARREL OVER DEMI-MONDAINE.'
'Gad, those are juicy lines, aren't they?' said Maynard. 'Won't some
of our worthy citizens lick their chops over them, and point to the
depravity of the upper classes? Do you know Dick Durwent?'
'I have seen him a couple of times.'
'Awfully decent chap. Screw loose, you know, and punishes his Scotch
no end, but a topping fellow underneath. I don't know who the bit of
fluff is that they're fighting about, but you can wager a quid to a bob
that Dick thought he was doing her a good turn.'
'I wonder who the nobleman is.'
'Can't say, I'm sure. Probably he can't either just now, seeing what
Durwent did to him. Of course, it's a rotten thing to say, but if the
blighter's really going to die, I hope he's one of the seventeen who
stand between me and the Earldom of Forth.'
There was a knock at the door, and an inquiry regarding the newly
discovered author.
'Coming,' called Maynard, reaching for the _Daily Mail_. 'Shove those
clippings in your pocket, Selwyn, and for the love of Allah help me to
select something here that I can pretend to have written. Fortunately
I can play the blithering idiot without much trouble.'