“But that is not official,” the Premier argued, and before his colleague had time to reply, the messenger stationed outside the door entered, bearing a telegram, which he took to Lord Warnham.
“The representative of Reuter’s Agency has brought this telegram, just received from St Petersburg, and desires to know whether you have any confirmation of the abandonment of the proposed hostilities against us,” the man said.
“Oh, tell him I have nothing to communicate,” cried his Lordship, hastily. “And, look here, don’t bother me again with any inquiries from the Press.”
“Very well, your Lordship,” the messenger answered, and at once withdrew.
“Why not make an official declaration?” the Marquis urged. “It would avoid a great deal of unnecessary worry and anxiety.”
For a long time the Foreign Minister held out, until at length he became convinced by Lord Maybury’s forcible arguments in favour of publicity, and gave his sanction to a statement being made in the House of Commons. Presently we all three proceeded there, and at once the news spread like wildfire, within Parliament and without, that the latest news from St Petersburg was to be officially announced. From the glass swing door of the Press gallery I watched the House rapidly fill to overflowing, even to its galleries, and when all had assembled the excitement for about ten minutes was intense. It was a memorable scene, more impressive, perhaps, than any of the many that have taken place within those sombre-panelled walls.
Presently, prefaced by the Speaker’s loud “Order-r-r! Order!” a slim, grey-haired figure rose from the Government bench and explained that the news contained in the Novoë Vremya was entirely false, and assured the House that war had not been, and would not be, declared against England.
The final sentences of this welcome announcement were lost in a terrific outburst of applause. So excited were some of the younger members that they tossed their hats high in the air like schoolboys, and the vociferous cheering of the Foreign Secretary was continued, loud and long, notwithstanding the Speaker’s dignified and formal efforts to suppress it. The scene was the most enthusiastic and stirring that I had ever witnessed, but even this was eclipsed by the terrific enthusiasm I found prevailing among the multitude when, a quarter of an hour later, I fought my way though the throng to gaze outside.
The great concourse of citizens, wildly-excited, were almost mad with delight. Publicly, from the steps of St Stephen’s Hall, the official statement had been shouted, and the multitude sent up such an outburst of applause that it echoed far and wide from the dark walls of Parliament and Abbey, church and hospital. The more enthusiastic ones yelled themselves hoarse with joyful shouts, while others started to sing “God save the Queen” until, taken up by all, the National Anthem echoed through the streets again and again. Then cheer upon cheer was given for “Warnham” and for “Good old Maybury,” the women joining in honouring England’s greatest statesman. It was popularly believed that by the efforts of these two men war had been averted, and it was not therefore surprising when they both left together and entered a carriage to drive to Downing Street, that the crowd unharnessed the horses, and fifty stalwart patriots dragged the carriage in triumph to its destination, while such an ovation was accorded them on every side, that even the excitement of the declaration of the poll at their election was paltry in comparison.
I sat with them on the carriage, and as we were dragged onward through the dense, surging crowd, the Marquis turned to the Foreign Minister and exclaimed, with a smile,—