Pen made good use of his leisure time at Lowbridge. There was no night school there, but the courses of a correspondence school were available, and through that medium he learned much, not only of that which pertained to his calling as a textile worker, but of that also which pertained to general science and broad culture. History had a special fascination for him; the theory of government, the struggles of the peoples of the old world toward light and liberty. The working out of the idea of democracy in a country like England which still retained its monarchical form and much of its aristocratic flavor, was a theme on which he dwelt with particular pleasure. Back somewhere in the line of descent his paternal ancestors had been of English blood, and he was proud of the heroism, the spirit and the energy which had made Great Britain one of the mighty nations of the earth.
To France also, fighting and forging her way, often through great tribulation, into the family of democracies, he gave almost unstinted praise. Always splendid and chivalric, whether as monarchy, empire or republic, he felt that if he were to-day a soldier he would, next to his own beautiful Star Spangled Banner, rather fight and die under the tri-color of France than under the flag of any other nation.
But of course it was to the study and contemplation of his own beloved country that he gave most of the time he had for reading and research. He delved deeply into her history, he examined her constitution and her laws, he put himself in touch with the spirit of her organized institutions, and with the fundamental ideas, carefully worked out, that had made her free and prosperous and great. And by and by he came to realize, in a way that he had never done before, what it meant to all her citizens, and especially what it meant to him, Penfield Butler, to have a country such as this. He thought of her in those days not only as a thing of vast territorial limit and ofsplendid resources of power and wealth and intellect, not only as a mighty machine for humane and just government, but he thought of her also as a beloved and beautiful personality, claiming and deserving affection and fealty from all her children. And he never saw the flag, he never thought of it, he never dreamed of it, that it did not arouse in him the same tender and reverent feeling, the same lofty inspiration he had felt that day when he first saw it floating from its staff against a back-ground of clear blue sky on the school-house lawn at Chestnut Hill.
He held himself closely to his tasks. Only twice since he came away had he gone back with his mother for a holiday visit at Cobb's Corners. Grandpa Walker had a hearty handshake for him, and an affectionate greeting. The boy was forging ahead in his calling, was developing into a fine specimen of physical young manhood, and the old man was proud of him. But he did not hesitate to remind him that if a day of adversity should come the latch-string of the old house was still out, and he would always be as welcome thereas he was on that winter day when he had come to them as an exile from Bannerhall.
One Memorial Day, as Pen stood at the entrance to the cemetery bridge watching the procession of those going in to do honor to the patriotic dead, he was especially impressed with the fine appearance of the local company of the National Guard which was acting as an escort to the veterans of the Grand Army post. The young men composing the company were dressed in khaki, handled their rifles with ease and accuracy, and marched with a soldierly bearing and precision that were admirable. It occurred to Pen that it might be advisable for him to join this body of citizen soldiery provided he had the necessary qualifications and could be admitted to membership. It was not so much the show and glamour of the military life that appealed to him as it was the opportunity that such a membership might afford to be of service to his country. Even then Europe was being devastated by a war which had no equal in history. The German armies, trained to a point of unexampled efficiency, with the aid of their Allies, had overwhelmedBelgium and had almost succeeded in entering Paris and in laying the whole of France under tribute. Beaten back at a crucial moment they had dug themselves into the soil of the invaded country and were holding at bay the combined forces of their Allied enemies. Half of Europe was in arms. The tragedies of the seas were appalling. International complications were grave and unending. More than one statesman of prophetic foresight had predicted that a continuance of the war must of necessity draw into the maelstrom the government of the United States. In such an event the country would need soldiers and many of them, and the sooner they could be put into training to meet such a possible emergency the better.
Moreover it was not necessary to look across the ocean to foresee the necessity for military readiness. Our neighbor to the south was in the grip of armed lawlessness and terrorism. Northern Mexico was infested with banditti which were a constant menace to the safety of our border. Such government as the stricken country had was either unable or unwilling to hold them in check. It appeared to be inevitable that the United States, by armed intervention, must sooner or later come to the protection of its citizens. In that event the little handful of troops of the regular army must of necessity be reinforced by units of the state militia. It might be that soldiers of the National Guard would be used only for patrolling the border, and it might well be that they would be sent, as was one of Penfield Butler's ancestors, into the heart of Mexico to enforce permanent peace and tranquility at the point of the bayonet.
So this was the situation, and this was the appeal to Pen's patriotic ardor. And the appeal was a strong one. But he did not at once respond to it. His work and his study absorbed his time and thought. It was not until late in the fall of that year, the year 1915, when the crises, both at home and abroad, seemed rapidly approaching, that Pen took up for earnest consideration the question of his enlistment in the National Guard. Given by nature to acting impulsively, he nevertheless, in these days, weighed carefully any proposed line of conduct on his part which might havean important bearing on his future. But he resolved, after due consideration, to join the militia if he could.
He went to a young fellow, a wool-sorter in the mills, who was a corporal in the militia, to obtain the necessary information to make his application. The corporal promised to take the matter up for him with the captain of the local company, and in due time brought him an application blank to be filled out stating his qualifications for membership. It was necessary that the paper should be signed by his mother as evidence of her consent to his enlistment since he was not yet twenty-one years of age. She signed it readily enough, for she quite approved of his ambition, and she took a motherly pride in the evidences of patriotism that he was constantly manifesting.
Armed with this document he presented himself, on a drill-night, to Captain Perry in the officers' quarters at the armory. The captain glanced at the paper, then he laid it on the table and looked up at Pen. There was a troubled expression on his face.
"I'm sorry, Butler," he said, "but I'm afraid we can't enlist you."
The announcement came as a shock, but not utterly as a surprise. For days the boy had felt a kind of foreboding that something of this sort would happen. Yet he did not at once give way to his disappointment nor accept without question the captain's pronouncement.
"May I inquire," he asked, "what your reason is for rejecting me?"
Captain Perry sat back in his chair and thrust his legs under the table. It was apparent that he was embarrassed, but it was apparent also that he would remain firm in the matter of his decision. Nor was Pen at such a loss to understand the reason for his rejection as his question might imply. He knew, instinctively, that the old story of his disloyalty to the flag had come up again, after all these years, to plague and to thwart him. He was quite right.
"I will tell you frankly, Butler," replied the captain, "what the trouble is. Since it became known that you wanted to enlist, some members of my company have come to me with a protestagainst accepting you. They say they represent the bulk of sentiment among the enlisted men. You see, under these circumstances, I can't very well take you. We are citizen soldiers, not under the iron discipline of the regular army, and in matters which are really not essential I must yield more or less to the wishes of my boys. They like, in a way, to choose their associates."
He ended with an apologetic wave of the hand, and a smile intended to be conciliatory. Chagrined and wounded, but not abashed nor silenced, Pen stood his ground. He resolved to see the thing through, cost what pain and humiliation it might.
"Would you mind telling me," he inquired, "what it is they have against me?"
"Why, if you want to know, yes. They say you're not patriotic. To be more explicit they say that up at Chestnut Hill, where you used to live, you—"
Pen interrupted him. His patience was exhausted, his calmness gone. "Oh, yes!" he exclaimed, "I know. They say I mistreated the flag. They say I insulted it, threw it into themud and trampled on it. That's what they say, isn't it?"
"Yes, substantially that. Now, I don't know whether it's true or not—"
"Oh, it's true enough! I don't deny it. And they say also that on account of it all I had to leave Colonel Butler's house and go and live with my grandfather Walker at Cobb's Corners. They say that, don't they?"
"Something of that kind, I believe."
"Well, that's true too. But they don't say that it all happened half a dozen years ago, when I was a mere boy, that I did it in a fit of anger at another boy, and had nothing whatever against the flag, and that I was sorry for it the next minute and have suffered and repented ever since. They don't say that that flag is just as dear to me as it is to any man in America, that I love the sight of it; that I'd follow it anywhere, and die for it on any battlefield,—they don't say that, do they?"
His cheeks were blazing, his eyes were flashing, every muscle of his body was tense under the storm of passionate indignation that swept over him. Captain Perry, amazed and thrilledby the boy's earnestness, straightened up in his chair and looked him squarely in the face.
"No," he replied, "they don't say that. But I believe it's true. And so far as I'm concerned—"
Pen again interrupted him.
"Oh, I'm not blaming you, Captain Perry; you couldn't do anything else but turn me down. But some day, some way—I don't know how to-night—but some way I'm going to prove to these people that have been hounding me that I'm as good a patriot and can be as good a soldier as the best man in your company!"
"Good! That's splendid!" Captain Perry rose to his feet and grasped the boy's hand. "And I'll tell you what I'll do, Butler; if you're willing to face the ordeal I'll enlist you. I believe in you."
But Pen would not listen to it.
"No," he said, "I can't do that. It wouldn't be fair to you, nor to your men, nor to me. I'll meet the thing some other way. I'm grateful to you all the same though."
"Very well; just as you choose. But whenyou need me in your fight I'm at your service. Remember that!"
On his way home from the armory it was necessary that Pen should pass through the main street of the town. Many of the shops were still open and were brilliantly lighted, and people were strolling carelessly along the walk, laughing and chatting as though the agony and horror and brutality of the mighty conflict just across the sea were all in some other planet, billions of miles away; as though the war cloud itself were not pushing its ominous black rim farther and farther above the horizon of our own beloved land. Now and then Pen met, singly or in pairs, khaki clad young men on their way to the armory for the weekly drill. Two or three of them nodded to him as they passed by, others looked at him askance and hurried on. The resentment that had been roused in his breast at Captain Perry's announcement flamed up anew; but as he turned into the quieter streets on his homeward route this feeling gave way to one of envy, and then to one of self-pity and grief. Hard as his lot had been in comparison withthe luxury he might have had had he remained at Bannerhall, he had never repined over it, nor had he been envious of those whose lines had been cast in pleasanter places. But to-night, after looking at these sturdy young fellows in military garb preparing to serve their state and their country in the not improbable event of war, an intense and passionate longing filled his breast to be, like them, ready to fight, to kill or to be killed in defense of that flag which day by day claimed his ever-increasing love and devotion. That he was not permitted to do so was heart-rending. That it was by his own fault that he was not permitted to do so was agony indeed. And yet it was all so bitterly unjust. Had he not paid, a thousand times over, the full penalty for his offense, trivial or terrible whichever it might have been? Why should the accusing ghost of it come back after all these years, to hound and harass him and make his whole life wretched?
It was in no cheerful or contented mood that he entered his home and responded to the affectionate greeting of his mother.
"You're home early, dear," she said.
"Didn't they keep you for drill? How does it seem to be a soldier?"
"I didn't enlist, mother."
"Didn't enlist? Why not? I thought that was the big thing you were going to do."
"They wouldn't take me."
"Why, Pen! what was the matter? I thought it was all as good as settled."
"Well, you know that old trouble about the flag at Chestnut Hill?"
"I know. I've never forgotten it. But every one else has, surely."
"No, mother, they haven't. That's the reason they wouldn't take me."
"But, Pen, that was years and years ago. You were just a baby. You've paid dearly enough for that. It's not fair! It's not human!"
She, too, was aroused to the point of indignant but unavailing protest; for she too knew how the boy, long years ago, had expiated to the limit of repentance and suffering the one sensational if venial fault of his boyhood.
"I know, mother. That's all true. I know it's horribly unjust; but what can you do? It'sa thing you can't explain because it's partly true. It will keep cropping up always, and how I am ever going to live it down I don't know. Oh, I don't know!"
He flung himself into a chair, thrust his hands deep into his trousers' pockets and stared despairingly into some forbidding distance. She grew sympathetic then, and consoling, and went to him and put her arm around his neck and laid her face against his head and tried to comfort him.
"Never mind, dearie! So long as you, yourself, know that you love the flag, and so long as I know it, we can afford to wait for other people to find it out."
"No, mother, we can't. They've got to be shown. I can't live this way. Some way or other I've got to prove that I'm no coward and I'm no traitor."
"You're too severe with yourself, Pen. There are other ways, perhaps better ways, for men to prove that they love their country besides fighting for her. To be a good citizen may be far more patriotic than to be a good soldier."
"I know. That's one of the things I've learned, and I believe it. And that'll do for most fellows, but it won't do for me. My case is different. I mistreated the flag once with my hands and arms and feet and my whole body, and I've got to give my hands and arms and feet and my whole body now to make up for it. There's no other way. I couldn't make the thing right in a thousand years simply by being a good citizen. Don't you see, mother? Don't you understand?"
He looked up into her face with tear filled eyes. The thought that had long been with him that he must prove his patriotism by personal sacrifice, had grown during these last few days into a settled conviction and a great desire. He wanted her to see the situation as he saw it, and to feel with him the bitterness of his disappointment. And she did. She twined her arm more closely about his neck and pressed her lips against his hair.
But her heart-felt sympathy made too great a draft on his emotional nature. It silenced his voice and flooded his eyes. So she drew her chair up beside him, and he laid his headin her lap as he had used to do when he was a very little boy, and wept out his disappointment and grief.
And as he lay there a new thought came to him. Swiftly as a whirlwind forms and sweeps across the land, it took on form and motion and swept through the channels of his mind. He sprang to his feet, dashed the tears from his face, and looked down on his mother with a countenance transformed.
"Mother!" he exclaimed, "I have an idea!"
"Why, Pen; how you startled me! What is it?"
"I have an idea, mother. I'm going to—"
He paused and looked away from her.
"Going to what, Pen?"
He did not reply at once, but after a moment he said:
"I'll tell you later, mother, after it's all worked out and I'm sure of it. I'm not going to bring home to you any more disappointments."
It was three days later that Pen came home one evening, alert of step, bright-eyed, his countenance beaming with satisfaction and delight.
"Well, mother," he cried as he entered the house; "it's settled. I'm going!"
She looked up in surprise and alarm.
"What's settled, Pen? Where are you going?"
"I'm going to war."
She dropped the work at which she had been busy and sat down weakly in a chair by her dining-room table. He went to her and laid an affectionate hand on her shoulder.
"Pardon me, mother!" he continued, "I didn't mean to frighten you, but I'm so happy over it."
She looked up into his face.
"To war, Pen? What war?"
"The big war, mother. The war in France.Do you remember the other night when I told you I had an idea?"
"Yes, I remember."
"Well, that was it. It occurred to me, then, that if I couldn't fight for my own country, under my own flag, I would fight for those other countries, under their flags. They are making a desperate and a splendid war to uphold the rights of civilized nations."
He stood there, erect, manly, resolute, his face lighted with the glow of his enthusiasm. She could but admire him, even though her heart sank under the weight of his announced purpose. Many times, of an evening, they had talked together of the mighty conflict in Europe. From the very first Pen's sympathies had been with France and her Allies. He could not get over denouncing the swiftness and savagery of the raid into Belgium, the wanton destruction of her cities and her monuments of art, the hardships and brutalities imposed upon her people. The Bryce report, with its details of outrage and crime, stirred his nature to its depths. The tragedy of theLusitaniafilled him with indignation and horror. Now,suddenly, had come the desire and the opportunity to fight with those peoples who were struggling to save their ideals from destruction.
"I'm going to Canada," he continued, "to enlist in the American Legion. They say hundreds and thousands of young men from the United States who are willing to fight under the Union Jack, have gone up into Canada for training and are this very minute facing the gray coats of the German enemy in northern France."
"But, Pen," she protested, "this is such a horrible war. The soldiers live in the muddiest, foulest kinds of trenches. They kill each other with gases and blazing oil. They slaughter each other by thousands with guns that go by machinery. It's simply terrible!"
"I know, mother. It's modern warfare. It's up to date. It's no pink tea as some one has said. But the more awful it is the sooner it'll be over, and the more credit there'll be to us who fight in it."
"And you'll be so far away."
She looked up at him, pale-faced, with appealing eyes. He knew how uncontrollably she shrank from the thought of losing him in this wild vortex of savagery. He patted her cheek tenderly.
"But you'll be a good patriot," he said, "and let me go. It's my duty to fight, and it's your duty to let me fight. There isn't any doubt about that. Besides, this isn't really France's war nor England's war any more than it is our war, or any more than it is the war of any country that wants to maintain the ideals of modern civilization. I shall be serving my country almost the same as though I were fighting under the Stars and Stripes. And I'll be answering in the only way it's possible for me to answer, those people who have been charging me with disloyalty to the flag. Oh, I must show you what Grandfather Butler says. He made a speech yesterday at the flag-raising at Chestnut Valley, and it's all in the LowbridgeCitizenthis morning. Listen! Here's the way he winds up."
He drew a newspaper from his pocket and read:
"'So, fellow citizens, let me predict that before this great war shall come to an end the Stars and Stripes will wave over every battlefield in Europe. Sooner or later we must enter the conflict; and the sooner the better. For it's our war. It's the war of every country that loves liberty and justice. Up to this moment the Allies have been fighting for the freedom of the world, your freedom and mine, my friends, as well as their own. It is high time the Government at Washington, impelled by the patriotic ardor of our thinking citizens, declared the enemies of England and France to be our enemies, and joined hands with those heroic countries to stamp out forever the teutonic menace to liberty and civilization. In the meantime I say to the red-blooded youth of America: Glory awaits you on the war-scarred fields of France. Go forth! There is no barrier in the way. Remember that when the ragged troops of Washington were locked in a death-grip with the red-coated soldiers of King George, Lafayette, Rochambeau and de Grasse came to our aid with six and twenty thousand of the bravest sons of France. It is your turn now to spring to the aid of thisstricken land and prove that you are worthy descendants of the grateful patriots of old.'"
Pen finished his reading and laid down the paper. There had been a tremor in his voice at the end, and his eyes were wet.
"That's grandfather," he said, "all over. I knew he'd feel that way about it. I had decided to go before I read that speech. Now I couldn't stay at home if I tried. I'm his grandson yet, mother, and I shall answer his call to arms."
After that he sat down quietly and unfolded to his mother all of his plans. He told her that he had gone to Major Starbird and had confided to him his desire to serve with the Allied armies. The old soldier, veteran of many battles, had sympathized with his ambition and had procured for him the necessary information concerning enlistment and training in Canada. He was to go to New York and report to a certain confidential agent there at an address which had been given him, where he would receive the necessary credentials for enlistment in the new American Legion then in process of formation. And Major Starbirdhad said to him that when he returned, if at all, his place at the mill would still be open to him and he would be welcomed back. He told it all with a quiet enthusiasm that evidenced not only his fixed purpose, but also the fact that his whole heart was in the adventure, and that there would be no turning back.
And his mother gave her consent that he should go. What else was there for her to do? Mothers have sent their sons to war from time immemorial. It is thus that they suffer and bleed for their country. And who shall say that their sacrifice is not as great in its way as is the sacrifice of those who offer up their lives in battle? But that night, through sleepless hours, when she thought of the loneliness that would be hers, and the hazards and horrors that would be his, and of how, after all, he was such a mere boy, to be petted and spoiled and kept at home rather than to be sent out to meet the trials and terrors of the most cruel war in history, her heart failed her, and she wept in unspeakable dread. It is the women, in the long run, who are the greater sufferers from the armed clash of nations!
The mother who conceals her griefWhile to her breast her son she presses,Then breathes a few brave words and brief,Kissing the patriot brow she blesses,With no one but her secret GodTo know the pain that weighs upon her,Sheds holy blood as e'er the sodReceived on Freedom's field of honor!
The mother who conceals her griefWhile to her breast her son she presses,Then breathes a few brave words and brief,Kissing the patriot brow she blesses,With no one but her secret GodTo know the pain that weighs upon her,Sheds holy blood as e'er the sodReceived on Freedom's field of honor!
It was three days later that Pen went away. There were many little matters to which he must attend before going. His mother must be safeguarded and her comfort looked after during his absence. His own private affairs must be left in such shape that in the event of his not returning they could easily be closed up. He permitted nothing to remain at loose ends. But to no one save to his employer and his mother did he confide his plans. He did not care to publish a purpose that lay so near to his heart. He went on the early morning train. Major Starbird was at the station to wring his hand and bid him Godspeed and wish him a safe return. But his mother was not there. She was in her room at home, her white face against the window, gazing with tear-wet eyes toward the south. She heard thedistant rumble of the cars as they came, and the blasts from the far away whistle fell softly on her ears. And, by and by, the ever lengthening and fading line of smoke against the far horizon told her that the train bearing her only child to unknown and possibly dreadful destiny was on its way.
Pen had been in New York before. On several memorable occasions, as a boy, he had accompanied his grandfather Butler to the city and had enjoyed the sights and sounds of the great metropolis, and had learned something of its ways and byways. He had no difficulty, therefore, in finding the address that had been given him by Major Starbird, and, having found it, he was made welcome there. He learned, what indeed he already knew, that Canada was not averse to filling out her quota of loyal troops for the great war by enlisting and training young men of good character and robust physique from the States. Armed with confidential letters of introduction and commendation, and certain other requisite documents, he left the quiet office on the busy street feeling that at last the desire of his heart wasto be fully gratified. It was now late afternoon. He was to take a night train from the Grand Central station which would carry him by way of Albany to Toronto. Borne along by the crowd of home-going people he found himself on Broadway facing Trinity Church. The dusk of evening was already falling, and here and there the glow of electric lamps began to pierce the gloom. On one occasion he had wandered, with his grandfather, through Trinity Churchyard, and had read and been thrilled by inscriptions on ancient tomb-stones marking the graves of those who had served their country well in her early and struggling years. Had it been still day he would not have been able to resist the impulse to repeat that experience of his boyhood. As it was, he stood, for many minutes, peering through the iron railing that separated the living, hurrying throngs on the pavement from the narrow homes of those who, more than a century before, had served their generation by the will of God and had fallen on sleep.
As he turned his eyes away from the deepening shadows of the graveyard it occurred tohim that he would go to a hotel formerly frequented by Colonel Butler, and get his dinner there before going to the train. It would seem like old times, for it was there that they had stayed when he had accompanied his grandfather on those trips of his boyhood. To be sure the colonel would not be there, but delightful memories would be stirred by revisiting the place, and he felt that those memories would be most welcome this night.
Ever more and more, in these latter days, his thoughts had turned toward his boyhood home. After six years of absence and estrangement there was still no tenderer spot in his heart, save the one occupied by his mother, than the spot in which reposed his memories of his childhood's hero, the master of Bannerhall. He wished that there might have been a reconciliation between them before he went to war. He would have given much if only he could have seen the stern face with its gray moustache and its piercing eyes, if he could have felt the warm grasp of the hand, if he could have heard the firm and kindly voice speak to him one word of farewell and Godspeed. He sighed as heturned in at the subway kiosk and descended the steps to the platform to join the pushing and the jostling crowd on its homeward way. At the Grand Central Station he procured his railway tickets and checked his baggage and then came out into Forty-second street. After a few minutes of bewildered turning he located himself and made his way without further trouble to his hotel. But the place seemed strange to him now; not as spacious as when he was a boy, not as ornate, not as wonderful. It was only after he had eaten his dinner and come out again into the lobby that it took on any kind of a familiar air, and not until he was ready to depart that he could have imagined the erect form of Colonel Butler, with its imposing and attractive personality, approaching him through the crowd as he had so often seen it in other years.
Then, as he turned toward the street door, a strange thing happened. A familiar figure emerged from a side corridor and came out into the main lobby in full view of the departing boy. It needed no second glance to convince Pen that this was indeed his grandfather. Thestern face, the white, drooping moustache, the still soldierly bearing, could belong to no one else. The colonel stopped for a minute to make inquiry and obtain information from a hotel attendant, then, having apparently learned what he wished to know, he stood looking searchingly about him.
Pen stood still in his tracks and wondered what he should do. The vision had come upon him so suddenly that it had quite taken away his breath. But it did not take long for him to decide. He would do the obvious and manly thing and let the consequences take care of themselves. He stepped forward and held out his hand.
"How do you do, grandfather," he said.
Colonel Butler turned an unrecognizing glance on the boy.
"You have the advantage of me, sir," he replied. "I—"
He stopped speaking suddenly, his face flushed, and a look of glad surprise came into his eyes.
"Why, Penfield!" he exclaimed, "is this you?"
But, before Pen had time to respond, either by word or movement, to the greeting, the old man's gloved hand which had been thrust partly forward, fell back to his side, the light of recognition left his eyes, and he stood, as stern-faced and determined as he had stood on that February night, years ago, asking about a boy and a flag.
"Yes, grandfather," said Pen, "it is I."
The colonel did not turn away, nor did any harsh word come to his lips. He spoke with cold courtesy, as he might have spoken to any casual acquaintance.
"This is a surprise, sir. I had not expected to see you here."
He made a brave effort to control his voice, but it trembled in spite of him.
Pen's heart was stirred with sudden pity. He saw as he looked on his grandfather's face, that age and sorrow had made sad inroads during these few years. The hair and moustache, iron-gray before, were now completely white, the countenance was deep-lined and sallow, the eyes had lost their piercing brightness. But Pen did not permit his surprise, or his sorrow,or his grief at the manner of his reception, to show itself by any word or look.
"Nor did I expect to see you," he said. "Have you been long in the city?"
"I arrived less than an hour ago. I expect to meet here my friend Colonel Marshall with whom I shall discuss the state of the country."
"Did—did you come alone?"
It was the wrong thing to say, and Pen knew it the moment he had said it. But the old man's appearance of feebleness had aroused in him the sudden thought that he ought not to be traveling alone, and, impulsively, he had given expression to the thought. Colonel Butler straightened his shoulders and turned upon his grandson a look of fine scorn.
"I came alone, sir," he replied. "How else did you expect me to come?"
"Why, I thought possibly Aunt Milly might have come along."
"In troublous times like these the woman's place is at the fire-side. The man's duty should lead him wherever his country calls, or wherever he can be of service to a people defending themselves against the onslaught of armed autocracy."
"Yes, grandfather."
"I am therefore here to take counsel with certain men of judgment concerning the participation of this country in the bloody struggle that is going on abroad. After that I shall proceed to Washington to urge upon the heads of our government my belief that the time is ripe to throw the weight of our influence, and the weight of our wealth, and the weight of our armies, into the scale with France and Great Britain for the subjugation of those central powers that are waging upon these gallant countries a most unjust and unrighteous war."
"Yes, grandfather; I agree with you."
"Of course you do, sir. No right-minded man could fail to agree with me. And I shall tender my sword and my services, to be at the disposal of my country, in whatever branch of the service the Secretary of War may see fit to assign me as soon as war is declared. As a matter of fact, sir, we are already at war with Germany. Both by land and sea she has, forthe last year, been making open war upon our commerce, on our citizens, on the integrity of our government. It is exasperating, sir, exasperating beyond measure, to see the authorities at Washington drifting aimlessly and unpreparedly into an armed conflict which is bound to come. Our president should demand from congress at once a declaration that a state of war exists with Germany, and with that declaration should go a system of organized preparedness, and then, sir, we should go to Europe and fight, and, thus fighting, help our Allies and save our native land. It shall be my errand to Washington to urge such an aggressive course."
Of his belief in his theory there could be no doubt. Of his earnestness in advocating it there was not the slightest question. His profound sympathy with the Allies did credit to his heart as well as his judgment. And the devotion of this one-armed and enfeebled veteran to the cause of his own country, his eagerness to serve her in the field and his confidence in his ability still to do so, were pathetic as well as inspiring. It was all so big, and patriotic,and splendid, even in its childish egotism and simplicity, that the pure absurdity of it found no place in the mind of this affectionate and manly-hearted boy.
"I believe you are right, grandfather," he said, "and it's noble of you to offer your services that way."
"Thank you, sir!"
The colonel turned as if to move toward the information desk at the office, and then turned back.
"Pardon me!" he said, "but I forgot to inquire concerning your own errand in the city."
"I am on my way to Canada, grandfather."
A look of surprise came into the old man's eyes, followed at once by an expression of infinite scorn. He remembered that, in the days of the civil war, slackers and rebel sympathizers who wished to evade the draft made their way across the national border into Canada. They had received the contempt of their own generation and had drawn a figurative bar-sinister across the shield of their descendants. Could it be possible that this grandchild of his wasabout to add disgrace to disloyalty? That, in addition to heaping insults on the flag of his country as a boy, he was now, as a man, taking time by the forelock and escaping to the old harbor of safety to avoid some possible future conscription? The absurdity and impracticability of such a proposition did not occur to him at the moment, only the humiliation and the horror of it.
"To Canada, sir?" he demanded; "the refuge of cowards and copperheads! Why to Canada, sir, in the face of this impending crisis in your country's affairs?"
His voice rose at the end in angry protest. The look of scorn that blazed from under his gray eye-brows was withering in its intensity. Pen, who was sufficiently familiar with the history of the civil war to know what lay in his grandfather's mind, answered quickly but quietly:
"I am going to Canada to enlist."
"To—to what? Enlist?"
"Yes; in the American Legion; to fight under the Union Jack in France."
A pillar stood near by, and the colonelbacked up against it for support. The shock of the surprise, the sudden revulsion of feeling, left him nerveless.
"And you—you are going to war?"
He could not quite believe it yet. He wanted confirmation.
"Yes, grandfather; I'm going to war. I couldn't stay out of it. Until my own country takes up arms I'll fight under another flag. When she does get into it I hope to fight under the Stars and Stripes."
A wonderful look came into the old man's face, a look of pride, of satisfaction, of unadulterated joy. His mouth twitched as though he desired to speak and could not. Then, suddenly, he thrust out his one arm and seized Pen's hand in a mighty and affectionate grip. In that moment the sorrow, the bitterness, the estrangement of years vanished, never to return.
"I am proud of you, sir!" he said. "You are worthy of your illustrious ancestors. You are maintaining the best traditions of Bannerhall."
"I'm glad you're pleased, grandfather."
"Pleased is too mild an expression. I am rejoiced. It is the proudest moment of my life." He stepped away from the pillar, straightened his shoulders, and gazed benignantly on his grandson. "Not that I especially desire," he added after a moment, "that you should be subjected to the hazards and the hardships of a soldier's life. That goes without saying. But it is the hazards and the hardships he faces that make the soldier a hero. Death itself has no terrors for the patriotic brave. 'Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.'"
His eyes wandered away into some alluring distance and his thought into the fields of memory, and for a moment he was silent. Nor did Pen speak. He felt that the occasion was too momentous, the event too sacred to be spoiled by unnecessary words from him.
It was the colonel who at last broke the silence.
"It is not an opportune time," he said, "to speak of the past. But, as to the future, you may rest in confidence. While you are absent your mother shall be looked after. Her everywant shall be supplied. It will be my delight to attend to the matter personally."
Swift tears sprang to Pen's eyes. Surely the beautiful, the tender side of life was again turning toward him. It was with difficulty that he was able sufficiently to control his voice to reply:
"Thank you, grandfather! You are very good to us."
"Do not mention it! How about your own wants? Have you money sufficient to carry you to your destination?"
"Thank you! I have all the money I need."
"Very well. I shall communicate with you later, and see that you lack nothing for your comfort. Will you kindly send me your address when you are permanently located in your training camp?"
"Yes, I will."
Pen glanced at his watch and saw that he had but a few minutes left in which to catch his train.
"I'm sorry, grandfather," he said, "but when I met you I was just starting for the station totake my train north; and now, if I don't hurry, I'll get left."
He held out his hand and the old man grasped it anew.
"Penfield, my boy;" his voice was firm and brave as he spoke. "Penfield, my boy, quit yourself like the man that you are! Remember whose blood courses in your veins! Remember that you are an American citizen and be proud of it. Farewell!"
He parted his white moustache, bent over, pressed a kiss upon his grandson's forehead, swung him about to face the door, and watched his form as he retreated. When he turned again he found his friend, Colonel Marshall, standing at his side.
"I have just bidden farewell," he said proudly, "to my grandson, Master Penfield Butler, who is leaving on the next train for Canada where he will go into training with the American Legion, and eventually fight under the Union Jack, on the war-scarred fields of France."
"He is a brave and patriotic boy," replied Colonel Marshall.
"It is in his blood and breeding, sir. No Butler of my line was ever yet a coward, or ever failed to respond to a patriotic call."
And as for Pen, midnight found him speeding northward with a heart more full and grateful, and a purpose more splendidly fixed, than his life had ever before known.