Nothing so prodigious had ever been conceived; and the resources of the empire, of the military, and the squadrons of the colonists, who should again, as at the Jubilee of Queen Victoria, present the diversified elements of English power, would be involved.
At Tilbury on the Essex bank, opposite Gravesend, where rise the low bastions of Tilbury Fort, originally constructed by Henry III, King Edward the VII, would in a fashion diverse, and with a different end in view, also declare that he “had the heart and stomach of a King, and of a King of England too,” as had said Queen Elizabeth. But now it should be said by a King unappalled by the invasion of the powers of the air, as she was before the power of Spain, but now said with undiminished confidence and high hope, though said too with obedience to the supreme mandate of expulsion.
Before it took place, Leacraft and Thomsen began their long walk from Ludgate hill, and Leacraft intently watched the street crowds. He noted also with recording interest the groups in the balconies with lunch baskets. The expectant air everywhere was not unnoticeably mingled with a kind of frightened silence. There was not much noise, no indiscriminate hubbub in the streets, and where groups were encountered, hurrying to their destination, they were quiet and restrained. Tension was evident, a high strung expectancy verging with impalpable approach upon tears, and the agony of penitential promises. The fundamentally religious optimism of the Englishman was confounded, and his acceptance of invisible guidance made itself seen in faces desolated by the grief of tears.
The preparations were remarkable and elaborate. The windows were filled with chairs. Platforms were erected, almost luxuriously draped with red cloth and scarlet velvet, and surging crowds in spots seemed to bely the significance of the portentous moment. From time to time as the two observers walked in the middle of the street, they stopped reluctantly to notice signs of mourning. These took on the form of trailing streamers of crape, hung upon white cloth and their singularity amid the almost bombastic surplusage of scarlet dressings, awoke protest and resentment. At one point there was a particularly conspicuous dismal challenge to the susceptibilities of the spectators in a balcony loaded with sombre trappings which gained a startling prominence because of the patriotic and cheerful decorations on either side of it. Before this lugubrious appeal a small group of malcontents had gathered, and were indulging in incendiary criticism.
“Hits no use turning a sour face to the thing. What’s got to be, is got to be, and a little heart will keep a sour stomach from making itself sick. Hi say we’re hall in the same boat, and cheerfulness makes pleasant company. Such a show as that hought not to be tolerated, Hi say.” This belligerency came from the thick lips of a red faced man, who had his coat over his arm, and whose leathern leggings, corduroy knee breeches, and flaming weskit with a high collar strapped to his muscular neck by a pea green scarf, betokened a representative of the “fancy,” or an ostler turned out for a day’s holiday.
“Indeed I think so,” squealed a thin, short man with a red nose and a curious habit of wiping his mouth with a yellow handkerchief. “It’s hard enough for the sufferin’ masses to leave hearth, home, and, I may say, family, not to be saddened more’n than is natural with these funereal suggestions.”
“Well,” shouted a sturdy arrival on the other limit of the circle; “Let’s tear them down. The quickest way to cure trouble is to git rid of it. It’s rotten insultin’ to stick those weeds under our noses.” Under the influence of these defiant words the knot of men moved towards the objectionable drapery with evidently unfriendly intentions. But they had not been unobserved from the inside of the house on whose front these sad reminders hung. A window shot up and a tall slender woman advanced to the edge of the balcony. She was dressed deeply in black, her neck was surrounded by some white crepe stuff, and the sentiment, as Howells has it, of her dress was a pathetic suggestion of bereavement and misfortune. Her hair, yet luxuriant, was plentifully sprinkled with gray; her face had the authorized look of nobility and distinction. She was yet prepossessing, though the crowding years had brought her past middle life. The distinctive impression she made upon Leacraft, as he and Thomsen, somewhat withdrawn, watched the denouement of this street episode, was that of abiding sorrow, patiently borne, and doubtless united in her, with Christian resignation and unsullied piety. A beautiful picture of the English woman, who resolutely lives her earnest life of prayer and self-sacrifice, holding intensely to her heart some fond memory, wreathed in amaranth. And Leacraft, as an Englishman, blessed Providence there were such. The men on the street were a little abashed by the pale face and lofty mien of the lady who had recognized their purpose, and placed herself there to thwart it.
She came forward and instantly spoke; her voice was excessively clear, but an underlying mellowness imparted an extreme sweetness to its tones.
“My friends you wish these mourning signs taken away. They offend you. But when you know that they express to me the approaching loss of all my friends, you will not, I think, feel so harshly about them. The King, in a week, leaves the shores of England—the evacuation of England begins to-day—and with the King goes the great English nation and this wonderful city with all its memories, with its beauty, its historic power, its incessant interest, our common home for all our lifetimes, will dwindle and dwindle and disappear, lost in arctic snows and ice, at least so they tell us.
“But I shall stay. In this house suffering has come to me; it has never left me. I shall not leave it. I mourn for those who in going away die to English pride, to English love, to English devotion, and”—she leaned out over the sullen men beneath her—“and die to me. These black films are for them.”