"Three up at the turn for the Army," shouted the Admiral.
The tenth hole, as all who have played on the Leiant Links know, is very difficult. If the player has a long drive, he can, if he has a good second, land on the green in two; but in order to do so he has to carry a very difficult piece of country, which, if he gets into it, is generally fatal. Bob's drive was short, and it seemed impossible for him to carry the tremendous hazard with his second shot. Trevanion, on the other hand, was in an easy position. When he saw Bob's short drive he laughed contentedly.
"I'm wanting my tea badly," he said to Nancy.
"That's a pity," replied the girl. "It'll take another hour to play the next nine holes."
"It looks as though the match will be over before then," he replied confidently. "I'll bet you a box of chocolates that we shall finish at the fourteenth."
"Done!" cried the girl, and there was a flash of anger in her eyes.
"Of course Bob'll have to play short here," grumbled Dick Tresize. "He ought to have insisted on Trevanion giving him strokes. By George, he's surely not going to be such a fool as to risk a brassy!"
The next minute there was great cheering. Bob's ball had surely mounted all difficulties and apparently landed on the green.
"A magnificent shot!" cried the Admiral. "By gad, Bob, but Vardon couldn't have done it better!"
It was easy to see that Trevanion was annoyed as well as surprised at Bob's shot. The bogey for the hole was five, and Bob had to all appearance made a four possible by a very fine brassy shot. Trevanion had driven thirty yards further than Bob, but he had still a big sand-hill, covered with long grass, to carry. Whether Bob's shot had made him fear that, after being five up, he might yet be beaten, it is impossible to say, certain it is that he missed his ball, and Bob won the hole.
"Military down to two," cried the Admiral. "It's going to be a close match, after all."
The rest of the spectators became silent; they felt that things were becoming serious, and that they must not talk, especially as Trevanion had looked angrily at some one who had spoken as he was addressing his ball for the next drive. The eleventh and the twelfth holes were halved, and so the game stood at two up for Trevanion and six to play.
"I've won my box of chocolates, Captain Trevanion," Nancy could not help saying, as they walked to the thirteenth tee. "Even if you win the next two holes you can only be dormy at the fourteenth."
"I shall buy the chocolates with all the pleasure in the world," replied the Captain. "You see, I didn't reckon on that brassy of Nancarrow's at the tenth."
"I think you are going to have an expensive afternoon," she laughed.
Bob, who still retained the honour, addressed his ball. A strong cross wind was blowing, but he made up his mind to carry the green, although it was considerably over two hundred yards, and guarded by a high mound. If he could do so he stood a good chance of a three, and might rob his opponent of another hole. He hit the ball clean and true, and as it left his club the spectators gave a gasp. It looked as though it would strike the guiding-post, but to the relief of all, and especially of Nancy, it rose a foot above it, and was soon lost to sight.
"By gosh, Bob, I believe you've driven the green!" said Dick to Bob, in a whisper. "If you have, you stand a good chance. You drive a longer ball than Trevanion."
It was easy to see by the change that had come over the Captain's face that he was becoming anxious. He hit his ball with perfect precision, but it dropped on the tee side of the high mound. Dick Tresize turned towards the green.
"You are on, old chap," he said, as his friend came up. "It's at the corner of the green, but you should do it."
Trevanion played a good approach shot, and then Bob laid his approach putt dead. His three was safe. If Trevanion could not hole out, there would be but one hole between them. Trevanion did his best, but the ball did not reach the hole by a few inches, and was not quite straight.
"The Army down to one," said the Admiral.
By this time several people had been attracted by the news of the match, and among the new spectators was an amiable-looking gentleman who wore large, round spectacles. He had been seemingly much impressed by Bob's last drive, and had loudly expressed himself to that effect.
"I tell you," he said, "I haf seen Vardon, and Braid, and all ze rest of zem play, but I neffer saw a finer shot, neffer. It vas great."
He spoke so loudly that, when they were walking to the fourteenth tee,Trevanion, who was slightly ruffled, said:
"Excuse me, sir, but if you knew the etiquette of golf, you would know that it is bad form to talk while people are playing."
The stranger lifted his hat, and bowed profoundly. "I apologise, sir," he said; "nothing was further from my mind than to interfere with your play. I vill take much care not to offend again. I hope I did not offend you, sir," he added, bowing to Bob.
"Not the slightest," replied Bob.
The stranger bowed again, and from that time was silent, although he followed the party at a distance.
The next three holes were halved, and there remained but two more to play. Bob was very quiet, Trevanion looked grim and determined, the colour came and went on Nancy's face. It seemed to her as though Bob's future and her own depended on the result of the next few minutes.
"One up to the Military, and two to play," cried the Admiral.
"If you halve this, you'll be dormy, Captain Trevanion," said GeorgeTresize, who seemed very anxious for him to win.
The Captain did not reply. Evidently he was in no mood for talk; as for the rest of the crowd, a deadly silence rested on it.
Like nearly all the holes on the Leiant Links, the seventeenth is blind, although it is just possible to see the top of the flag. It is not an easy hole to play, as I know to my cost. The green is guarded on the right by a hedge, which if you get over it, makes your case desperate. If you go too far, you are caught by a bunker; while if you play to the left, the ground is so hummocky, that it is very difficult to lay your ball dead. That is why, although the hole is barely two hundred yards long, the committee have given it a four bogey.
Bob took an iron, and played straight for the pin.
"Good shot, but a bit short, I'm afraid," whispered Dick, as Bob stood aside for Trevanion to drive. Trevanion also hit his ball clean, but it was a trifle to the left. A little later they saw that both balls were on the green, although Bob's was several yards the nearer. Trevanion examined the ground carefully. He felt that much depended on the approach putt. If he laid himself dead, he was sure he could not be beaten. Every one stood breathless while the ball ran over the hummocky ground.
"By gosh, it's too merry!" gasped George Tresize. But he had not accounted for a steep ascent. The ball rested less than two feet from the hole; Trevanion's three was safe.
Bob also carefully examined his ground, and then played his ball. It went to the lip of the hole, and then half-hanging over, stopped. For a second the little company held its breath, and then gave a gasp. The ball fell in.
"Beastly fluke!" muttered Trevanion, between his set teeth.
"A great putt!" cried Dick.
"All square and one to play," cried the Admiral.
Bob felt his heart bound as he addressed the ball for the last drive. What if after all he should miss it! A mist hung before his eyes. But no, he would not miss, and a second later he watched the ball as it soared over the hazard. Trevanion's was only a few yards behind. It required but a chip shot to reach the green, which lay in a hollow just over a turf-grown hedge, and guarded by a bunker. They had now reached the final stage of the game. One shot might win or lose the match.
Evidently Trevanion realised this as he took his mashie. More than one saw his cigarette tremble between his lips; there could be no doubt that he was greatly excited. Perhaps his nerves played him tricks, or perhaps in his anxiety he looked up before he hit his ball. Anyhow he missed it, and he found himself badly bunkered. Bob's chance had come, and he took advantage of it. His ball pitched over the hedge, and then rolled towards the hole. He had a possible three. Trevanion, on the other hand, failed to get out of the bunker at the first shot, and got too far with the second. Bob had won the match.
"Jolly hard luck, getting into the bunker, Trevanion," he said; but the other did not speak. For the moment he was too chagrined.
"Nancarrow wins the match on the last green; now for tea," shouted the Admiral. "Bob, my boy, you've played a great game. I congratulate you."
"A very fine game, Nancarrow," said Trevanion, who, like the sportsman he was, had got over his disappointment. "You played the last fourteen holes like a book."
"Pardon me," said a voice, "I hope I shall not be considered to indrude, but may I alzo congratulate you, sir. I am not English, I am sorry to say, but I take advantage of theEntente Cordiale. You haf given me much pleasure in watching you."
The stranger bowed as he spoke, and produced his card. "Allow me," he continued, as he presented it to Bob.
"Thank you, Count von Weimer," replied Bob, as he read the card. "It is very kind of you."
"Forgive me as a stranger in speaking to you," went on the Count, "but I felt I must. Never haf I seen such a feat of skill, and I cannot be silent. I take advantage of theEntente Cordiale. I bear a German name, but I am from Alsace, and my heart beats warm to you and your country," then with another bow he walked away.
"Who is that old buffer?" asked Dick.
"You know as much about him as I," replied Bob; "evidently he wanted to be friendly."
"What did you say he was called?" asked the Admiral.
"Count von Weimer, Château Villar, Alsace, and Continental Club,London," said Bob, reading the card.
"Von Weimer is a good name," said the Admiral, "and the Continental is a good club; I've been there several times. I shall be civil to him if I meet him again. But now for tea. By Jove, Trevanion, but the boy has given you a twisting!"
"Oh, Bob, I am glad!" whispered Nancy, as they went towards the ClubHouse. "At one time I—I; oh, Bob, Iamglad you've beaten him."
"So am I," replied Bob, "but I'm not thinking so much about the golf."
"Now for tea," said Trevanion, with a laugh. "You've won on this field of battle, but in the next my turn will come."
Bob was in great spirits at tea that day. He had won his match, and proved himself a stronger player than Trevanion. Nancy, who sat by his side, was radiant with smiles, while evidently the Admiral looked on him with greater favour than ever before.
"A remarkable feat, my boy," he said again and again. "To be five down to a man like Trevanion, and then to beat him, means not only skill, but nerve. That's the thing I like about it—the nerve, the pluck."
"A game is never lost until it's won, sir," said Bob sententiously.
"That's it, my boy. Stick to that. What did I hear about your plan to go into Parliament? Do you mean it?"
"If I have good luck, sir."
"A great career, my lad, and you should do well. I am so glad you've given up the idea of being a book-worm. Of course your scholarship will come handy to you in Parliament, so perhaps you've been wise to stick to your books. But the country wants men who candothings."
"I mean to do them too, sir."
"Trelawney blood," laughed the old man. "Well, there's no reason in the world why you shouldn't do big things. I always had hoped that Roger would go into Parliament; indeed, he was as good as nominated for St. Ia. But he was killed in the Boer War, poor fellow. A fine lad too, as fine a lad as ever stepped in shoeleather," and his eyes became moist. "Thank God we are at peace now!" he added.
"You are coming back with me to Penwennack?" he went on, when presently the party were leaving the Club House.
"I'd love to, sir, but I can't. I must get back. I promised mother."
"Ah well, stick to your mother. A lad who keeps his promise to his mother seldom goes wrong. But come up to dinner to-morrow night, and bring your mother with you."
"You may depend on me," cried Bob. "Thanks very much, Admiral, we shall be delighted."
"Bob," said Nancy, "you've done more to soften dad to-day, and to prepare the way for me, than if you had got ten fellowships. He loves a plucky fight, and hates a coward."
"And I'll fight," cried Bob, "because I shall fighting for you, Nancy."
"I wish you were going to spend the evening with us," she said ruefully. "I do want you with me."
"And don't I wish it too! But I told you how things stood. Till to-morrow then."
"Be sure to come early," cried Nancy, as she drove away.
Bob made his way over the Towans towards St. Ia, as happy as a king. Everywhere the sun seemed to be shining. At his feet the wild thyme grew in profusion. Acres upon acres were made purple by this modest flower. The sea was glorious with many coloured hues, the whole country-side was beautiful beyond words. What wonder that he was happy! He was young and vigorous, the best and most beautiful girl in the world loved him, and his future was rosy hued.
In order to reach his mother's house, he had to pass through St. Ia, and he had barely entered the little town when he saw Count von Weimer, who had expressed his congratulations so fervently on the golf links.
"Ah, this is lucky!" cried the Count. "I was wondering if I should haf the good fortune to meet you again. May I walk with you? That is goot!"
"You are a stranger to St. Ia," said Bob.
"Yes. I have been drawn here by the beauty of the place, and—and because I want peace." He still spoke in broken English, although I will no longer try to reproduce it.
"You love peace?" Bob ventured.
"Love it! Ah, young sir, you little know. I am one of those unfortunate men who are placed in an awful position. I am, although I bear a German name, French on my mother's side. I love France too, and am at heart a Frenchman. But then my house is in Alsace—Alsace, you understand. France under German Government. I can say here, what I could not say there. I hate Germany, I hate her government, her militarism, her arrogance. The Germans suspect my loyalty, and so I have come to England."
"And you like England?"
"Ah, who can help loving it? Your British flag means liberty, wherever it flies. It stands for peace, brotherhood, progress. That is why I think of buying a house near St. Ia, and settling down. Realising my position in Alsace, you can understand. Besides, what can be more beautiful than this?" and he waved his hand toward the sunlit bay.
"Yes, it's the most beautiful spot on earth!" cried Bob.
"It is indeed, and I love its peace. I love the quiet ways of the people. I saw a house yesterday which captivated, charmed me. Tre-Trelyon, yes, that's it; Trelyon, I was told it was called, and I hear it is for sale, or to let, I don't know which."
"Yes, it is, and it is one of the finest places in the district. Why, it belongs to Admiral Tresize, whom perhaps you saw on the links this afternoon."
"What, that stout, hearty, John Bull gentleman? Oh, yes, I saw him! What a splendid specimen of your British thoroughness. It belongs to him, eh?"
"Yes, it formerly belonged to his wife's family, the Trelyons. I'm sure he'd be glad of a good tenant."
"Ah, but that is pleasant. I could perhaps deal with him personally? I am, I suppose, what you would call a rich man, but I hate dealing with agents, and lawyers, and that kind of thing. He is—friendly, this, what do you call him, Admiral——"
"Oh, yes, he's most friendly."
"He's in the Navy, I suppose?"
"He's retired from active service, but he is still one of the most influential men in our Admiralty."
"Ah, yes, but I'm afraid I have but little knowledge of these things. I am a man of peace. I hate war of every sort. I am at one with what you English people call—Quakers. But ah, it looks like war again now."
"You mean the Servian trouble?"
"Yes. At first I thought the Austrians were going to be kind and reasonable. But they have Germany behind them, and now, I suppose, they've sent impossible demands to Servia. It is here in the evening paper. It seems, too, that Russia is going to back up Servia, and that will mean trouble."
"How?"
"I am not an authority on European politics, but I am sure that ifRussia espouses the cause of Servia, Germany will throw in her lot withAustria. Don't you see what follows?"
"You mean that Germany would declare war on Russia too?"
"Yes, and that is not all. France, my own country, although I am an Alsatian, is bound to be dragged in. And I am a man of peace. I hate war."
"I am with you there," cried Bob eagerly. "War was born in hell."
"Ah, you say so, and you are a young man! That is good! But still you need not fear. England, in spite of theEntente Cordiale, holds to her policy of splendid isolation. She will not be dragged into the turmoil?"
"No, I think that is impossible. You see we are not a military nation, in spite of a section of the community. Our Army is small, and will, I hope, remain small."
"Stick to that, my friend—stick to that. Big armies only breed war, and war is a crime. But about my desire to buy Tre-Trelyon—ah, your English names are hard to pronounce—do you, who know the owner, this bluff John Bull, Admiral—what do you call him?"
"Admiral Tresize."
"Admiral Tresize, yes. Do you think it would be possible for me to see him?"
"I'm quite sure it would be," replied Bob, who remembered what the Admiral had said. "I'm dining at his house to-morrow night. I'll tell him what you have said."
"Ah, that is kind, friendly of you; but I must not detain you longer.Good evening."
"What a friendly old fellow," reflected Bob, as he walked away. "Yes, I can quite imagine how one who is a Frenchman at heart would be treated in Alsace," and then he forgot all about him.
As day followed day, disquieting news came from the Near East. It seemed as though the cloud which at first was no bigger than a man's hand was covering the whole Eastern sky. Disturbing news flashed across the Channel, even while it was generally felt that the tragedy of Sarajevo could never lead to open hostilities. About the middle of July, as all the world knows, it was believed that Austria had accepted Servia's assurance that her attitude towards the greater Power was altogether pacific, and that full justice should be meted out to all who had participated in the ghastly murders.
On July 24, even in the quiet neighbourhood of St. Ia, much apprehension was felt by many who took an interest in foreign affairs at the announcement of the presentation of the Austro-Hungarian Note to the Servian Government, especially when we read the terms of the Note. They were so brutal, so arrogant, that we could not see how any self-respecting people could accept them. Still, we reflected that Servia who had only lately been much weakened and impoverished by her war with Turkey, might be humble.
On the morning of July 25, Admiral Tresize received a letter from a friend who lived in Vienna, which caused him to be greatly perturbed.
"Things look very black here," ran the letter. "Many of us, until a day or so ago, believed that the Austro-Servian difficulty would be amicably settled. As a matter of fact, I know that Austria was prepared to let Servia down rather lightly, but since then new forces have been at work. I am in a position to state that Germany, and by Germany I mean the Kaiser and the War Party generally, whose word is, of course, law in Germany, has instructed the Emperor Franz-Josef to send Servia practically impossible demands. What is in the Kaiser's mind it is impossible to say, but, as is very well known, he has been using almost superhuman efforts in perfecting his army and navy, until Germany has become the greatest fighting machine in the world. It is well known, too, that the Kaiser believes that Russia is so impoverished and enfeebled by her war with Japan that she is no longer dangerous, and he considers France altogether unprepared for war. This being so, it is the general opinion in diplomatic circles that the Kaiser's purpose in sending Servia impossible conditions is intended to arouse hostilities. Only to-day I had a chat with a man who moves in the inner circle of things, and he told me, that if Russia defends Servia, as he hopes she will, and that if France prepares to help Russia, as she is sure to do, Austria can keep Servia and Russia busy, while Germany fulfils her long-held determination to bring France to her knees, and to make her practically her vassal. No one believes that England would interfere. My own belief is that Germany is using the present occasion as the first step towards carrying out her long-cherished ambitions. When once she has conquered France, and commands her sea-board and her navy, she will then be able to crush England, which is her ultimate aim."
When the Admiral showed me this letter, I suppose I smiled incredulously, for the old man broke out into violent language.
"I believe it's true," he cried. "The Kaiser, for all his pious hypocrisies, is a war devil. He hates the thought that England should be such a World Power, while Germany is only an European Power."
"But the Kaiser isn't such a fool," I replied. "He knows England and her strength."
"Yes, but he's drunk with pride and arrogance. He thinks Germany is destined to rule the world."
A day or so later news came that Servia had consented to all Austria's demands with the exception of two points, and suggested that these should be submitted to the mediation of the Great Powers.
"Ah, that clears the air!" I thought; "nothing can be more reasonable."
Much to the surprise of every one, news came on July 26 that Austria regarded Servia's answer as unsatisfactory, and that the Austro-Hungarian Minister, with the Legation Staff, had left Belgrade on the previous day.
On July 28 I called at Mrs. Nancarrow's house, where I saw Bob reading the newspaper with a smile on his face.
"This is fine," he cried—"just fine. What a splendid fellow SirEdward Grey is! It was he who proposed a Conference in theTurco-Balkan difficulty, and now it is he again who is going to settlethis."
"I am afraid the Turco-Balkan Conference didn't help much," I replied.
"Ah, but this will. After all, what's the heart of the quarrel? The murder of the heir to the Austrian throne. A ghastly affair, I'll admit, but everything can be settled."
"Has Admiral Tresize mentioned a letter which he received from Vienna a day or two ago?" I asked.
"Yes," replied Bob, "but of course it was pure imagination. Do you know, I admire the Kaiser. He's a good man, a religious man."
I coughed.
"Of course it is easy to imagine a case against him," he went on lightly; "but it has no foundation in fact. I told the Admiral so. We had quite an argument about it, and I maintained that whatever the circumstances, England had no occasion to be dragged in, and that it would be criminal on the part of our statesmen if they allowed it. Evidently Sir Edward Grey thinks the same. Of course you've seen that he has proposed a Conference. He has suggested that Germany, France, Italy, and Great Britain, who are not directly connected with the quarrel, should meet, and settle it."
"Will Germany accept?"
"Of course she will," replied Bob confidently, "we shall soon hear that the trouble is at an end."
"I hope you are right, but if the Kaiser holds the views expressed by the Admiral's friend, I very much doubt it," was my rejoinder.
When we read that a Russian Cabinet Council was held, and regarded the Austrian demands as an indirect challenge to Russia, and when we also read that Austria, without giving Servia any chance for further consideration, had declared war upon her, and seized certain of her vessels which happened to be on the Danube, we began to fear trouble, although even then we in St. Ia never seriously believed that England would be directly implicated in it.
I am stating these things here, not that they are not known to every one, but because they will help to make the story I am writing clearer to the reader, especially when it reaches the later stages.
Later the news came to us that there was partial Russian mobilisation along the Austrian frontier, and that as a consequence a Council was held in Berlin. Of course we knew nothing of what was said in that Council, but when we heard that Russia's partial mobilisation had become general, we began to shudder at the gradual darkening of the European sky.
As all the world knows now, Germany declared war on Russia on August 1, and I remember meeting Bob outside the St. Ia post office that day.
"You see you were not right about Germany," I said. "Both France and Italy accepted Sir Edward Grey's suggestion, and consented to join in a Conference; but Germany refused. Nothing can be plainer than that. If Germany had wanted peace, she could easily have secured it. Austria would not have opposed her in any case, but she would not even join in a Conference in order to secure peace."
Bob shook his head. "You know the reason Germany gave for refusing," he said.
"About the most arrogant, but the most characteristic possible. Fancy saying that Austria as a Great Power could not think of allowing mediation as though she were a small Balkan state."
"Yes, it's terrible enough," replied Bob. "But, thank heaven, we are not likely to be dragged into it."
"I hope and pray not," I replied.
"Why? Do you think it possible?" he cried.
"Anything is possible. You've seen that Germany has invaded Luxemburg. As you know, Luxemburg is a small neutral state, and has been promised the protection of the Powers. Germany was a party to this promise, and yet she has violated everything."
"That's only hearsay," was his reply.
"It is more than hearsay," I answered; but Bob did not appear to be convinced.
"I am almost glad dear old father is dead," he went on presently. "The Boer War nearly broke his heart, while this business threatens to be so ghastly, that it would have driven him mad. It is simply hellish."
After this we almost feared to open our newspapers, and events followed so rapidly that we were unable to keep count of them.
Never shall I forget the look on Admiral Tresize's face when he read Sir Edward Grey's momentous speech. His ruddy face became almost pale, and his hands trembled.
"Sir Edward has done all mortal man can do," he declared. "Whose ever hands are clean of this bloody business, his are. He has simply laboured night and day for peace."
"Seemingly all in vain," was my reply.
"I have been informed on unimpeachable authority that the Kaiser, in spite of his pious harangues, has been preparing for this, planning for this, for years."
"Still there is no necessity for us to be dragged in," I urged.
"Of course there is theEntentebetween ourselves and France," he replied. "France will be bound to help Russia on account of their alliance, and the question will naturally arise as to whether we can stand aside while the German fleet bombards France's shores and while German armies cross her frontier."
"But think of war, Admiral."
"Yes, God knows I think of it. I didn't sleep last night for thinking of it. I know what war is, know of its bloody horrors. War is hell, I know that; but I would rather that my country should go through hell, than allow a Power like Germany to crush her."
"But Germany couldn't crush us. She has no desire to crush us."
The Admiral looked at me angrily, but did not speak for some seconds.
"I cannot say all I know," he said presently, "but, mark my words, in a few days you will know by the most incontestable proofs that all this is a part of Germany's plans; that she has used these Sarajevo murders as a pretext for causing European war, that she thinks we shall do nothing, and that her ultimate plan is to crush England, and to dominate the world."
Every one knows the thrill that went through England when war was declared. The shadow of war had closed the Stock Exchange, and paralysed business, but the declaration of war moved the nation to its very depths.
Bob Nancarrow was at Penwennack when the call came to the young men of England to rise and help their country in her need. Several young people had met there for a tennis party, and Bob was among them.
"I'm going to send in my name," cried George Tresize. "I was in theO.T.C. at Rugby."
"I shall join my regiment right away," said Dick quietly. "Trevanion's gone. Of course you'll join, Bob?"
"No," replied Bob quietly, "I shall not join."
"What!"
"Not going to join! Why, you were in the O.T.C. while you were atClifton! Not going to join!"
Bob's face was very pale, but he shook his head.
"You are joking, man! Haven't you read Kitchener's call? He wants half a million men. It's said he'll need a million before long. You can't stand out. No decent fellow can. You don't mean it!"
"Yes, I mean it."
"But why?"
"I'm afraid I couldn't make you understand."
"No, I don't think you could," and there was a sneer in GeorgeTresize's voice.
It happened at that moment that the girls had gone into the house, and had not heard the conversation, but the half-dozen young men who were there looked at Bob as though he were a kind of reptile.
"I say, Bob," said Dick Tresize, who had been always his close friend, "you can't mean it! You are joking. Have—have you read the papers? Have you read what led up to our being in it? Have you seen the white paper?"
"Yes, I've read everything."
"Then you must know that the war is right."
"No war is right," was Bob's answer. "It's opposed to every law, human and divine. How can a fellow who is trying to be a—a Christian," his voice trembled as he spoke, "deliberately enlist for the purpose of killing his fellow-man? If I have a quarrel with a man, and I murder him, I am guilty of the most terrible deed a mancanbe guilty of. If I did it, I should be branded with the mark of Cain, and you would shudder at the mention of my name. A nation is a combination of individuals, and if nations in order to settle their quarrel go to war, and murder, not by ones, but by thousands, does it cease to be the crime of Cain? Does it cease to be murder?"
"Yes, of course it does," replied a young fellow, named Poldhu, who had arranged to leave for his regiment on the following morning.
"How?"
Poldhu was silent for a moment, then he cried out, "Is a hangman a murderer, for hanging a devil? Is a judge a murderer for condemning a fellow like Crippen to death?"
"And you mean to say you are going to funk it?" There was something ominous in Dick Tresize's voice.
"I am not going to enlist."
"I say, you fellows," said Dick, looking towards the others, "the climate's not healthy here. What do you say to a stroll?"
Without a word each one walked away, leaving Bob alone. They had gone only a few steps when there was a sound of many voices at the front door, and a bevy of girls appeared in their light summer dresses. A few seconds later the girls and boys were talking eagerly together, and before long were casting furtive looks towards Bob, who, miserable beyond words, sat watching them.
"No," he heard one say, "I'm not going to play with him."
"Oh, but there's a mistake somewhere! He's all right."
"Is he? Then what did he mean by——"
Bob got up and walked to the other end of the lawn; he had been playing the part of an eavesdropper in spite of himself. He knew what they were talking about—knew that in the future he would be treated as a pariah. They were good fellows, all of them. Clean-minded, healthy young Englishmen. Tom Poldhu, Dick and George Tresize, Harry Lorrimer, and the others were among the best products of English public schools, and although they had their failings, each had his code of honour which is generally held sacred by the class to which he belonged. All of them, too, had been reared in a military atmosphere. Most of them, I imagine, would, with a certain amount of reservation, drink to the old toast, "My country. In all her relations with other nations, may she be in the right. But right or wrong, my country." They did not trouble about the deeper ethics of international quarrels. It was enough for them to know that England was in danger; for them, forgetful of everything else, to offer their lives, if need be, for the land of their birth.
They could not understand Bob. They simply could not see from his point of view. Only one thing was plain to them. Their country was at war. The King's soldiers were going to defend their nation's word of honour, and to crush a Power, which they had no doubt meant to rob England of her glory, and conquer her. Beyond that they troubled little. Neither of them understood much about the cause of the trouble. But that did not matter. They had heard the call, "Your King and Country need you," and that was enough. To remain quietly at home after that was the act of a poltroon and a coward.
"Bob, are you there?"
He had gone from the lawn into a shrubbery, where he was completely hidden. He felt as though he must get out of the sight of every one.
It was Nancy's voice, and every nerve in his body thrilled as he heard it. Yes, Nancy would understand him; he could make everything plain to her.
"Yes, Nancy." He tried to speak cheerfully, but his heart was like lead.
"Bob," and there was a tone in her voice which he had never heard before. "What Dick has been telling us isn't true, is it?"
She had reached his side by this time, and, in spite of her pallor, and the peculiar light in her eyes, he had never seen her look so beautiful.
"What has he been telling you?" he asked, feeling ashamed of himself for asking the question. He knew quite well.
"That—all the rest of them have offered themselves for their country, and you—you——"
"Let me explain, Nancy," he cried eagerly. "Let me tell you why I can't——"
"I don't want any explanations," and there was anger in her voice. "Lord Kitchener has called for volunteers. He has asked for half a million men, so that we may stand by our word of honour, and save our country. What I want to know is, are you going to play the coward?"
"You know my principles, Nancy. You know what we said to each other down at Gurnard's Head, and——"
"I don't want to hear anything more about that," she interrupted impatiently. "I want to know what you are going todo. Please answer me."
She had ceased to be pale now, although her lips quivered and her hands trembled. A pink spot burnt on each cheek, and her eyes burned like fire. Bob knew that she would not be satisfied with subterfuges, or contented with evasions. Neither, indeed, did he wish to shelter himself behind them.
"I'm going to do nothing," he replied. "That is I'm going to carry out the plan we agreed on. Look here, Nancy——"
But again she interrupted him. She was angry beyond words, but she kept herself in check.
"That's all I wanted to know. Thank you. We are not going to play tennis for a little while. We are all going for a walk. Good afternoon."
"You mean that you do not wish me to go with you."
"I do not think you—you would enjoy coming. You see the others——"
She did not complete the sentence, but hurried away, leaving him alone.
Bob felt as though the heavens had become black. He had expected to be misunderstood, sneered at, despised; but he had never dreamed that Nancy would turn from him like this. He knew she hated war. He remembered her telling him about her eldest brother who had been killed in the Boer War, and how it had darkened her home, and added years to her father's life. She had encouraged him in the career he had marked out too; she had agreed with him that the work he had at heart was the noblest any man could do. As a consequence, he thought she would understand him, sympathise with him.
Bob had not come to his decision carelessly, or with a light heart. He had gone over the ground inch by inch. Yes, England was in the right. He did not believe that Germany had planned the war, and he blamed the Czar as much as he blamed the Kaiser. No doubt Germany had broken treaties. It was wrong for her to invade Luxemburg, and then to send her ultimatum to Belgium, after she had been a party to the treaty to maintain Belgium's integrity and neutrality. Of course, the King of the Belgians had made a strong case when he had called upon England to protect her.
But war!
He thought of what it meant, for his father's teaching and influence were not forgotten. Generations of Quaker influence and blood were not without effect. War was born in hell. It was an act of savagery, and not of Christian nations. He pictured the awful carnage, the indescribable butchery, the untold horror which were entailed. He saw hordes of men fighting like devils; realised the lust for blood which was ever the concomitant of war. Besides, they settled nothing. Wars always bred wars, one always sowed the seeds of another. When this bloody welter came to an end, what then? After the nation's wealth had been wasted, after tens of thousands of the most promising lives had been sacrificed, after innumerable homes had been laid waste, after all the agony, what then? Would we be any nearer justice? Would wrong be righted, and love take the place of hatred?
But this was not all, neither did it touch the depths of the question. War, ghastly as it was, might superficially be justified. More than once, when he thought of England's plighted word to defend a small, neighbouring state, when he heard of tens of thousands of England's most stalwart sons leaving home and country, not for aggrandisement, nor gain of any sort, but out of desire to keep England's plighted word, to maintain her honour unsullied, and defend the weak, he felt that he must cast everything aside, and offer himself for the fray. But then he had called himself a Christian, he believed in the teaching of the Prince of Peace. How could a man, believing in the lessons of the Sermon on the Mount, accepting the dictum, "Bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you," do his utmost to murder men who believed in the same Lord as he did?
No, no, it would not do. If Christianity were right, war was wrong. Either Christianity was a foolish thing, an impossible dream, and all our profession of it so much empty cant, or war was something which every Christian should turn from with loathing and horror.
Bob had made no outward profession of Christianity. He had been so far influenced by the spirit of the age, that he seldom spoke about religion, and perhaps many would have regarded him as by no means an exemplary Christian. Nevertheless, deep down in his life was a reverence for Christ and His words. Humanly speaking, the most potent influence in his life was his dead father. Bob, although he had never been inside a Friends' Meeting House, and was not in any way regarded as a member of their community, was one at heart. Either Christ's teaching must be taken to mean what it said, or it was of no value; and Bob took it seriously. Hitherto, it had not clashed with what people had expected of him; but now it seemed to him he must either give up the faith his father had held, or he must hold aloof from this war, and fight for peace.
For days he had seen the trend of affairs, and what they would lead to, and although he had said nothing to any one, he had decided upon the course of his life. Thus it was, when at the tennis party the other men had asked him what he was going to do, he told them.
But he had never dreamed that Nancy would turn from him, never imagined that his decision would separate them. Yes, that was what it meant. If he held fast to his principles, then Nancy was lost to him.
He heard shouts of laughter near by. Those fellows had no doubts, no struggles. They saw the way of duty clearly, and were going to follow it, while he must go in the opposite direction, and thereby lose—oh God, he could not bear it!
He felt himself a pariah. He was no longer wanted, his presence would no longer be tolerated. Even his friend, Dick Tresize, would turn his back on him if he attempted to join him.
"I was tempted to bring my evening clothes, and spend the evening as the Admiral asked me," he reflected; "I'm glad I didn't. I should be frozen out of the house."
He made his way through the gardens towards the garage, where he had left his car; on his way he came across an old gardener, whom he had known for years.
"Well, Master Bob, we be in for a 'ot job."
"I'm afraid we are, Tonkin."
"I wish I was twenty 'ear younger. I'd be off like a shot."
"Where, Tonkin?"
"Off to fight they Germans, to be sure. Why, no young chap worthy of the naame caan't stay 'ome, tha's my veelin'. Tell 'ee wot, they Germans 'ave bin jillus o' we for 'ears, and tes a put-up job. They do 'ate we, and main to wipe us off the faace of the globe. I d' 'ear that the Kaiser ev got eight millyen sodgers. Every able-bodied man 'ave bin trained for a sodger, jist to carry out that ould Kaiser's plans. A cantin' old 'ippycrit, tha's wot 'ee es. But we bean't fear'd ov'm, Maaster Bob. One Englishman es wuth five Germans, 'cos every Englishman es a volunteer, an' a free man. Aw I do wish I wos twenty 'ear younger. Of course you'll be off with the rest of the young gen'lemen?"
But Bob did not reply. He did not want to enter into an argument with the plain-spoken old Cornishman.
When he arrived home, he found that his mother had gone out, and would not return till dinner-time. He was glad for this. He did not want to explain to her why he had come home so early. He felt he could not do so. Besides, her absence gave him an opportunity to think out the whole question again.
Yes, his choice was plain enough. Nancy, the daughter of an English sailor, the child of many generations of fighters, had been carried away by the tide of feeling that swept over the country. Having fighting blood in her veins, she could not understand his feelings. To her it was the duty, the sacred duty, of every healthy young Englishman to defend his country, and none but shirkers, cowards, would stay behind. Therefore, if he stood by his principles, she would cast him off with scorn and contempt. If he continued to hold by what he regarded as the foundation of the teachings of the Prince of Peace, he would lose the girl who was as dear to him as his own life.
Oh, how he longed to join the fray! Pride of race, and pride in the history of that race surged up within him. He, too, had fighting blood in his veins, and he longed to share in the fight. He did not fear death. Once accept the theory of war as right, and death on the battlefield, especially in such a cause, would be glorious. He was young too, and his blood ran warm. What nobler cause could there be than to defend a small people, and to crush the fighting hordes of the Kaiser? And besides all that, there was Nancy. He had been dreaming love's young dream, he had been living in the land of bliss, he loved with a pure, devoted love the fairest girl in the county.
And he could keep her love! From signs which seemed to him infallible, he judged that the Admiral during the last few days had learnt his secret, and had not discouraged him from visiting the house, while Nancy had hinted to him that the time was nearly ripe for him to approach her father, and ask for his consent to their engagement.
But how could he? There were things in the world deeper, more sacred, even than love for a woman—principle, conscience, faith. Could he sacrifice these? Could he trample on the Cross of Christ, in order to embrace the sword, and hold to his heart the woman he loved?
He looked towards the mantelpiece, and saw the picture of his father, whom he had idealised as the noblest man who ever lived. He remembered his teaching, remembered that to him the true man was he who sacrificed everything to principle, to conscience. He looked around among the many books, and noted those his father loved. He took from the table a New Testament, and instinctively turned to the Sermon on the Mount.
"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children ofGod."
"Ye have heard it hath been said, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. But I say unto you, that ye resist not evil, but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also."
And so on and on. How could a man believing in this, grasp the sword to take away the lives of others. The Germans were Christians just as we were; Germany was the home of the Reformation, the home of religious liberty. Was it not Luther who, standing before the greatest tribunal the world had ever known, and having to choose between conscience and death, cried out:
"It is neither safe nor wise for any man to do aught against his own conscience. Here stand I; I can do no other, God help me!"?
No, no, he simply could not. Though he were boycotted, scorned, held up to derision, he could not change. He must be true to his conscience.
But Nancy!
Yes, he must lose Nancy, and the very thought of it made him groan in agony; but he must sacrifice his love rather than his Lord.
He heard his mother come in, and, although he dreaded her coming, he steeled his heart to tell her the truth.
She, too, was full of war news; it had been the common talk at the houses where she had called.
"Bob," she said; and her face was pale, her lips tremulous. "Bob, the thought of it is terrible; but you'll have to go. It is your duty—your country needs you."
She, too, had been fighting a hard battle. A battle between love for her only boy, fear for his safety, and what she believed her duty to her country. The struggle had been hard, but she had determined to make her sacrifice.
"No, I'm not going, mother."
"What, you are going to allow those Germans to crush France and Belgium, and finally conquer and crush us, and never lift a hand in defence?"
Bob was silent.
"You can't mean it, my dear. It's like tearing my heartstrings out to let you go, but you must. I know; you are thinking of me; but I shall be all right. You must do your duty."
"Wouldhehave me go?" and Bob nodded towards his father's picture.
"Your father was a Quaker," she said.
"He was a Christian," and Bob's voice was very low. "That was why he hated war, and denounced it. That is why I am not going to fight."
"Then every brave, true Englishman will despise you."
"That's nothing," replied Bob; and his voice sounded as though he were weary.
"And what of Nancy?"
"Yes, what of her?"
"I know what she feels, I know that——"
"Mother," Bob interrupted, "I can't bear any more just now; and it's no use talking, my mind's made up."
He left the room as he spoke, and soon after, left the house. He did not have any dinner that night, but spent hours tramping the wild moors at the back of the house. The next day he was in misery. Again and again he reviewed the situation, but he could not change. He could not offer himself to be a legalised murderer, for that was how his country's call appealed to him. It was a battle between Calvary and Militarism, and he could not take the side of Militarism.
When he reached the house in the evening, after a long, lonely walk, his mother pointed to a letter lying on the table.
"It's from Admiral Tresize," he said, after he had read it. "He wants me to go up there to dinner, or as soon afterwards as possible."
"You'll go, of course," said the mother eagerly.
"Yes, I'll go. Of course it is too late for me to get there in time for dinner, but I'll go directly afterwards."
"That's right."
An hour later Bob got out his car, and drove towards Penwennack, with a sad heart. He dreaded what he felt sure was coming, and his heart beat wildly with the hope that he might perhaps see Nancy, and make her understand.
When Bob knocked at the door of the house, he realised that he was expected. Without delay the servant opened the door, and without question at once ushered him into the room which went by the name of "the library," though there was but little indication that the apartment was used as a storehouse for books. Nautical charts, globes, pictures of Dreadnoughts, and things appertaining to naval warfare practically filled up all the available space.
As Bob entered, he saw the Admiral seated at a table, with a map ofEurope spread before him.
"Ah! Bob," cried the Admiral, "glad to see you. I hoped you would have come in for dinner, but I suppose you were busy. I wanted a chat with you, my boy."
The old man spoke with an obvious endeavour to retain his old friendly footing, but it was evident that he was anxious and somewhat nervous.
"This is a terrible business, my boy," he went on; "who would have thought it a month ago? I, who always believed that the Germans meant war, never imagined it would come upon us like this. But, by gad, they have found us ready this time! Never was the mobilisation of the Army and Navy managed with such speed; everything has gone like clockwork—just clockwork. Of course you know that Dick and George are gone?"
"I heard they were going," said Bob.
"Yes, the young rascals were just mad to go. Naturally I expected it of Dick, who had just finished his training at Sandhurst; but George was just as keen. I am proud of them too. Yes, my boy, I have lost one son in war, and God only knows what it meant to me; but I would rather lose these two as well, than that England should not play her part."
Bob was silent; he knew what the Admiral had in his mind, and what he was leading up to.
"I have been thinking a good deal about you, Bob," went on the old man. "Of course you have been almost one of the family for years; your mother's people and mine have been friends for centuries. Ah! my lad, let the Radicals say what they will, but it's grand to come of a good family. You have to go a long way back in English history before you come to the time when the Trelawneys and Tresizes were not known. They have fought in a hundred battles for their country, and, thank God, their descendants are ready to do it again. It is a great thing to have a good name, eh, my boy?"
"Yes, sir," replied Bob.
"You told me some time ago that you were in the O.T.C. while you were at Clifton College, and Dick says that you quite distinguished yourself. I am very glad of that; I have some influence in military quarters, although I am a naval man, and I can arrange for you to have your commission right away. Of course it will be in a Cornish regiment." He did not refer to the conversation which had passed between the young men two days before, although Bob felt sure he knew of it, but was assuming his enlistment as a matter of course.
"I have not made up my mind to join," said Bob.
"Not made up your mind to join! Then it is time you should. Every young fellow should join in these days. Of course it will break in upon your law studies and the other things you have in your mind, but, God willing, we shall get all this business over in a few months, and then you'll be able to come back to your work. You'll not suffer for it, my boy—you'll not suffer."
"It is not that at all, sir," replied the young fellow.
"What is it, then?"
"You knew my father, sir?"
"Knew him—of course I did! A good fellow and an honest man, but, you will excuse me for saying so, a crank."
Bob was silent; he did not dare let himself speak.
"Your father was a Quaker," went on the Admiral, "but your mother was a Trelawney. She told me only a few days ago that if war came, hard as it would be for her, she would not move a finger to keep you from going, even if it meant your going to your death. Come now, I will do all I can to push things forward for you."
"Thank you, sir," replied Bob, "but—but I have made up my mind that I can't."
"In heaven's name, why?"
"Admiral," said Bob, and his voice became tremulous, "do you think it right for a man to undertake anything which his conscience condemns?"
"No, of course not; what has that to do with it?"
"Everything, sir, to me. War is brutal and devilish, opposed to everything I have been taught to believe."
"Do you mean to say," cried the Admiral, "that you are not convinced of the righteousness of this war? Why, my lad, the thing is as plain as the nose on your face. Have you gone through the papers? Have you read the correspondence between the various ambassadors?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then do you not think that Germany has been planning this war for years, and that she has checked every movement for peace?"
"That is debatable, isn't it, sir?"
"Debatable? No! You are not such a fool as to believe that this war is on account of the Servian assassination? That is a mere flimsy pretext—one of the flimsiest ever known. I have read all about it to-day. Austria had practically agreed to live at peace with Servia, to allow Servia to retain her independence. The trouble was, to all intents and purposes, patched up, and then Germany insisted on an impossible ultimatum. Austria would never have declared war on Servia had not Germany given her orders to do so. Here is a letter written by Sir Maurice de Bunsen, on July 26. He states plainly that Germany wanted war, that she had schemes in Asia Minor which she wanted to carry out. She believed that by war with Servia she would be able to accomplish her purposes. She believed that Russia would keep quiet during the time Austria worked her will, and as de Bunsen says, 'Germany knew very well what she was about in backing up Austria-Hungary in this matter.'"
"Yes, sir, that is all very well, but that does not make war right. Personally, I find it easy to believe that Germany was the aggressor in this case; I believe, too, that Russia decided to stand by Servia not for the sake of the Servians, but for her own interests; that does not justify her in dragging the whole of Europe into war."
"Yes, but are you mad, my boy? The Servian business was only the beginning of it. Of course, when Russia prepared to protect Servia, Germany, knowing that the war she had been trying to bring about must come some time, declared war on Russia. Then, without giving France a chance, she invaded Luxemburg and French territory; don't you see?"
"I do not see how that makes war right, sir."
"No, but when Germany invaded Belgium, broke all treaty rights, andBelgium asked us to protect her what were we to do?"
"Admiral," said Bob, "I believe you pretend to be a Christian."
"Yes, of course I do, but what has that to do with it?"
"Do you happen to believe in 'The Sermon on the Mount'?"
"Good Lord, yes! Isn't it our Lord's own words?"
"Then I want to ask you how a man can reconcile the teaching of 'TheSermon on the Mount' with bloody warfare such as this is to be?"
The Admiral was nonplussed for a moment; he was a simple seaman, and not versed in the philosophy of ethics.
"Look here, my boy!" he cried passionately, "if I know anything about Christianity, it teaches a man to be honourable, truthful, and to keep his word. I would not give a fig for any Christian who did not keep his word. Well, we gave our word to Belgium. The Germans did so, too, but, like the brutes they are, they violated theirs, and when Belgium appealed to us, and asked us to keep our word, could we refuse? Could any Christian refuse? No, by gad, no!"
"But, Admiral, don't you see that——"
"Look here, Bob, I want no more talking. Are you going to back out of your duty, or are you going to play the game like a man?"
"I am going to try to be true to my conscience, sir. As I told you, war to me is unchristian, devilish, and if I enlisted, I should, by so doing, become a paid murderer."
The Admiral rose to his feet, his eyes blazing. For a moment his temper had got the better of him, and, had he been able to speak, he would have hurled at Bob words for which he would have been sorry afterwards. Luckily, he could not. Presently he had gained command over himself.
"I do not think we had better say any more," he said quietly. "I am sorry I have been mistaken in you; sorry that you should have accepted the hospitality of a Pagan home like this. Of course you are not renewing your visits here?"
"But, Admiral!" cried Bob, angry with himself for not weighing his words before uttering them. "I—I——"
"Excuse me," said the old man, "it is no use saying any more. Good night."
He did not offer to shake hands, but went to the bell push. A second later a servant appeared, to whom the Admiral nodded. Without hesitation the man opened the door and held it while Bob passed out, and then led the way to the front entrance. When he had gone, the Admiral threw himself into an arm-chair and heaved a deep sigh; it was like saying good-bye to his own son.
As Bob walked down the hall he felt as if an end had come to all his dreams, and that he was being turned out of the house which he had always looked upon as a kind of second home. Of course Nancy would be aware of the interview, and would learn the result. In bidding good-bye to the house, he was also bidding good-bye to her. The servant had his hand upon the door-knob when he heard the rustle of a woman's dress, and Nancy, pale and eager-eyed, came from an adjoining room.
"Jenkins," she said, "Mr. Nancarrow will not go yet; you need not wait." The man left without a word, and Nancy led the way into the room where she had been sitting.
"I felt, perhaps, that I was not fair to you yesterday, and I thought I would give you another chance of—explaining yourself." Her voice was hoarse and trembling—indeed it did not sound like Nancy's voice at all.
"Oh, Nancy," he said, "I was afraid I should not see you! Thank you for speaking."
"Father told me he had written you," she went on. "I—I hope everything is arranged all right. Bob, do you mean what you said? Do you mean that you are going to play the coward?"
"I am doing the hardest thing I ever did in my life," he blurted out.
"In taking a coward's part?"
"Call it that if you like," was his reply.
They were alone by this time, and the door closed behind them.
"I am trying to be calm," said Nancy. "You know all we had hoped and planned, but—but I don't want to be foolish; there must be deeper reasons than those you mentioned the other day. I do not think you can have realised the circumstances. Since you left, I have done nothing but read—and try to understand. I have been very ignorant about such matters, and I thought, perhaps, my ignorance kept me from understanding you. I have read all the papers which father has been able to obtain, all the miserable story which led up to this war. Have you?"
"Yes," said Bob; "all!"
"Then surely you do not hold to what you said?"
"I am afraid I do."
"Then perhaps you will explain."
"That is what I want to do," cried Bob. "Oh, Nancy, you don't know what I have been through since I left you!—you don't know how I have longed to enlist, longed to take part in the fray—but—there it is. Look here, Nancy, I was never one to talk much about these things, but you knew my father, knew that he was a Quaker, a Christian, in a very real sense of the word. When he died, my mother and others told me they hoped I should be worthy of him, and—I have tried to be. It is difficult to talk about such matters, Nancy, and I am not one of those fellows who parade their piety and that sort of thing. I would not say what I am going to now, but for the circumstances. I have tried to understand what Christianity means. I have read the New Testament, especially the Gospels, again and again. I have tried to realise what Jesus Christ said, what He lived for, what He died for, and I think I have tried to follow him. No, I am not namby-pamby, and this is not empty talk. I expect there are hundreds of young fellows who never talk about religion, but who are trying, honestly and squarely, to live Christian lives. Anyhow, that is what I have tried to do. When this war seemed to be inevitable, I went into the whole business. I read everything I could,—newspapers, state papers, correspondence between the ambassadors, and all that kind of thing. You see, I felt what was coming; and, Nancy, I simply cannot square Christianity with war. Either Jesus Christ was mistaken, and Christianity is an empty dream; or war is wrong—wrong under any circumstances. It is hellish, and I can't stand for it—I can't!"
The girl looked at him with wide open eyes, and her lips trembled, but she did not speak.
"Yes," he went on, "I know what it means. I shall be boycotted, sneered at, called a coward, and all that; but that is nothing, is it? What is much more terrible to me is the fact that I shall—that I shall lose you! You drove me away the other day, Nancy. You did not mean it, did you? You would not have me go against my conscience?"
"Conscience!" there was a world of scorn in her voice. She seemed to be hesitating whether she should not open the door and tell him to leave the house. Perhaps there was something in the tone of his voice, in the expression of his eyes, which kept her from doing this. "Perhaps you have not thought of the other side," she tried to say calmly. "Have you ever thought what it would mean if Germany conquered England—Germany with her militarism and her savagery? Have you thought how she would treat us, what would become of us, and all that we hold most dear?"
"Yes, I have thought of that."
"And would it not be right, if, to save our country, and all our country stands for, if need be, to deluge Europe in blood? Oh, Bob, can't you see?"
"It is never right to do wrong," said Bob. "Is it right to tell a lie that truth may come? Is it right to tell a lie to save any one from pain? Is it right to commit murder to save some one from an even greater calamity? That's nothing but the old Jesuit doctrine of the end justifying the means. But, Nancy, don't let's talk anything more about it. I am tired, weary of it! You love me, I love you. Can't you let me live my own life, carry out the projects I have in my mind, and trust to Providence?"