The S.C. could be heard moving about among his furniture ... and Otto’s manner had not that repose which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere—he accompanied the old man’s loud discourse by an agonized hushing, which Hermann heeded no more than a drone of a bluebottle. From offensive English he lapsed into friendly—too friendly—German, enquiring affectionately after all Otto’s relatives in Berlin, Mainz, Köln and Frankfurt, mentioning each person by name and address. And when Otto affected ignorance of the existence of these, he laughed and coughed, and coughed so much that he was perforce reduced to gasping watery-eyed silence, which gave Otto his chance at last for a patriotic panegyric which he trusted would reach the “S.C.,” and so nullify any evil effects of Hermann’s malice. “—My son is in the drenches, and my pones will one day lie in English ground. My money I give for England, and England, I bray, may still find a use for an old man’s services, isn’t it?”
“Ach wass!” impatiently interrupting the peroration. “You have been learning by heart the recruiting posters. I would advise a little less noise about patriotism, lieber Freund. You look like an enemy spy who has yet to learn not to overdo his business. It may bring you into awkward situations.” Otto turned yellow and his fingers twitched. “Besides, a man who cannot be loyal to his own country——”
“England is my country!” cried Otto hysterically.
“Stuss!” and Hermann subsided contemptuously. While Ferdie broke in: “You have neither of you any sense at all. It is quite possible, papa, not only to be from prudence, but also in thought and from affection, loyal to an adopted country, where one has lived, and planted one’s hopes, and brought up one’s children. Would one bring up one’s children to serve England before even war was in sight—if still one cared about Germany? But to shout it about—that is tactless nowadays. They do not love the sound of our voices—unpleasant—yes, certainly—but natural. Let us then rather keep quiet, you and I, Redbury. Papa I respect for making no professions where he cannot honestly feel them—but he also should keep quiet. You are discourteous to a country of whom you are the guest. And also you make things very uncomfortable for us your family.”
“I have no fear,” snapped the old autocrat, sitting very upright.
“But I have then, for Stella and Deb and Richard. So when I feel pessimist, when my opinion is not likely to be a popular opinion, I keep it to myself. For the difference between us and the British-born is this: there is, alas, no bias on our judgments. That pleasant happy bias! ah, it must be reposeful to let one’s judgment roll with the bias; but the bias is lodged in the nature, and the nature springs from the soil, and the soil of England is not ours—we who belong to no country, and are therefore doomed to see things exactly as they are. I tell you, Redbury, I would give ten years of my life to possess that cheery confidence that stupidly, and oh, how splendidly, through the blackest reverses, through the silliest muddles and incompetence, still goes on with their eternal Britannia rules the waves and Britons never, never, never shall be slaves....”
“If you had a son in the drenches,” repeated Otto virtuously.
And Ferdie sighed and said no more. In spite of all the daily suspense and anxiety, how he envied the Redburys their possession of Con. He had not yet forgiven himself the mistake which resulted in Richard’s present mooching, slouching existence, not keen to go back to school—not worth while to enter a profession—waiting for his eighteenth birthday to bring him behind barbed wire.
“Ferdinand,” said Otto Redbury, interrupting the other man’s reverie, “I have gom on a very serious errand....”