“They are to go to the Abbey for a chapel of the flags.”
I watched the pageant, breathless. A hoarse command and the troops stacked arms; another and the music started up. Proudly, defiantly, in perfect formation, the troops wheeled and started the march past, their empty hands swaying at their sides. As they passed, the King saluted with raised hand, the officers’ swords rising and falling with regular rhythm. As they passed the gleaming mass of color where stood the flags, they saluted once more. I could see the tears streaming from the rugged cheeks of many a war-worn veteran, and my own throat contracted at the spectacle. The King stood motionless at the salute. As they formed after the march, and stood for the last time in those ranks which had so often faced the foe, the general commanding turned and raised his sword. Cheer upon cheer broke forth for the King, and I found myself with Tom, good Americans as we were, cheering wildly, though with dry throats. The King raised his hand and the sound ceased. He said but a single sentence. “Soldiers of the British Empire! My soldiers, farewell!” Once more the cheering broke forth, but through the sound came music, and troop by troop, they wheeled and marched away. Not till the last man had gone did the King move, and when he turned I could see his face white and drawn with the agony of the hour. He walked heavily to his carriage and drove away, lifting his hat mechanically in response to the salutation of the crowd.
That night Regnier dined with us. I had never seen him so gay, so brilliant. He was full of his plans for an expedition to the Ural Mountains in search of some new deposits of platinum, for which he had obtained a grant from the Russian government. He was the life of our party, and we parted from him with regret. As he left, I walked out into the courtyard with him. He turned suddenly.
“Orrington,” he said, “you’ve got the finest girl in the world to be your wife. You’re not good enough for her. Nobody is, but I’m sure you’ll make her happy. I’ve loved her for five years. I knew from the very first I had no chance. Good-bye, and God bless you both.”
I stood and watched him till he passed through the arch and was lost in the roaring tide of the Strand.
“Poor chap,” I said musingly, as I turned away. “Poor chap.”
The voyage home was uneventful. The month before the wedding we spent chiefly in making plans for our new home, which was to be a country home. Slowly dragged the days before the wedding, twenty days, fifteen, ten, five. At last it came.
As Tom and I came up to the church on the wedding day, the snow was lying on the narrow lawn, crusting the roof and eaves with glittering crystals, and turning the ivy to a soft, clinging cloud. The flooding sunlight, transmitted through the two great windows of the tower, threw strange hues on the white tapestry and carpet of late winter. From within sounded the full diapason of the organ, breaking into rivers and floods of melody as the organist practised his prelude to the wedding march.
We swung back the door to find ourselves in the midst of a group of ushers, who fell upon me with one last volley of cheering and jeering remarks as I hurried through. I hastened by them, laughing, and passed with Tom to the tiny room beside the organ, where we were to wait till the moment that Dorothy came. After much discussion, it had been determined that Dorothy’s uncle should give her away, while Tom acted as best man.