"What right have we to trust in Providence," asked the girl passionately, "when we stand by and do nothing? Suppose at the end of this war we come off victorious, I suppose that you, who have never lifted your finger to save your country, will think it your right to enter into the benefits which others have won for you? That is your idea of Christianity, I suppose?"
"But war cannot be right."
"I don't know about war in the abstract," cried the girl, "but I do know that this war is. I am not a sophist, and I can't put into words what is in my mind. I am only an ordinary girl; but, Bob"—she raised her voice as she spoke—"if you can stand by while your country is in danger, if you can turn a deaf ear to her call, if you refuse to help, and go on working at your law books while other young men are fighting for their country's honour and safety, then—then—don't you see? We live in different worlds, we breathe different air, and—there is an end to everything."
"Have we tried to understand the German position?" said Bob. "Germany is a Christian country as much as England is; the German people are what Thomas Carlyle calls them, a brave, quiet, patient people. Are we right in attributing evil motives to them?"
"But do you not believe," cried Nancy, "that the Emperor and his ministers planned all this?—that they depended upon the neutrality of England, thinking we would stand by and see a little nation crushed? Everything proves that their object and desire is to crush England, and to dominate the world. You say you have read all about it. Surely you do not believe that Germany is going to war to crush Servia because of the assassination of an Austrian prince? You do not believe in that flimsy pretext?"
"No," said Bob, "I can't say I do."
"And have you thought of this?" said the girl. "When this war was declared, it was not at the time the Crown Prince was assassinated, but when things seemed to be favourable to the Kaiser's plans of aggression. Any one can see how everything fits in. A speech had been made in the French Senate about the unreadiness of that country for war, and then when the President and Foreign Secretary of the French Republic were staying in Russia and could not get back for days, Germany hurled out her ultimatum. War was declared at a time, too, when Russia was believed to be confronted with revolutionary strikes, and was almost bled to death by her war with Japan. It was declared at a time when England was believed to be on the eve of civil war on account of her Irish troubles, and when it seemed that she must, of necessity, remain neutral. Can't you see the fiendishness of the plot? The Kaiser and his creatures thought the time had come when they could begin the war for which they had been preparing."
"Is not that a pure hypothesis?" exclaimed Bob; nevertheless, he was struck with the girl's evident knowledge of affairs.
"Hypothesis!" cried the girl. "Are you mad, Bob? Isn't everything plain? What sense of honour has Germany shown? What desire for peace? She had her plans ready, and she determined to carry them out at whatever cost. To little Luxemburg she promised protection, and yet without even saying 'by your leave,' invaded Luxemburg. Belgium, also, was protected by treaty. Germany, as well as other countries, had plighted her word that Belgium's neutrality and integrity should be respected; yet she sent that infamous ultimatum to Belgium that if the German troops were not allowed to march through the country without opposition, she would be treated as an enemy. Can you think of anything more dishonourable? Why," and Nancy's voice trembled with pain, "I was just mad when I read it in the newspapers, and when afterwards dad showed me the official reports about it, I could scarcely contain myself. The Chancellor of Germany said, 'Yes, we know we have done wrong; we have broken our word to Luxemburg, and violated the treaty we signed; but necessity knows no law. It was a part of our plan to do it, and we did it. We know we signed a treaty that Belgium's neutrality and integrity should be maintained, but you see it did not suit our plans to keep our word, so we broke it. We will make it up to the Belgians afterwards, if they will do what we tell them; but if they will not, we will crush them.' What is honour to a country like that? Can't you see that all along Germany intended to dominate Europe, and because she thought the present time propitious, she was willing to cover herself with dishonour in order to do the thing she wanted?"
"Is there not another side to that?" interjected Bob.
"Another side? How can there be another side? When our Ambassador met the German Chancellor, what took place? The Chancellor had the audacity to make what our Prime Minister called an 'infamous proposal.' He suggested that we should break our word to Belgium, and remain neutral so that Germany could crush France. Then when our Ambassador asked, as any gentleman would ask, 'But what about the treaty we signed?' he replied, 'What is a treaty? A thing to be broken! A scrap of paper! Will you go to war for that?'"
"But consider what war means!" cried Bob. "Does it follow that because the Germans are willing to plunge Europe into war, we should do likewise? Does anything,anything, justify the violation of every law, human and divine?"
"Bob, do please just call to mind what that horrible German, who had not even the first instincts of a gentleman, said, 'Have you counted the cost, and still stand by your honour and plighted word?' As if an English gentleman could ever count the cost when his plighted word was given!"
"Yes," said Bob, "but any statesman ought to count the cost. Think of what it will all mean, Nancy; think of all the hatred, the feelings of devilish revenge, the mad passions that will be roused; think of countries lying waste, think of the whole spirit of war, of the untold misery and horror of it all, and then ask if anything justifies war. I know you have a strong case, but two wrongs cannot make a right. Suppose a man broke his word to me, outraged my feelings, did me great wrong; would that justify my driving a knife into his heart? I should be called a murderer if I did it, and be hanged for my deed. Besides, to come back to where we were just now, Nancy, how could I pretend to be a Christian, if I enlisted, and went to the war for the purpose of killing my fellow-men? Christ said, 'Love your enemies, do good to them that hate you, pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you. If a man smite thee on thy right cheek turn to him the other.' Oh, Nancy, can't you see how utterly opposed Christianity is to the whole ghastly thing? Here is the German Emperor saying to his soldiers, 'Go to church and pray—we are fighting God's battle.' Here are our clergymen saying to our people, 'Go to church and pray—we are fighting God's battle.' How can God answer both our prayers? They believe they are in the right, we believe we are in the right, and so to uphold what we both believe to be right we engage in this hellish business."
"And that is your explanation," she said.
"Yes, Nancy; I cannot, I simply cannot be a soldier and a Christian at the same time. But you will not let this come between us, will you? I am trying to be true to my conscience, to act in accordance with the teaching of the New Testament, and I cannot reconcile Christianity with war."
"Do you believe that we shall win in this fight?" and the girl's voice became hard as she asked the question.
"Yes," said Bob. "Yes, I believe we shall in the end. After rivers of blood have been shed, after horrors worse than can be described have been realised, after tens and tens of thousands of men have been killed, after a whole continent has been desolated, I believe we shall win. We shall be stronger than the Germans because we have such vast numbers of men in reserve; yes, I expect that in the long run we shall be able to dictate terms of peace; yes, I expect that."
"But you believe that no war can be justified?"
Bob shook his head.
"Think," said the girl, "think of the sixteenth century, when Philip of Spain made such great preparations to conquer and subdue England. If he had succeeded, our religion would have been destroyed, our homes taken away from us, our liberty torn from us, our existence as a nation would have been practically wiped out. Do you believe God meant Drake and Hawkins and the rest of them to sit down quietly while the Spaniards invaded our land and destroyed our liberties? Do you believe that?"
Bob was silent.
"No, you do not believe it. You know that had Philip II succeeded there would be no England to-day such as we know. Well, now it comes to this: A greater and a more terrible power than Spain seeks to crush us; but our men, thank God, have not ceased to be Englishmen, and they will safeguard our liberties, and keep for us still the England we love. When the war is over, and all danger is gone, I suppose that you, who stand idly by, and talk about the ethics of war, will think it your right to enjoy the liberties which these brave fellows suffer and die to give you. Is that it?"
"Nancy, that's not fair."
"I want to be fair. Tell me, is that your attitude? It is un-English, and it is cowardly. Is it yours?"
"I will not try to answer you, Nancy—I should be sorry afterwards, perhaps; but—but—Nancy, is everything over between us?"
"That's for you to say."
"For me?"
"Yes, you. You have your choice. I—I had nearly overcome dad's—objections to you."
"But, Nancy, do you mean to say that——"
"I can never marry a man who shrinks from his duty at such a time as this? Yes, I mean that."
"Nancy, you make it a choice between you and my conscience."
For a few seconds she looked at him without speaking. Her lips were quivering, and her hands were trembling. It was easy to see that she was greatly wrought upon.
"No, that is not the choice," she said, and her voice had a hard ring in it.
"What is it, then?"
"A choice between me and cowardice."
He staggered as if some one had struck him. "Do you mean that?" he asked hoarsely.
"Yes, I mean that."
Without speaking another word, he staggered blindly out of the house. Nancy heard him close the front door behind him, and then, throwing herself into a chair, sobbed as though her heart would break.
For the next few days St. Ia was completely under the influence of the war fever. Although we have only about three thousand inhabitants, three hundred of our men belonging to the Naval Reserve left in one day, while many who were away in their fishing-boats were expected to join their vessels as soon as they could return home. Young territorials left the neighbourhood by the score, and many a lad who had previously been laughed at, when wearing his uniform, was looked upon as a kind of hero, and everywhere one turned, the only subject of conversation was the war.
Each morning at eight o'clock, the time at which our newspapers usually arrive, there was such a rush for the train, in order to obtain early copies, as I had never seen before; and presently, when the news came that an army consisting of one hundred thousand men had landed on French soil without even a hitch or casualty, we cheered wildly. Evidently our War-office machinery was in good order, and our soldiers, perhaps the best armed and equipped that ever left our shores, would, we were sure, give a good account of themselves.
Among the older and more staid people the inwardness of the situation was more and more realised. It seemed so strange that the German nation, which a few weeks before was looked upon as a nation of friends, was now spoken of as "the enemy." We held our breaths when we read of the bombardment of Liége, and cheered wildly at the thought of the brave Belgian army holding the forts against the opposing forces, and driving back the hordes of Huns with such valour. "How long will the English take to get there?" we asked again and again. "When shall we come to close grips with them?" Many a mother grew pale as she thought of her boy in the line of battle.
Presently news came of the fall of Liége and the victorious march of the Germans towards Brussels. The terror of the whole thing got hold of us, as we thought of the unfortified capital being seized by the advancing hosts of a great military Power. We troubled very little about French successes or losses in Alsace and Lorraine. We knew that the French, true to their characters, had yielded to sentiment rather than to strategy in making what seemed to us a foolish attempt to win back these provinces. Of course it was only forty-four years ago that they had been taken from them by their conquerors in the Franco-German war. We knew too that, ever since, they had been longing for revenge, longing to win back what they felt to be part of their own country. Naturally we sympathised with the French in this, and tears came to our eyes, and sobs to our throats, when we read how old Frenchmen who had been through the Franco-German war, welcomed the soldiers with wild and tumultuous joy. Nevertheless we knew that victory could not be won by sentiment, and that if the carefully trained German soldiers were to be driven back, there must be strategy on our side equal to theirs, and that the armies must be led, not only courageously, but intelligently. Thus, although we had no proof of the rumour, we rejoiced when we heard that Lord Kitchener had gone to Paris, and by his wise counsels and tremendous personality had altered the whole course of the campaign.
"He's the man!" one would say to another; "he's like the Iron Duke in Boney's time. Nerves like steel, a mind like a razor, and the heart of a lion."
Nevertheless day by day our hearts grew heavier and heavier as we read of the steady German advance towards Paris. "If the capital is taken," men said, "Isn't everything done for?" and then we weighed the pros and cons with all the wisdom of a rustic population.
Another thing added to our discomfort. The lads of Cornwall were not responding as we thought they should, to the call of their country. From all parts of England young men were coming forward, and London was enlisting volunteers at the rate of a thousand a day. Yorkshire and Lancashire proved their devotion and their loyalty. Devon, too, our sister county, more than maintained her traditions. We read how in one little village where only thirty young men lived, twenty-five of them had volunteered. "It is because our boys don't understand, don't realise what we are fighting for," said one to another; and then we heard with delight that Admiral Tresize and the Member of Parliament for St. Ia were arranging for a public meeting, at which truth should be made known.
During this time Bob Nancarrow was much alone. He seldom left the house, neither was he to be seen in any of his old favourite haunts. No one followed the fortunes of the war more closely than he. With almost feverish eagerness he read every item of news, although, by his own decision, he was an outsider. He was torn by two opposing forces. One was the love of his country and his own people, and the other was the voice of his conscience. He thought, when he happened to go into the little town, that people nudged each other significantly as he passed, and made unflattering remarks about him. As a matter of fact, however, no such thing happened. True, there were some who wondered why he remained at home, while all his schoolfellows and friends had volunteered; but many more remembered that he was the son of Dr. Nancarrow, a man who, to the time of his death, was an apostle of peace. Of course the inner circle of his acquaintances knew the truth, but they only talked of it among their own set, and thus Bob's fears were groundless.
One day he was attracted by a large placard which appeared on all the public hoardings headed by the Royal Coat of Arms: "'Your King and Country Need You!' A great meeting will be held in the Public Hall on Thursday night in order to explain why this war has taken place, and why it is the duty of every man to help." It announced also that Admiral Tresize was to take the chair, while, in addition to the local Member, the meeting was to be addressed by Captain Trevanion, who was coming down from Plymouth for this purpose, just before leaving for the front.
"Of course I shan't go," said Bob to himself. "I know the reasons for the war, and I should be in utter misery if I went." Nevertheless he found himself making plans for going.
For several days Mrs. Nancarrow had been cold and uncommunicative, and he knew that a cloud of reserve hung between them. He felt that his mother despised him. He felt sure, too, that she knew all that had taken place at Penwennack—that he was henceforth to be treated, in what he had regarded as his second home, as worse than a stranger.
"There is to be a great meeting at the Public Hall to-night," said Mrs.Nancarrow, on the day of the meeting. "Are you going?"
Bob shook his head.
"There seems to be tremendous enthusiasm about Captain Trevanion's coming down, although, of course, he is no speaker," went on Mrs. Nancarrow. "But you see, the fact of his starting for the front in a day or so, makes him of special interest. I understand that Nancy Tresize is going away as a Red Cross nurse, almost at once."
Bob's heart fluttered wildly as he heard her name.
"Captain Trevanion stayed at Penwennack last night. Naturally theAdmiral admires him more than ever. The Captain and Nancy motored toLand's End yesterday afternoon."
Her every word was like a sword thrust into the young fellow's heart. He knew what she meant—knew too, that the Admiral had always favoured Trevanion as a suitor for his daughter. How could it be otherwise, when Trevanion was a man after the Admiral's own heart?Hehad showed no hesitation about the right of defending his country; rather he had throughout been enthusiastic to a degree, while Bob had hung back. Mad jealousy filled his heart as he realised what might possibly be taking place. Even then, Nancy, in her scorn for the man whom she believed to have been unworthy of her love, might be listening to the pleadings of one who was worthy.
"I expect Nancy will be at the meeting," went on Mrs. Nancarrow. "As you know, she goes almost everywhere with her father, and as the Admiral will take the chair, I expect she will be on the platform."
Bob conjured up the scene. He fancied he saw Trevanion, in his uniform, speaking in a soldier-like fashion about the duty of defending his country, the crowd cheering wildly, while Nancy, carried away by her admiration of the man who accorded with her ideals of how an Englishman should act, would yield to the gallant soldier the love for which he would give his life.
That night, with a kind of savage love for self-torture, Bob made his way to the Public Hall. He got there half an hour before the announced time, and found the place nearly full. All round the walls hung bunting, characteristic of the county. The Cornish Coat of Arms hung over the chairman's table, while the chorus of the old Cornish song:
And shall they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen,And shall Trelawney die?Then twenty thousand CornishmenWill know the reason why.
was printed in large letters, and hung in a prominent place. At the back of the platform some one had written, "Cornwall has never failed her country yet. Shall she be unworthy of the names of Trelawney, Killigrew, Boscawen, Carew, Tresize, and Trevanion? Never!"
To Bob's chagrin he was led to a seat close to the platform. Evidently the man who took him there, wanted him, as the son of one who had been, perhaps, the most respected man in the town, to have a place of honour.
In a few minutes the audience was singing patriotic songs. It was true that there was something jingoistic about them, nevertheless Bob's heart thrilled. Perhaps there are no people in the whole country whose voices are sweeter than those of the dwellers in our most Western county. His heart caught fire as he listened. Yes, there was something in fighting for home and fatherland, something sublime in dying for a noble cause. Then again the horror of war, the brutal butchery, the senseless hatred, the welter of blood, the blighted lives and homes, arose before him. He knew that the meeting would have no message for him.
Precisely at the time announced the speakers appeared on the platform amidst a tumult of shouting, and then Bob's heart gave a great leap, for he saw that Nancy Tresize, with several other ladies, followed the old Admiral. In spite of himself his eyes were drawn towards her as if by a magnet. He tried to look away from her, but could not, and then, when he least expected it, her gaze caught his. It was only for a second, but that second plunged him into the deepest darkness. He saw the flush that mounted to her cheeks, the smile of derision that passed her lips, and the look of scorn and contempt that expressed itself on her face. He knew then what Nancy felt about him, and that he had lost her—lost her for ever.
I am not going to try to describe the speeches at length—there is no need. The Admiral spoke in a bluff, hearty way about the causes which led up to the war, and then told of the part which the county had always played, and of her great names which had gone down to history. Spoke, too, of the need of men at the present time, and then made his appeal.
After him came the Member for St. Ia. He evidently tried to speak as a statesman on the question. He was listened to respectfully, but without enthusiasm. He was little fitted to explain the intricacies of international politics. Bob felt, during the whole time he was speaking, that he did not know the A.B.C. of his subject, felt that if he had been in his place he would have made a far stronger case for the country and the cause.
Then some one got up and recited some doggerel by a London journalist which was said to be very popular in various parts of the country, but which did not appeal to our Cornish boys at all.
Up to this point the meeting could not be pronounced a success. Crowds were there, and the people were waiting to be caught on fire; but the right spark had not been struck. It only wanted a little to rouse the whole audience to white heat; the train was laid, the powder was set, but no one seemed able to ignite the match. People looked at one another doubtfully. The youths who had been expected to enlist remained cold and almost jeeringly critical. Then the Admiral called for Captain Trevanion.
A feeling of envy came into Bob's heart as the Captain rose. He was wearing his regimentals and looked a soldier, every inch of him; tall, stalwart, straight as a rule. Young and handsome, he bore proudly a name which might be found in the remotest history of his county.
"I am no speaker," he began, "and never pretend to speak; in fact, this is almost the first time that I have tried to address a meeting. I am a soldier; I start in a few days for the front, and I have only come to tell you why I am going."
There was evidence of sincerity in his words, and they were spoken in such a hearty and convincing way that they appealed to every one present. Bob felt it more than any one else. Yes, he envied him. Oh, if he could only take his place! If he could say, "I am going to the front in a few days!"
"I have been working hard, these last weeks," went on Trevanion; "drilling, drilling; training, training; preparing for the fray, and waiting and longing to, hear the command, 'Up, lads, and at them!' Thank heaven the command has at last come!"
His voice rang out clearly, and as he spoke a new light came into the eyes of many.
"And why am I going?" he cried. "Why are tens of thousands of the brave lads from all over the Empire going to France at this time? I'll tell you!"
He was not eloquent. He had no great command of language, but he stirred the hearts of the people, because he told a simple story, which, while from the standpoint of the cold critic it might appear unconvincing, was, when listened to by patriotic Englishmen, full of appeal and power.
He drew two pictures, and although he did it crudely he did it well. He described first a meeting of Cabinet Ministers in Whitehall. These men had for a long time been labouring night and day for peace, and now the final stage had come. They had sent what was in some senses an ultimatum to Germany, and they were now waiting for the answer. War and peace hung in the balance. The time was approaching midnight, and the hour when the final decision was to be made was near at hand. The question they had asked Germany was this: "Will you keep your word to Belgium, or will you violate the treaty you have signed?"
"The Belgians," said Trevanion, "had the promise of the Kaiser to maintain their country's neutrality and integrity. Was that promise to be trusted, or was it a sham and a lie? 'We Britons gave our word,' our statesmen had said, 'and, like Britons, we are going to keep it. What are you going to do? If you prove false, we are going to stand by our promise, if it cost us our last man and our last pound.
"Presently the sound of Big Ben at Westminster boomed across the city. The Germans had not replied. This meant that the Kaiser had played the traitor, that he had torn up the treaty he had signed; and thus when the last stroke of Big Ben sounded across London, the four statesmen looked at each other, and said, 'This means war.' Could they have done any other?" cried the Captain—"could they? No!"
From the hall, rose the many-throated reply, "No, by God, no!"
"Now for another picture," he went on. "It is not in London, not in Whitehall this time; it is in Germany, at Berlin. Our Ambassador there, was speaking to a representative of the German Kaiser, the mouthpiece of the German nation. 'What will you do?' asked the German. 'Surely you English will be neutral?'
"'That depends,' said the Englishman.
"'On what?' queried the German.
"'It depends whether you Germans are going to be true to the treaty you have signed, true to your plighted word.'
"'And if not?' the German asked.
"'In that case,' replied the Englishman, 'we are not going to stand by and see a little state wronged and ruined, because a great nation like Germany, who should keep her word, is playing Belgium false.'
"'Treaty,' questioned the German, 'what is a treaty? Will you go to war with us for that—just for a scrap of paper?'
"'But that scrap of paper means our nation's honour,' the Englishman said.
"'Have you counted the cost?' asked the German, thinking to frighten the Englishman.
"'We English,' replied the British Ambassador, 'are not likely to go back on our word because of fear.'
"The German left him in a passion, and the Englishman said in his heart, 'It is war.'
"Would you have had him give another answer?"
And again a mighty shout from the hall, "No, by God, no!"
"Then do your duty—help us in the fight," cried the Captain. The right note was struck now, and it had been struck by Bob's rival. Oh, how he envied him! He saw that Nancy's eyes were ablaze with joy, that she was moved to the depth of her being; and the man who had moved her to enthusiasm and admiration was the man who wanted the woman Bob loved, and whom he had lost.
"Can any Englishman," went on Captain Trevanion, "stand by after that? If he can, what is he worth? Of course he will make paltry excuses, he will say this and that and the other thing, but what are his excuses worth? I have heard of young fellows, men who have been trained in our public schools, who stand by and refuse to help; what shall we say of them? And you young chaps, healthy, strong, unmarried, without home ties, what if you refuse to respond to the call of your country? I will tell you what I think of you: you are white-livered cowards."
Again the audience cheered, and Captain Trevanion, fired by the enthusiasm he had roused, became almost eloquent. He knew he had the grip of his audience, and his words came more easily.
"I want to appeal to you girls," he went on. "Your sweethearts are sitting by you: well, a fellow who is such a coward as to refuse to fight for his country isn't worth having. Tell him so, shame him into being a man!" he cried, and his voice rang out, as though he were giving orders on parade.
"What shall we do?" shouted a voice in the hall.
"Make them feel what cowards they are. Here," and he laughed as he spoke, "I have in a basket a lot of white feathers; I think they might be of use. Any of you girls who know men who are hanging back from cowardice, just give them a white feather, and never speak to them again until they have wiped away their disgrace." He took up the basket and held it out. "There," he said, "I have finished my speech: men and women do your duty!"
As he sat down the whole meeting was in a state of wild uproarious enthusiasm.
A few minutes later the hall began to empty itself, although a number of people remained behind to discuss the situation. An old retired sergeant of seventy years of age stayed with a number of young fellows who lingered behind, and as they stood near to Bob he could hear every word that was said.
"Come, you chaps," said the sergeant, "aren't you going to be men? aren't you going to fight the Germans?"
"Why shud us?" they asked. "What 'ave we got 'ginst the Germans?"
"Would you like the Germans to conquer your country? would you like to have the Kaiser for a king?"
"Dunnaw: why shudden us?" replied one.
"Laive they that want to fight the Germans, fight 'em—we bean't goin' to," said another. "Why shud we all git killed to plaise Members of Parliament?"
"I be sheamed ov 'ee," cried an old man near; "you bean't worthy to be called Englishmen."
"Why bean't us?"
"'Cos you be cowards. Wud 'ee like to be traited like they Germans be?"
"From oal accounts they be a darned sight better on than we be," was the reply.
"Wot do 'ee main?"
"Why," laughed a young fellow, "at the last general election one of the spaikers, I doan' know who 'twas, but the one that talked Tariff Reform, zaid that the Germans was a lot better off than we be. He zaid that the Germans was fat, and that we was lean, and that the Germans had better times, shorter hours, and higher wages than we've got. Ef tha's so, we'd be a lot better off under the Germans than we be now."
"Bean't 'ee Englishmen?" cried the old man. "Bean't 'ee goin' to fight and keep 'em from England?"
"I bean't goin' over there to git killed—not me. I knaw trick worth two of that"; and then shamefacedly the whole lot of them left the hall without enlisting.
Bob's anger rose as he listened. "What mean cowards they are!" he said to himself; "I feel almost ashamed to be a Cornishman. Of course scores of our boys are playing the game like men, but these creatures make one sick." A moment later his face became crimson with shame. Was he not doing the same? Yes; his reasons were different, and of course he could have made a better case for himself than they did, but was he not a shirker just as much as they were? Then all such thoughts were driven from his mind in a second, for down the platform steps, with the evident intention of passing into the hall, came Admiral Tresize, Captain Trevanion, and several ladies, among whom was Nancy. At first he felt as if he must rush out of the hall, but his feet seemed rooted, he could not move. Captain Trevanion and Nancy came towards him.
"Now then, Nancarrow, have you enlisted yet?" asked Trevanion. "You should, as an old O.T.C. man. I find that hosts of the fellows from Clifton College have enlisted. Aren't you going to?"
Bob did not speak, he could not. He heard the sneer in the Captain's voice, saw the look of contempt on his face, and he knew why he spoke. But he could not understand why Nancy stood waiting as if with the intention of speaking to him. He knew that he cut a poor figure compared with Trevanion, and that to Nancy he must seem a slacker, a wastrel. Still he could not speak nor move. He felt that the girl's eyes were upon him, felt contempt in her every gesture, her every movement. She came up close to him.
"Aren't you going to help to uphold your country's honour?" she said, and her voice quivered with excitement. Evidently she was deeply moved.
He felt as if the room were whirling round. He thought he noted a sign of pleading in her voice, and that her eyes became softer. It seemed to him that she was giving him his last chance. He could not speak, he could only shake his head.
"Then allow me to present you with this," she went on, and she held out a white feather. "I am sure you must be proud of it, and that you will wear it honourably, especially at such a time as this."
The insult pierced his heart like a poisoned arrow. He knew that her intention was to heap upon him the greatest ignominy of which she was capable. There were not many people in the room, but there were some who must have seen her action. As for Trevanion he turned away his head with a laugh.
"Come, Captain Trevanion," said Nancy, "we must be going." She took hold of his arm, and they walked out of the hall together.
Bob made a stride forward as if to follow them. He wanted to hurl defiance at them, wanted to tell her that her action was mean and contemptible, unworthy of an Englishwoman. Wanted to—God knows what he wanted. His brain was whirling, everything seemed to be mad confusion, but he only took one step; the uselessness of it all appealed to him. What could he do, what could he say? He had made his decision, taken his stand, and must be ready to suffer.
Then he remembered what Captain Trevanion had said at the close of the golf match:
"In this field of battle you have beaten me, but in the next I shall be the conqueror."
"Yes," said Bob, and he silently made his way home. "I have lost her.I have lost everything, but what could I do?"
"Mother," said Bob, on his return home, "I shall be leaving St. Ia to-morrow morning."
"What! going away, Eh?" said Mrs. Nancarrow, looking at him searchingly. For days she had been hoping that he would see it his duty to offer himself to his country, and yet all the time dreading the thought of parting from him.
"Where are you going?"
"To Oxford," he replied.
"Then you are not going to enlist?"
He shook his head. "I am going to Oxford," he repeated.
"Bob, my dear, we have not seemed to understand each other just lately. I am afraid I spoke unkindly to you the other day, and as a consequence there has been a lack of trust. Won't you tell me all about it?"
"There is nothing to tell, mother; I simply cannot do what you expect me to, that is all. You see I believe in what my father taught me," and he looked towards the fireplace, over which hung Dr. Nancarrow's picture. "Perhaps it is in my blood, perhaps—— I don't know; anyhow, I think my hand would shrivel up if I tried to sign my name as a soldier."
"But you have a mother, Bob, a mother whose name was Trelawney, and the Trelawneys have never failed in time of need. Are you going to be the first to fail, Bob? Oh, please don't think I do not dread the thought of your going to the front, and perhaps being killed; but I cannot bear the thought that my boy should shirk his duty to his country. Tell me, Bob, why do you want to play the coward?"
"Play the coward! Great God, mother! don't you understand me? I simply long to go. It seems to me as though everything in life worth having depends on my doing what you and others want me to do. But how can I! I hate talking about it, it sounds so pharisaical, but my father wanted me to be a Christian, and you know what Christianity meant to him. As I have said again and again, it comes to this—either war is wrong and hellish, or Christianity is a fable. Both cannot be right. And if I went as a soldier I should have to renounce my Christianity—at least that is how it seems, to me. If I went to a recruiting station I should have to go there over Calvary; that is the whole trouble."
Mrs. Nancarrow sighed.
"Think, mother," went on Bob, and again he looked towards his father's picture. "Do you believe he would have me go?"
"Why are you going to Oxford?" she asked.
"I want to see my father's old friend Renthall."
"And get strengthened in your Quaker opinions, I suppose?"
"I have heard nothing about them lately, at all events," said Bob, and his voice became almost bitter. "It would seem as though we had accepted a new Gospel which has taken the place of the New Testament. Big guns are believed in rather than the Cross. But there is no use talking any more. Good night."
The following morning Bob made his way to the little station at St. Ia in order to catch an early train for London. When he arrived there he saw that it was the scene of unusual excitement. A great crowd of people had gathered, many of whom evidently had no intention of travelling by train. A few minutes later he saw the reason for this. Admiral Tresize's motor-car was driving up, containing not only the Admiral himself, but Captain Trevanion and Nancy. No sooner did the people see them, than there was a wild shout. Evidently the Captain, since the meeting, had become a kind of hero, and the fact that he was starting for the front added fresh lustre to his name.
"We'll see you back again by Christmas," some one shouted. "The Germans will be licked by that time, and you will be a Colonel at least. Oh, we don't fear for you—you will be all right."
"It was a fine speech you gave, Trevanion," said another. "By George, that idea of giving a white feather to all the shirkers was just fine. I hear that the basket is nearly empty."
"I am afraid I cannot claim the credit for that," laughed the Captain.
"Who suggested it, then?"
"Oh, it was Miss Tresize here. She thinks it such a disgrace for any man to shirk at such a time as this, that she thought they should be shamed to some sense of decency and pluck."
"Three cheers for Miss Tresize!" shouted some one, and a minute later, Nancy, half-angry and half-pleased, was blushing at the shouts of her friends.
Bob felt himself to be a complete outsider. He too was going by that train, but no one thought of cheering him—indeed, no one spoke to him. He was what the people called a shirker. He would have given anything he possessed to have gone up to Trevanion, and said, "I'll go with you," but he could not. If he did, he would have to uproot the Faith of a lifetime.
The Captain moved towards the carriage which was close to his own, Nancy accompanying him. Bob knew that the girl saw him, but he might not have existed as far as she was concerned. She spoke gaily, and her face was wreathed with smiles, but the smiles were not for him, they were for the man who was going to fight for his country.
The Admiral and the Captain also saw him, but neither spoke. They seemed to regard him as one who henceforth could not be one of themselves.
"A man must pay his price, I suppose," reflected Bob. "If he does not shout with the crowd, he is despised by it. I knew that when I made up my mind, but I never thought it would be so hard. She thinks I am a coward—the cowardice would lie in doing what she wants me to do."
"Well, good-bye, Captain: a fine time to you; come back safe to us. You shall have a great homecoming," shouted the Admiral. "There, another cheer, lads; he is going to fight for his country," and amidst wild shouting Trevanion entered the carriage, while only looks of derision and scornful glances were directed towards Bob.
Arrived in London, Bob caught the first train for Oxford, and before it was dark entered that classic city. But it was not the Oxford he knew; an indescribable change had come over everything. When he had left it, the streets were full of undergraduates, who with merry jest and laughter had thronged the public places. The colleges then were all on the point of breaking up, and the students, wearing their short, absurd little gowns, made Oxford what it ordinarily is in term time. Now the streets were comparatively empty, many of the colleges had been taken by the Government in order to be made ready to receive wounded soldiers. There were no shouts of jubilation, for the news in the papers that day saddened the hearts of the people. The German army was steadily driving back the Allied forces towards Paris. Whispers were heard about the French Government's being shifted to Bordeaux. It seemed as though Germany were going to repeat the victories of forty-four years before, when the greatdébâcleof the French nation startled Europe. Business was at a standstill. How could the city be gay when the English soldiers were being driven back with enormous losses?
"They called it a strategical retreat," Bob heard some one say as he stood outside the door of The Mitre. "I do not believe in strategical retreats—it is not like the English to run away."
"Ah! but General French is only carrying out his plans," said another.
"Well then, they're mighty poor plans," was the response.
It seemed to Bob as though a cloud of gloom hung over this old university town.
His luggage having been taken to the hotel, he found his way into the dining-room, and the waiter, whom he had known for years, came up to him and spoke familiarly.
"Bad times, Mr. Nancarrow," he said. "Oxford won't be a university town now, it'll be a barracks town. I suppose you have come up for training. Yes, hosts of the young gentlemen have. We shall send out one of the finest Companies in the British Army, from Oxford. It's grand, sir, it's grand, the way you young gentlemen come up at this time. After all, your learning is no good at a time like this; it do not save the country, sir. We want fighting chaps."
Bob sat down at a little table and picked up the menu.
"Yes, sir," went on the waiter. "It is splendid, the way the young gentlemen are coming up, and I say a man isn't a man if he stays at home at a time like this. I wish I was ten years younger, I'd be off like a bird."
"It's the same everywhere," reflected Bob, "wherever I go I seem to have poisoned arrows shot at me. I don't care what this fellow thinks about me, and yet I am ashamed to tell him that I have not come up for training, at all."
"By the way," he said to the waiter in order to stop his garrulous talk, which was becoming painful to him, "will you ring up Dr. Renthall, and ask him if he can see me in about an hour's time?"
A little later Bob was out in the streets again, on his way to Dr. Renthall's house. It was a relief to him to feel that here, at least, was one man who would understand his position. After the experiences of the last two or three weeks the Professor's study would be indeed a haven of rest.
Bob was not kept waiting at the door. The Professor's old serving-man knew him well, and showed him into the study without any delay whatever.
"I am glad to see you, Nancarrow," said the Professor. "Oxford has been a strange city to me these last few weeks; even here, in my den, I cannot get away from the strife and turmoil. Tell me what you have been doing, and how you have been getting on."
"I have been like one in an enemy's country," was the young fellow's reply, and then he briefly told him what had taken place.
"The thing that troubles me," said the Professor, "is the utter failure of Christianity. All our old ideas seem to have gone by the board. Even many of my Quaker friends have got the war spirit and are no longer sane. It is true we have placards all over the town calling us to prayer, but as far as Christianity is concerned it seems as dead as Queen Anne."
"Then what is your attitude?" asked Bob.
A few minutes later the Professor was explaining the beliefs which he had for long held so strongly, and Bob listened greedily. He spoke not only of the horror of war, but of its unrighteousness and of its futility.
"We talk about the country going into war for the sake of honour," he said warmly. "But has there ever been a war in which we have not made the same plea, and how much honour has there been in it all? What honour was there in the Boer War? What honour has there been in half the wars we have made? In the main it has all been a miserable game of grab. How much was the Founder of Christianity considered when we bombarded Alexandria? How much of the Sermon on the Mount was considered when we went to war with those Boer farmers?"
"Yes, yes, I know," replied Bob. "But isn't this war different? I am not thinking now of the righteousness or unrighteousness of many of the wars of the past; the thing which troubles me is just this: Is it ever right to go to war? Can a nation, according to Christian principles, draw the sword? Mind you, I have gone into this business as carefully as I have been able. I have read everything that I can get hold of which bears on it, and I cannot close my eyes to the fact that as far as justice and righteousness go we are in the right. I have but little doubt that the Kaiser is playing his own game; he wants some of the French Colonies, he also wants to extend his power in Asia Minor. In order to do this he has for years been perfecting his army and strengthening his navy. But here is the question: Can a nation like England, according to Christian principles, engage in a bloody war in order to crush any one or anything?"
"Impossible!" cried the Professor.
"Then, according to you," went on Bob, "the Kaiser should be allowed to work his will without protest? He should be allowed to crush France, to violate his promises to Belgium, and to carry out his purposes, whatever they may be, without resistance on our part."
"I do not say that," replied the Professor. "I only say that war is never a remedy, and that by trusting in the sword we only add wrong to wrong, and thus keep back the day of universal brotherhood. Think what this war has done, even although it has scarcely begun. It has destroyed the good work of centuries. A few months ago, we in England had only kind feelings towards the Germans. We regarded them as friends. We spoke of them as a great Protestant people. To-day, the bitterness and hatred of all England is roused against them. On every hand the Germans are being distrusted and abused. Think what this means? It has put back the clock of Christianity, it has aroused hatred instead of love, and the whole country is being carried off its feet by militarism. Even from the pulpit has gone forth the cry of battle. Militarism has overwhelmed Calvary, and Christ and all that He stood for have been swept away amidst the clash of arms."
"Yes," was Bob's reply. "But that does not seem to me to solve the present difficulty. My point is this: What ought one to do at the present time? Of course, it is easy to say that this war ought never to have begun. Easy to believe, too, that all wars mean hell let loose upon earth. We can urge that those old treaties ought never to have been signed, that alliances ought never to have been formed. But that does not help us forward. We have to face the situation as it is. We did sign the treaty and promise our support. There is anEntente Cordialebetween us and France. On the other hand, there is very little doubt that Germany means to crush France. She means also to dominate the life of the world. War has been declared, Germany has marched across Luxemburg, through Belgium, into France. England, in response to the plea of Belgium, is fulfilling her promise, and scores of thousands of our soldiers are fighting on the side of the French. The cry is for more men. On every hand one is appealed to to join the Army. Now then, what ought one who is trying to be a Christian, to do?"
"There is only one thing to do, it seems to me," was Professor Renthall's reply. "That is for him to follow the leadings of his conscience and leave results to God. When Jesus Christ called His disciples, He made them no alluring promises; in accepting His call, they simply followed Him regardless of consequences. That, it seems to me, is the position to-day. We have nothing to do with this wild war spirit. There are a few men in England, thank God, who protest against war, and it is for them to be true to the light that is within them, no matter what the result may be. Of course, we are told that if we do not crush Germany our liberties will be destroyed and our Empire taken from us. What have we to do with that? We believe in an over-ruling Providence. Believing that, and knowing that Christ is the Prince of Peace, we must absolutely refuse to meet force with force, bloodshed with bloodshed."
Bob stayed a long time with the Professor, and when he left he was more than ever convinced that he had done right. A Christian could not participate in this war, and still be true to his Christianity.
In spite of this, however, there was something at the back of his mind which told him that the Professor was not right. He could not tell what it was; nevertheless, it was there.
It was eleven o'clock when he left Dr. Renthall's house, and then, instead of going back to his hotel, he wandered away in the opposite direction towards the country.
Heedless of time, and forgetful of everything in the maze of his own thoughts, he went farther than he had intended, and presently, when he heard the sound of a clock striking midnight, he realised that he was staying at an hotel, and ought to have been back long since.
No sooner had he turned, however, than he was startled by a cry of fear and pain. It was the cry of a woman's voice too, and, acting upon the impulse of the moment, he rushed to the spot whence the sound came.
Near by was a little village, every house of which was in darkness. At first he could see nothing, then he heard the sound of struggling coming from a lonely lane close by the village.
"Give it me, I say, or I'll murder you."
It was a man's voice, raucous and brutal.
"No, no, you may kill me if you like, but I won't," a woman's voice replied.
Bob saw the man lift his hand to strike her, but before it fell he had rushed upon him, and hurled him aside.
"Who are you, and what do yer want?" cried the fellow, interlarding his question with foul epithets.
"No matter who I am, or what I want," replied Bob. "Leave that woman alone."
The man eyed Bob for a moment, stealthily, and then without warning rushed upon him.
A minute later the two men were struggling wildly. The man was strongly but clumsily built, and lacked the agility and muscular force of the young athlete. But Bob's victory did not come easily. Again and again the fellow renewed his attack, while the woman stood by with a look of terror in her eyes.
"Save me," she cried, again and again, "or he will kill me."
At length, by a well-planted blow, Bob sent his opponent staggering to the ground. The man was stunned for a second, but only for a second. He raised himself to his feet slowly.
"All right, guv'ner, you have beaten me," he said. "It wasn't my fault; if she weren't so b—— obstinate, there would have been no trouble."
Then evidently hearing some one near by, he shouted aloud: "I say,Bill, come here;" and Bob realised that a new danger was at hand.
"Wait a minute, guv'ner," said the fellow, "I just want to ask your advice." But Bob was too alert to be caught in this way. Believing that there must be a police station in the village, he, too, shouted aloud.
"Help!—help!"
A minute later he found his position doubly dangerous. The one man he, after a severe struggle, had been able to overcome, but he knew that he would be no match for the two, and that the woman would be at their mercy.
"Get away while you can," he said to her; but the woman did not appear to heed him—she seemed spellbound by what was taking place.
Both men rushed on him madly, and only by a trick which he had learned as a boy did he save himself. Tripping one of them up, he was able at the same time to parry the other's blow, and keep him at bay.
His position, however, was desperate, for the second man had again risen to his feet, and prepared for another attack.
Then suddenly it was all over, the heavy thud of a policeman's truncheon was heard, and a few minutes later, with Bob's help, the two men were led away to the police station.
"Lucky for you I was near by, sir," said the constable.
"Lucky for the poor woman too," was Bob's rejoinder.
"I've had my eye on these two blackguards for a day or two," replied the policeman. "They are a bad lot, and I do not think the woman is much better than they are. Tell me exactly what happened, sir?"
The policeman nodded his head sagely when Bob had finished his story.
"Yes, sir," he said, "you have done a good night's work. I am afraid I shall have to take your name and address, because you will be called upon as witness against them. You have helped me to put my hand upon a nice little plot, and if these fellows don't get six months, I am very much mistaken."
When Bob got back to his hotel that night, and was able to think calmly of what had taken place, he was considerably perturbed.
Of course the incident in itself was sordid enough. The woman was supposed to be the wife of one of these men, and Bob by his intervention had hindered what might have been a brutal tragedy.
But that wasn't all. The thing was a commentary on his conversation with Dr. Renthall.
Two days later Bob appeared at the police court against these men, and heard with satisfaction the Magistrates sentence them both to severe punishment.
There is no need for me to tell the whole story here, a story of cruelty and theft. The fellows received less than their due in the sentence that was pronounced, and Bob felt that he had freed society, for some time at all events, of two dangerous characters.
The local papers made quite a feature of the case and spoke with great warmth of Bob's courage, and the benefit he had rendered the community.
"I say, Nancarrow," said Dr. Renthall, when next they met, "they are making quite a hero of you. I must congratulate you."
"On what?" asked Bob.
"On the part you played in that affair."
"I am all at sea," was the young man's rejoinder. "It seems to me that according to Christian principles I should have done nothing. If I had literally interpreted the dictum: 'If a man strike thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also,' I should have allowed the fellow to work his will without opposition. But you see, I could not stand by and see that fellow ill-treat the woman. That was why, before I knew what I was about, I was fighting for life. Do you think I did right?"
"I see what you are driving at," replied the Professor, "and I admit you were in a difficult position."
"You said the other night," said Bob, "that force was no remedy. Perhaps it is not a remedy, but it seems to me necessary. After all, if you come to think about it, the well-being of the community rests upon force. But for force that brute would perhaps have killed the woman. But for force the two fellows would have killed me, but it so happened that the police came up and saved me, and a policeman represents force, both moral and physical. No, force may not be a remedy, but without it, while society is as it is, everything would be chaos and mad confusion."
"You are thinking about the war, I suppose," said Dr. Renthall.
"One can scarcely think about anything else," replied Bob. "I am all at sea, Professor—simply all at sea. Oh! I confess it frankly—I admit that I acted on impulse the other night. My one thought was to master that fellow, and if I had been driven to extremes, I should have stopped at nothing, to keep him from harming the woman. For the moment there was no thought of love, no thought of brotherly feeling in my heart, I simply yielded to the impulse of my nature. The man threatened to kill his wife, and if I had not defended her I should have been unworthy to be called a man. How does that square with Christianity? Was I wrong?"
"I think you were right," said the Professor slowly. "Yes, I am sure you were."
"Then, if I were right," replied Bob, "and Germany is acting in the same spirit as that fellow was acting, is not England right in going to war? We promised to defend the Belgians, and Germany with brutal arrogance swept into their country."
"Yes," replied Renthall; "but would it not have been better for Belgium to have acted on the spirit of non-resistance? If they had, Liége would never have been bombarded. All the atrocities at Louvain would never have been heard of."
"You mean, then," said Bob, "that they should have allowed a bully like Germany to have swept through their country, without resistance, in order that they might crush France? Don't you see? If it were right for me to defend the woman against a brute; if I were right in knocking down that fellow; if the police were right in taking them both to the police station; if the Magistrates were right in sending them to prison; was not England right in attacking Germany? Nay, was she not acting in a Christian spirit in saying: 'This bully shall be crushed.'"
"Have you read the papers to-day?" asked the Professor.
"Yes."
"Did you come across that account of the correspondent who described what he had seen on the stricken field? Did you get at the inwardness of it all? You are a fellow with imagination, Nancarrow; didn't you feel a ghastly terror of war?"
"Yes," replied Bob, "but that does not clear up the question. Meanwhile, Germany is marching towards Paris and Lord Kitchener is calling for more men. What ought I to do?"
"Read your New Testament," said the Professor, "remember the words of our Lord just before He was crucified, 'My Kingdom is not of this world, else would My servants fight.'"
"Yes," cried Bob, "but——"
"I really cannot stay any longer now," interrupted the Professor, and he slipped away, leaving Bob alone.