'Have you been interested?' I asked.
'Never so interested in my life,—it was wonderful! But look here, my friend, do these men believe in Almighty God? Have they been asking for guidance on their deliberations?'
'I don't know. We English are not people who talk about that kind of thing lightly.'
'No, and I am glad of it,' he replied earnestly, 'but I must come again.In a sense, this should be the Power-House of the nation.'
'It is,' I replied; 'at this place supplies are voted.'
'Supplies,' he repeated thoughtfully.
'Come,' I said, 'I have arranged to meet Mr. ——; he is an important member of the Government, and he said he would be good for half an hour's chat after this Debate was over.'
A few seconds later, the member who introduced us took us into the lobby, where I met the Minister to whom I had referred, and who led the way to his own room. As it happened, I had known this Minister for several years. We had spent a holiday together before the war, and had often played golf together. I had more than once seen him after he had become a member of the Government, and he appeared very glad of a little relaxation after the stress of his work.
'What did you think of the Debate?' he asked. 'Of course things are different now from what they used to be. The time for making an impression by big speeches is over. I dare say, when the war comes to an end, we shall have the old party fights again, although the country will never be the same again, even in that way. Still, I thought it was interesting.'
'How do you think we are doing?' I asked presently.
'What, at the front? Oh, fairly well. We have to keep hammering away, you know, but the Germans are by no means done for yet. It is evidently going to be a war of exhaustion, and we have only just come to our strength. Of course the Germans have given up all hope of winning. One of our weaknesses, if I may so say, lies in Russia. It is months now since they did anything.'
'Do you think there is any danger of their making a separate peace?' I asked.
'No, I don't think so; but there are some very uncertain elements to contend with, and the corruption there has been frightful. I should not be surprised at a big movement there in time. Still, we are doing very well; our forces are becoming well organized, and in another year or so I think the Boches'll begin to crumple up.'
Knowing what was in Edgecumbe's mind, I asked him several questions, which he, without betraying any Cabinet secrets, answered freely. He discussed the question in all its bearings, and revealed remarkable acumen and judgment. All the time Edgecumbe sat listening eagerly, without speaking a word. Then, suddenly, he burst out with a question.
'What do you think we must do to win this war?' he asked, and there was a strange intensity in his voice.
'I am afraid I don't quite understand.'
'What do you think we must do to win this war?' Edgecumbe repeated. 'Have we left anything undone that we could have done? Are there any forces to be brought into play which have not yet been used? Do you see any great dangers ahead? What must we do more? You see, I have been a long time at the front, and I know what fighting is; but naturally, as a soldier, my standpoint of vision is small and circumscribed. How does it appeal to you, who, as a statesman, must necessarily take a larger view?'
The Cabinet Minister seemed to be collecting his thoughts for a few seconds, then he said, 'Of course the question is a very big one. First of all, take the East. If Russia is freed from traitors, and if she holds together,—and if, with the help that we can give her, she can have enough munitions, I don't think we need fear anything there. Then, while our Salonica effort doesn't seem to amount to much, we are holding up a vast number of men, and doing good work. But I do not expect anything decisive from there. Then, in a way, we are doing valuable work in Mesopotamia and Palestine; by that means we are gradually wearing down the Turks. When we come nearer home,—Italy is doing very well. She'll make a big push in a few months, and we shall be able to help her. France is, of course, becoming a bit exhausted, but France is good for a long while yet. It is we who have to play the decisive game, and if we hold together, as I believe we shall if we have no Labour troubles, so that munitions and supplies may be plentiful, we shall be stronger in the field than the Germans are. We have beaten them in big guns, in explosives, and in men. Of course it'll be a long, tough fight, for the Germans realize that it is neck or nothing with them, and they'll hold out to the last. But we are the strongest side, and in the end they'll crumple up.'
'Then you think,' asked Edgecumbe, 'that our victory will depend on these things?—on stronger armies, and a bigger supply of munitions?'
'That, and the ability of our generals. The German generals are very able men, but I think we beat them even there.'
'Then that is how you roughly outline our forces, and our hopes of victory?'
'Yes, that is it, roughly,' replied the Minister.
'May I ask whether that is the view of the Government as a whole?'
'What other view is there?'
'Then where does God come in?'
He asked the question simply, but evidently he was deeply in earnest. I recognized the intensity of his voice, saw the flash of his eyes.
The Minister looked towards me in a bewildered kind of way. I have an idea that he thought Edgecumbe was mad.
'I don't quite understand you,' he said. 'Will you tell me exactly what you mean?'
'I asked you,' said Edgecumbe, 'what you thought were the forces to be used in order to win this war, and you told me; whereupon I asked you where God came in.'
'God!' repeated the Minister; 'why, we are at war!'
'Exactly, that is why I ask. When the war commenced, the people of the nation were informed that we were going to fight a holy war, that we were going to crush militarism, do justice to small states, bring about an abiding peace in the world. We were told that it was God's war. May I ask where God comes in in your scheme of carrying it on?'
The Minister smiled. Evidently he had come to the conclusion thatEdgecumbe was a harmless lunatic, and should not be taken seriously.
'The fact that we are fighting for a just cause,' he said, 'is sufficient to prove that it is God's war.'
'But is that all?'
The Minister looked at him helplessly. Evidently he did not think it worth while to carry the conversation further.
'Because,' went on Edgecumbe quietly, 'as far as I have watched the course of events, we have been fighting, as far as the Government is concerned, as though God did not exist. A great many appeals have been made to the nation, yet think what they amount to! First of all the country was appealed to for men, and the men volunteered. But that was not enough. A certain section of the press cried out for conscription, and demanded that Parliament should pass a Bill giving power to the authorities to compel every man of military age to join the Forces. That was done. Then there was the trouble about munitions, and power was given whereby many works were controlled, and huge factories were built all over the country for the production of big guns and explosives. In addition to that, there was appeal after appeal for money, and still more money. Then we were told that the whole nation should serve, and there was a further appeal for a National Service. We were told that if these things were done victory was certain.'
'But surely you do not object to this?' said the Cabinet Minister in astonishment.
'Certainly not,' replied Edgecumbe. 'I agree with every one of them; butI asked where God came in. We pretend to believe in God, don't we?'
'Well, what then?'
'Has there been any appeal to the nation to repent of its sins? There have been Proclamations from the throne: has there ever been one calling upon the people of the British Empire to pray? Have we, as a nation, been asked to link ourselves to the power of Almighty God? Has the Government ever endeavoured to make the people feel that our victory is in God's hands, and that we must look to Him for help? Have we not, I ask, as far as the Government is concerned, been fighting this war as though God didn't exist?'
'But, my dear man,' said the Cabinet Minister, 'you as a soldier must know that chaplains are sent out with the Forces, that the soldiers have to attend Church Parade, and that prayer is offered by the chaplains for our victory? How can you say then that the war has been conducted as though God didn't exist?'
'I know what all that means,' replied Edgecumbe. 'I have been at the front for a good many months, and I know what it means. I recognize, too, all the splendid work that has been done by the chaplains; many of them are fine fellows. But I want to get a bit deeper. I want to know what steps have been taken to make the nation realize that primarily victory is in the hands of Almighty God. I want to know, too, what steps have been taken to make the soldiers know what they are fighting for. We have in the Army now several millions, and they are all being instructed in the use of rifle shooting, machine-guns, bayonet work, and so on. Have any steps been taken to instruct them as to the nature of the cause we are fighting for, and of our ultimate aims and purposes? Have they ever been imbued with the idea of what Germanism means, and of our ultimate aims and ideals? In a word, have the soldiers been instructed that this is God's war, and that they are fighting for a holy cause?'
The Cabinet Minister laughed. Edgecumbe's question seemed too absurd to answer. Then he said somewhat uneasily, 'Prayers are said in the churches every Sunday.'
'And from what I hear, only about one person in ten goes to Church.'
'What are you driving at?' and there was a touch of impatience in theMinister's voice.
'Only this,' replied Edgecumbe, 'if this is simply a war of brute force against brute force, then doubtless the Government is going on the right tack. But if it is more,—if it is a war of God against the devil, of right against wrong, of the forces of heaven against the forces of hell, then we are forgetting our chief Power, we are failing as a nation to utilize the mightiest forces at our command. There might be no God, if one were to judge from the way we are conducting this struggle.'
'Nonsense!'
'That is scarcely an answer. Mark you, I am looking at it from the standpoint of the Government as expressing the thought and will of the nation. The Government is supposed to be the mouthpiece of the nation, and judging from the appeals of the men holding important offices under the Government, and the general trend of the daily press, while appeals are being made for all the material resources of the Empire, there has never been one appeal to the nation to pray, and to lay hold of the power which God is waiting to give.'
'You do not seem to realize, my friend,' said the Cabinet Minister, 'that war is primarily a contest between material forces.'
'No,' said Edgecumbe, 'I don't, neither do I believe it.'
'Our generals are not sentimentalists,' said the statesman; 'war is a stern business, and they see that it is a matter of big guns.'
'Not all,' replied Edgecumbe. 'If ever a man knew the meaning of big guns, and what big guns can do, it is Admiral Beatty. Perhaps you remember what he said: "England still remains to be taken out of the stupor of self-satisfaction and complacency into which her great and flourishing condition has steeped her, and until she can be stirred out of this condition, and until a religious revival takes place at home, just so long will the war continue."'
For a moment the statesman seemed nonplussed, and I could see that Edgecumbe was impressing him in spite of himself. He spoke quietly, but with evident intense conviction, and there was something in his personality that commanded respect. On his tunic, too, he wore his decorations, the decorations which proved him to be a man of courage and resource. There was no suggestion of weakness or of fanaticism in his manner. Every word, every movement, spoke of a strong, brave, determined man.
'Then what would you do?' he asked almost helplessly.
'It is scarcely a matter of what I would do,' replied Edgecumbe. 'I am here as an inquirer, and I came to the House of Commons to-night in order to understand the standpoint from which the Government looks at this tremendous question.'
'And your conclusion is——?'
'That God's forgotten. It is not looked upon as a religious war at all,—everything is reduced to the level of brute force. As far as I can read the newspapers, never, since the first few months of the war, or at least very rarely, has there been any endeavour to make the people realize this ghastly business from a religious standpoint, while the soldiers never hear a word from week end to week end of the purposes for which they are fighting.'
'You can't make soldiers religious if they don't want to be,' said theMinister, weakly I thought.
'I don't say you can,' replied Edgecumbe, 'but you can do something to lift the whole thing above its present sordid level, and give them a high and holy courage.'
'Theyhavecourage,' replied the Minister. 'As you have been at the front, you know what a splendid lot of men they are.'
'No man knows better,—a finer lot of fellows never breathed. But look at facts, think of the forces which have opposed them, and remember how they have been handicapped? Drink has been one of our great curses in this country; it has been one of our greatest hindrances. Even the Prime Minister insisted upon it almost pathetically. When we lacked munitions, and our men were being killed for want of them, drink was the principal interest to their manufacture. You of course know what Mr. Lloyd George said in 1915: "Without spending one penny on additional structures, without putting down a single additional machine, without adding to the supervision of the men, but on the contrary lessening the supervision, we could, by putting down the drink, by one act of sacrifice on the part of the nation, win through to victory for our country." Yet the Government has only played with the drink question, as far as the country is concerned, and it has kept on supplying it to the boys abroad. Everyone knows it has lowered the standard of our national life, intellectually, morally, and spiritually. And yet the thing continues. Is that the way to fight God's battles? Vested interests seem of more importance than purity and righteousness, while the men who make huge fortunes out of this traffic are coroneted.'
'Good night, Luscombe,' said the Cabinet Minister rising. 'I must be going now. This conversation has been very interesting, but I am afraid I cannot see as your friend sees.'
A few minutes later, we stood outside the great Government building. We were in the heart of London, the great city which so largely focuses the life of our world-wide Empire. Close to us, the towers of the Abbey lifted their pinnacles into the grey sky, while St. Margaret's Church looked almost small and diminutive by its side. Up Whitehall we could see the dim outlines of the great Government buildings, while the broad thoroughfare pulsated with the roaring traffic.
For some seconds Edgecumbe did not speak, then he burst out excitedly. 'It's a wonderful old city, isn't it? The finest, grandest city in the world! Do you know, it casts a kind of spell upon me. I sometimes think there is more good in London than in any other place.'
'Any one would not think so, judging by your conversation just now,' I laughed.
'But there is,' he said. 'Why, think of the kindness and loving service shown to the returning soldiers! Think of the thousands of women who are giving their lives to nursing them and caring for them! Come on,' and he moved towards Westminster Bridge.
'That's not the way back to the hotel.'
'I am not going back to the hotel yet,' he said.
'Where are you going, then?'
'To Waterloo station. There will be trains coming in from the coast. I want to see what happens to the soldiers who are coming back from the front.'
I am not going to write at length on what we saw at Waterloo station, and in its vicinity. In a way, our experiences were interesting beyond words, and while there was much which made one rejoice, there was also much to sadden. While we were there, a train came in laden with troops. Hundreds of men had come home on leave, and they had now arrived at this great terminus. What rejoiced me was to see the number of Y.M.C.A. workers, as well as others from various Christian bodies, who met the men and welcomed them. Of course there were numbers who were eagerly welcomed by their friends; others had evidently made their plans to get back to their homes quickly, while many more seemed bewildered and lonely. Lads who had originally hailed from Canada and Australia, and who knew nothing of London, looked around the huge station as though not knowing what to do, and if ever I felt glad because of the work of the Y.M.C.A., I felt it then. They seemed to have a kind of genius for knowing the men who were without friends, and for giving them a hearty welcome back.
I knew that, scattered all over London, were Huts and Hostels which they have provided for these lads who were strangers in a strange city, and that many of them would be taken to these places, given a hot supper, and provided with a comfortable bed. I know, too, while the lads were under the influence of the Y.M.C.A., no harm would happen to them, that they would be surrounded by good and healthy influences, and that as many of them who had no homes in England could stay at the Hostels during their leave.
But there were other influences at work. Not only were there these noble bands of workers, who existed for our soldiers' comfort and salvation,—there were scores of evil women who hovered around waiting like vultures to swoop upon their prey.
It is difficult to write about, difficult to contemplate. Scores of these boys, who for months had been away at the front, living without many refining influences, living, too, under strict discipline amidst all the stress and horror of war, were suddenly given their liberty, and let loose in our great City. Most of them would have plenty of money, for there are few opportunities of spending at the front, and they would be freed from all restrictions. Then their danger began. Lads, many of them inspired by no religious ideals, excited by their liberty, with no restraint of any sort placed upon them, became an easy prey to those who looked upon them as victims. The angels of light were there to help them, but there were also many creatures of darkness who lured them to destruction, and these creatures of darkness were allowed to ply their ghastly trade often without let or hindrance.
I could not help feeling the tragedy of it. These lads who had been living from hour to hour, and from minute to minute, amidst the roar of great guns, the shriek of shells, the pep-pep-pep of machine-guns, never knowing when death would come, were suddenly and without preparation thrown upon the bosom of our great modern Babylon; and on their return they were met by these creatures.
'It is ghastly, it is hellish!' said Edgecumbe, as we returned acrossWaterloo Bridge.
'What can be done?' I asked helplessly.
'These fellows should be safeguarded,' he replied. 'Oh, I know the difficulties, but those creatures should be dealt with with a strong hand; they should not be allowed in such places. The boys coming home from danger and death should be protected from such temptations. It is not a thing to talk about, not a thing to discuss in public; but think of the inwardness of it, think of the ghastly diseases, the loss of manhood, the corruption of soul, that follows in the train of what we have seen,—and it is going on all over London.'
'You can't put down vice by Act of Parliament,' I replied.
'No, but a great deal more can be done than is done,' was his answer. 'People don't talk about these things in their drawing-rooms, or in their social circles, but they exist,—my God, they exist! And this is supposed to be a holy war! Still, thank God for the good that is being done, for the organizations which exist for men's comfort and salvation.'
And then he did not speak another word until we reached the hotel.
The next day was Saturday, and directly after lunch we started to go together to a matinee, for Edgecumbe had stated his determination to visit the places of amusement and see how London enjoyed itself.
We begun by going to one of the largest and most popular music-halls in the City, where a revue which was much commented on was produced for the delectation of all who cared to see it.
I was informed that this particular place was much patronized by soldiers, and that the entertainment was one of the most popular in London. The prices of the seats varied from half a guinea, plus the War tax, to a shilling, and as we entered we found a vast concourse of people, among whom were many men in khaki. I discovered too that the management had been generous, for there were numbers of wounded soldiers, many of them in the stalls, and who had been given free admission.
'After all, it is fine,' I said, as we waited for the curtain to rise, 'that these lads should have a place of brightness and amusement to go to.'
'Yes,' replied Edgecumbe, 'in a way it is splendid.'
'The people of the country are wonderfully good,' I went on; 'soldiers in the hospitals, as well as others home on leave, are constantly being given hospitality by the best and kindest people in England. I hope these chaps'll have a good laugh this afternoon, and be able to forget the horrors through which they have passed. They have had enough of the tragedy of life, poor chaps. I hope they'll get some comedy this afternoon.'
'I hope they will,' he replied.
I will not attempt to give a description of the revue they witnessed that afternoon. I suppose it was similar to a score of others that might be seen in various parts of the metropolis. There was an excellent orchestra, the music was light and pleasing, the whole atmosphere of the place was merry. The lights were dazzling, the dresses were gay, the scenery almost magnificent. As a spectacle it would, I suppose, be regarded as gorgeous. Apparently, too, most of the auditors enjoyed it, although a look of boredom was on some faces. As to the revue itself, while one could not help admitting that some of the songs were humorous, and some of the repartee clever, the thing as a whole was cheap and silly and vulgar.
I do not say there was anything positively wrong in it, but there were a great many vulgar suggestions and unpleasant innuendoes. As a dramatic critic said in my hearing a day or two later, when discussing the popular entertainments of London, 'Most of these shows consist of vulgar, brainless twaddle.' Still, the audience laughed and cheered, and when the curtain finally fell, there was a good deal of applause. Certainly the entertainment would be a great contrast to the experiences which the lads who were home on leave had been going through. But as I reflect on it now, and think of the great struggle through which the nation was going, and the ideals for which it was fighting, I cannot remember one single word that would help or inspire. Of course places of amusement are not intended to instruct or to fill one with lofty emotions. All the same, I could not help feeling that laughter and enjoyment were in no way incompatible with the higher aims of the drama. In fact, what we saw was not drama at all; it was a caricature of life, and a vulgar one at that. Indeed, the author's purpose seemed to be—that is, assuming he had a purpose—to teach that virtue was something to be laughed at, that vice was pleasant, and that sin had no evil consequences.
Indeed, while I am anything but a puritan, I felt sorry that the hundreds of lads home from the front, many of whom were wounded, had no better fare offered to them. God knows I would be the last to detract from their honest enjoyment, and I would make their leave bright and happy; but after all, the nation was at war, life was a struggle, and death stalked triumphant, and this was but a poor mental and moral food for men who, for months, had been passing through an inferno, and many of whom would, in a few weeks or days, go back again to see 'hell let loose.' If those men had been merely fighting animals, if they were mere creatures of a day, who went out of existence when the sun went down, then one could understand; but they were men with hopes, and fears, and longings; men into whose nostrils God had breathed the breath of His own life, men destined for immortality. And this show was pagan from end to end.
When the entertainment was over, I led the way to a fashionable hotel for tea, where a large and handsomely decorated room was set apart for that purpose. A gay crowd of some hundreds had already gathered when we arrived, so that there was a difficulty in obtaining a table. This crowd had evidently, like ours, come from the various places of amusement in the immediate vicinity, and had managed to get there earlier than we.
The men folk were mostly officers, while the women were, I imagine, in the main their relatives and friends. The latter were very gaily and expensively dressed. As far as I can remember, the cost of a very poor tea was half a crown for each person. Every one appeared in great good humour, and laughter was the order of the day.
'Not much suggestion here that the country's at war, eh?' I said, looking round the room, 'and but few evidences that the appeals to the public to economize have been taken very deeply to heart.'
'No,' replied Edgecumbe, 'except for the khaki, it would be difficult to believe that the country is at war. Still, I suppose it is natural. Most of these lads are home on leave, and their women folk want them to enjoy themselves. This is their way of doing it.'
'It shows that money is plentiful,' I said; 'we are a long way from bankruptcy yet.'
'But the big bill will have to be paid, my friend. There are no signs of it now, but the country can't spend all these millions every day without suffering for it later on,' and I saw a thoughtful look come into his eyes as they wandered round the room.
After tea we went for a walk along the streets, and then, at half-past seven, I took him to another fashionable hotel, where I had ordered dinner. Again we saw a similar crowd, met with similar scenes. Whatever London might be feeling, the fashionable part of it had determined to enjoy itself. At night we went to another theatre, which was also packed to the ceiling with a gay throng. Here also were crowds of soldiers, many of whom were, I judged, like ourselves, home from the front.
Edgecumbe passed no opinion on the play, or on the spectators. That he was deeply interested, was evident, although I think his interest was more in the audience than the performers.
'I am tired,' I said, when the entertainment was over; 'let's get to bed.'
'No, not yet, I want to see London by night. All this, to you, Luscombe, is commonplace. I dare say it would be to me if my memory came back. As it is, it is all new and strange to me. It is exciting me tremendously. I am like one seeing the show for the first time.'
By this time London was at its busiest, crowds surged everywhere. 'Buses, taxi-cabs, and motors threaded their way through the streets, while the foot pavements were crowded. Places of amusement were emptying themselves on every hand, and although the streets were darkened, it seemed to have no effect upon the spirits of the people. The night was fairly clear, and a pale moon showed itself between the clouds.
'What a city it is!' said Edgecumbe, after we had been walking some time. 'Think of it, the centre of the British Empire, the great heart which sends its life-blood through the veins of a mighty people! But is the life-blood pure, my friend?'
We passed up Charing Cross to Leicester Square, and then on through Piccadilly Circus up Regent Street, then we came down again, through the Haymarket, into Pall Mall. I am not going to describe what we saw, nor tell in detail the experiences through which we passed. That ghastly story of gilded vice, and of corruption which is not ashamed, was too sad, too pathetic. The Empire might be in danger, even then there might be Zeppelins hovering in the near distance, waiting to drop missiles of destruction and death. Less than two hundred miles away our armies were fighting, guns were booming, shells were shrieking, men were dying. But here in London, on the eve of the Day of Rest, the tide of iniquity rolled. Young men were tempted, and falling; many of the very lads who had done heroic deeds were selling their souls for half an hour's pleasure.
In spite of the drink regulations, too, it was easy to see that numbers, both men and women, had been able to obtain it, often to their own degradation.
'Come on,' said Edgecumbe presently, 'let's get back to the hotel. I've had enough.'
During the remainder of Edgecumbe's leave we spent our time in seeing and trying to understand London. As he had insisted, London was the centre of the British Empire; the great heart which sent its life-blood throughout the veins of four hundred millions of people. To understand London, therefore, was to understand the aims, hopes and ideals of the British race. Of course I urged that London was not England, much less the Empire; but I could not help admitting that there was much truth in his contention.
Naturally we did not see our metropolis in its entirety. To know London means a lifetime's study; but we did get a superficial glimpse of its life, and we tried to understand the inwardness of that life.
On the day after the incidents described in the last chapter we visited several churches; we also made our way into Hyde Park, and heard the orators. We interviewed several ecclesiastics both of the Established and Nonconformist order, and if ever a man was depressed it was Edgecumbe.
'These religious organizations do not touch a tithe of the people,' he said to me. 'London is called a Christian City, but it is far more pagan than Christian. The people are not interested in religious things, and even among churchgoers everything seems unreal.'
He was led to modify this opinion later. He saw that while the City was in one sense largely godless, it was in another deeply religious. He realized that, in spite of apparent religious indifference, the teachings of the Founder of Christianity, and the truths for which He lived and died, had, through the centuries, created an atmosphere which influenced every phase of thought and life.
But he did not feel this during the two Sundays we spent together. As far as we could see, only a small fragment of the people entered the doors of the churches, and that even this fragment was filled with no mighty religious hope or enthusiasm.
One sermon, however, struck him forcibly. It was preached by a young man who took for his text, 'And they that were ready went into the marriage feast.' The argument of the sermon was that God gave neither individuals nor nations the highest of blessings until they were ready, and he urged that until England was ready for peace God would not give it her. That until we became less materialistic, less selfish, until we ceased to exploit the war as a means for advancing our own interest, and until we turned to God and kept His commandments, real peace would be a far-off dream.
But I must not stay to describe this at length; indeed, a volume would be necessary to give any true idea of our experiences. We saw London by night as well as by day. We went to munition factories and to night clubs, to hospitals and to music-halls, to seats of Government and to haunts of vice. We talked with hundreds of people of all kinds, and from the drift of their conversation tried to understand the spirit of the City.
I shall never forget the look on Edgecumbe's face after our visit to a hospital for soldiers who suffered from a disease which shall be nameless. The horror in his eyes and the absolute nausea and loathing which possessed him has haunted me ever since.
But there were sights which rejoiced him also. The splendid sacrifices which unnumbered people, both men and women, were making, and the great broad-hearted charity which abounded on every hand, made him realize not only the bad but the good, and led him to realize that beneath the mad whirl of evil passions which was too evident, was a life sacred and sublime.
Presently, however, our peregrinations came to an end. Edgecumbe had appeared before a medical officer, and was declared fit for duty again. He had also received orders to return to his battery, while I daily waited instructions as to my future course of action.
'We have had a wonderful time, Luscombe,' he said. 'I little dreamt, when we started out to see London, what it would be like.'
'Well, what do you think of it all?'
'I am bewildered,' he replied; 'it is all too big to co-ordinate. I want to get a grasp of everything. I want to see things in their true proportion. I want to understand.'
We had just come from the Crystal Palace, where so many thousands of our sailors are quartered, and had been talking with the workers of the Y.M.C.A. concerning their activities there.
'You will never be able to co-ordinate it, Edgecumbe,' I said. 'No man can understand fully the life of a great city like this.'
'No, I suppose not. Still, I am trying to think my way through it.'
'Anyhow,' I said, 'you have to return to duty tomorrow. Let us forget the serious things of life for once. By the way,' I added, 'have you heard from Miss Lorna Bolivick?'
For some seconds he did not reply, and I thought he did not hear what I said. His face was a curious study at the time, and I wondered what he was thinking about.
'No,' he replied presently, 'I have not heard from her. Naturally I did not expect to.'
During the whole time we had spent in London together, he had never once referred to her, and I imagined, and almost hoped, that he had seen the madness of the determination he had expressed when we were down in Devonshire.
'You have given up all thought of her, then?'
'Given up all thought of her? Certainly not. You know what I told you?'
'Yes, but I thought you might have seen how foolish you were.'
'I shall never give up hope,' he replied; 'that is, until hope is impossible. Whatever made you think of such a thing?'
'But do you not see the madness of your plan?'
'No, there is nothing mad in it. By the way, Luscombe, I am awfully hungry. Let us go in here and get some dinner. Don't think, old man, that I can't see your point of view,' he said when we had taken our seats in the dining-room of the restaurant, 'I can. From your standpoint, for a man in my position, without name, without home, without friends, without money, to aspire to the hand of Lorna Bolivick, is to say that he is fit for a lunatic asylum. But I can't see things as you do. God Almighty didn't put this love in my heart for nothing, a love which has been growing every day since I saw her. Why, man, although I have said nothing to you, she is everything to me, everything! That is, from the personal standpoint. If I did not believe in God, I should despair, but, believing in Him, despair is impossible.'
'God does not give us everything we want,' I replied; 'it would not be good for us if He did. Possibly He has other plans for her.'
'That may be so,' he replied calmly, 'but I am going to act as though He meant her for me.'
I looked across the dining-hall as he spoke, and saw, sitting not far away from us, a party which instantly attracted my attention.
'I should not, if I were you,' I said.
'Why?'
'Look!' I replied, nodding towards the table I had noticed.
He gave a start, for sitting at the table were Sir Thomas and LadyBolivick and their daughter Lorna. Sitting beside the latter wasSpringfield.
'Does not that suggest the answer?'
His face never moved a muscle, and he looked at them as though he were but little interested.
'If ever a man had the appearance of a successful lover,' I went on, 'Springfield has. There, do you see how he is looking at her? Do you see how his every action suggests proprietorship? Then watch her face, see how she smiles at him. It would seem, too, as though her father and mother are very pleased.'
He continued to look at them for several seconds, then he said quite casually, 'They have no idea we are here.'
'No, evidently not. But I think I will go and speak to them.'
'Don't, Luscombe,' and he spoke quickly; 'it will be better not. I don't want that man to know where I am.'
'You are convinced that I was right about him, then?'
'I am convinced there will be a battle royal between me and that man,' he said, and there was a far-away look in his eyes. 'Perhaps—perhaps—I don't know,—the ways of Providence are strange. There is going to be a terrible fight; I can see it coming.'
'What, between you and Springfield?'
'Yes; but there is something more than that, something greater. But I must fight,—I must fight.'
I did not understand the look in his eyes, or the tone of his voice.
'What, to protect yourself against Springfield?' I said.
'To save a woman's soul,' was his reply. 'Would you mind if we didn't talk about it any more just now?' He went on with his dinner as though nothing had happened, and if a stranger had been sitting by, he would have said that Edgecumbe had no interest in the party close by.
'I think I must go and speak to them,' I said; 'it would seem discourteous to be so near, and not speak to people who have shown me so much kindness.'
'Go if you like,' was his answer, 'but don't let them see me. I am going back to the hotel.'
I waited until he had left the room, and then turned towards Sir ThomasBolivick's table.
I received a hearty welcome as I came up, and Sir Thomas tried to persuade me to spend the evening with them, and to accompany them to the theatre. As far as I could judge, however, neither Springfield nor Lorna seconded his proposal. I thought she preferred Springfield's company to my own. They were now sitting over their coffee. Sir Thomas was smoking a huge cigar, while Springfield lit cigarette after cigarette and threw them away before they were half consumed.
'When did you come up?' I asked.
'Oh, we have been here four days. Captain Springfield—oh, I beg his pardon,—Colonel Springfield, has to go to the front the day after to-morrow, and I was anxious to see him before he went.'
'"Colonel"?' I said. 'Have you been gazetted?' and I turned toSpringfield as I spoke.
'Sir Thomas is a little premature,' he replied with a smile. 'My name was down for my majority before I returned home wounded, and I was gazetted two months ago. As to my being colonel,—but there, it is no use making a secret of it, I suppose I am to have my battalion immediately on my return.'
'Yes, I saw General —— at the War Office yesterday,' and Sir Thomas smiled benignantly. 'Such services as Springfield has rendered can't go long unrewarded, and in these days seniority does not count so much. By the way, what has become of our eccentric friend Edgecumbe?'
'Don't you know. Have you heard nothing about him?' and I turned quickly to Springfield as I spoke.
'I saw him nearly three weeks ago,' he replied; 'it seems he was not fit for work, and came to London on leave. I saw him twice, I think, and took him to one or two clubs. Since then I have lost sight of him.'
'And heard nothing about him?' I asked, looking at him steadily.
'Nothing at all. Sir Thomas, it is nearly time for us to go, but there is time for another liqueur. We can meet the ladies in the vestibule.'
I accompanied Lorna Bolivick a few steps down the room, while LadyBolivick went a little ahead.
'Am I to congratulate you, Lorna?' I said. 'Forgive me, I am taking you at your word.'
She gave me a quick look, which I could not understand, and then replied,'I start nursing again next week.'
'You know what I mean,' I persisted, and I laughed as I spoke.'Springfield looks a very happy man.'
'Don't speak that way.' she replied; 'at least not yet.'
'Why?' I asked; and then, overstepping the bounds of good taste, I went on, 'Edgecumbe told me all about it.'
'Did he? I am so sorry. But—but—come and see us, won't you? We are staying at the Carlton. We shall be there three days more. I want to talk to you. Good night,' and she rushed away.
When I returned to the table, I found that the waiter had replenished the liqueur glasses, and I saw, not only by the empty champagne bottle, but by Springfield's eyes, that his libations had been liberal.
'By the way, Luscombe,' he said, 'doyouknow where Edgecumbe is? Has he returned to duty?'
Before I could reply, Sir Thomas, fortunately I thought, burst in with another question, 'What do you really make of that fellow Edgecumbe?'
'One of the bravest, finest, and most conscientious men I ever met,' I replied.
Springfield laughed mockingly.
'Why, is not that your opinion?' and I looked at him steadily.
'A man is bound to think kindly of a man who has saved his life. Because of that I tried to be friendly to him. He was staying at that Y.M.C.A. show for penniless officers, and I thought I'd do him a good turn, but—but——' he hesitated.
'But what?' I asked.
'Of course I know little of him. I never saw him until I met him down atSir Thomas's place. But if you weren't so certain about his sanctity,Luscombe, I should be inclined to look upon him as a criminal madman';and there was a snarl in his voice.
'Surely you must have reasons for that,' I said.
'Yes, I have.'
'What are they?'
'I don't think I am obliged to tell,' he replied truculently.
'I think you are,' I said. 'To say the least of it, you owe him your life,—I can testify to that, for he exposed himself to almost certain death while digging you out from under a big heap ofdébris; none of the others who were there would have done it. And it is hardly decent to call one who has done such a thing a criminal madman, without having the strongest reasons.'
'Ihavethe strongest reasons,' he replied, and I saw that his libations had made him less cautious than usual. 'I do not think any one can doubt his madness, whilst as for the criminality,' and he laughed again, 'evidently he does the pious when he is withyou; but when he gets among men of his own ilk, his piety is an unknown quantity. But the ladies are waiting, Sir Thomas; we must be off.'
I did not seek to pursue the conversation further. I did not think it wise. And certainly the dining-room of a popular restaurant was not the place for a scene.
I went back to the hotel very slowly, and having taken a somewhat roundabout course it was not until an hour after I had left the restaurant that I arrived there. I went into all the public rooms, and looked for my friend. But he was nowhere visible. Then, feeling somewhat uneasy, I went to his bedroom door, and was much relieved at hearing him bid me enter. I found him sitting in an easy chair with a handful of notes, which he had evidently been reading.
'What have you got there?' I asked.
'Oh, each night after we came back I wrote down my impressions,' he replied, 'and I have been looking at them.'
'Well, you are a cool customer!' I laughed.
'Thank you. But what has led you to that tremendous conclusion?'
'Why, you see the woman with whom you pretend to be in love taken away by another man, and never show the least desire to play your game! If it were any one else but Springfield, I should not wonder so much, but knowing your opinion of him, I can hardly understand it.'
'Yes, I hardly understand myself,' he replied; 'in fact, I am rather a mystery to myself.'
'Do you really love Lorna Bolivick?' I asked.
'Excuse me, old man, but I don't quite understand you.'
He looked at me steadily for a few seconds, and then went on quietly, 'I fancy there is no need to tell you about that.'
'And yet you stand by and see Springfield carry her off before your eyes, and Springfield is a rotter.'
'Yes, that's just what he is. But he can't harm her yet.'
'What do you mean by "yet"?'
'I can't put it into words, Luscombe. My first impulse when I saw them together just now was to go to the table and denounce him,—to warn her against him. But it would have been madness. The time is not yet come.'
'Meanwhile, he will marry her,' I said.
'No, he won't. I am afraid he has fascinated her, and I am sure he means to marry her,—I saw it down in Devonshire. But there is no danger yet; the danger will come by and by,—when or how I don't know. It will come, and I must be ready for it. I will be ready, too. Meantime, I have other things to think about. I am worried, my friend, worried.'
'What is worrying you?'
'I am going back to duty to-morrow, but from what I can hear I am to be treated as a special case. My colonel has said all sorts of kind things about me, I find. But that's not what I am thinking about now. This war is maddening me,—this constant carnage, with all the misery it entails. You asked me some time ago what I thought about the things we had seen,—what my impressions were, and I told you that I could not co-ordinate my ideas, could not look at things in their true perspective. I say, Luscombe, Admiral Beatty was right.'
'What do you mean?'
'Do you remember what he said?—"Just so long as England remains in a state of religious indifference, just so long as the present conditions obtain, will the war continue."'
'Don't let us talk about that now.'
'But I must, my dear chap. I am going back to duty to-morrow, and I want to realize the inwardness of all we have seen. One thing I am determined on.'
'What is that?'
'To fight this drink business as long as I have breath. It is doing us more harm than Germany. I am told there is danger of a food famine. It is said that bread is going to be scarce,—that people may be put on short rations. Of course we only hear hints now, but there are suggestions that Germany is going to pursue her submarine policy with more vigour, so as to starve us. A man I met in the hotel a little while ago told me that they were going to sink all merchant ships at sight, regardless of nationality. Of course you know what that means.'
'There are always rumours afloat,' I said.
'Theymightdo it. Germany is capable of anything. But we could laugh at that, but for this drink business. Think of it! Four million tons of grain wasted in making drink since the beginning of the war, and there is a talk about a shortage of bread. Three hundred thousand tons of sugar have been used in making drink since the beginning of the war, and it is difficult for people to buy sugar for the common necessities of life! And that is not the worst of it. Why, man, you know what we have seen during these last weeks,—all the horror, all the misery, all the devilry! What has been at the bottom of nine-tenths of it? Night after night, when we have come back from seeing what wehaveseen, I have been studying these questions, I have been reading hours while you thought I was asleep. And I tell you, it would not be good for us to have victory, until this thing is destroyed. And I doubt whether God Almighty everwillgive us victory, until we have first of all strangled once and for ever this drink fiend.'
'Don't talk nonsense! You are becoming a teetotal fanatic.'
'Think, Luscombe,' and he rose from his chair as he spoke, 'suppose God were to give us victory to-night? Suppose the Germans were to cave in, and tell us that we could dictate the terms of peace? Suppose our armies were to come back while things are as they are, and while the thought and feeling of the nation is as it is? Don't you see what would follow? When trouble was first in the air, Asquith said that "war was hell let loose." Would not hell be let loose if victory were to be declared? Think of the drunkenness, the devilry, the bestiality that you and I saw! Think what those streets round Waterloo station are like! Think of the places we went to, and remember what took place! And these are grave times,—times of struggle and doubt, and there are only a few odd thousands home on leave. But what would happen, with all these public-houses standing open, if hundreds of thousands, intoxicated with the thought of victory, came back? You have told me what took place during the Boer War; that would be nothing to the Bacchanalian orgies we should see if victory were to come now.'
'Then you don't want victory?'
'Don't want victory! I long for it! Why—why I get almost mad as I think of what is daily taking place. Here in England people don't really know what is happening. No hell ever invented is as bad as war. It is the maddest and ghastliest crime ever known, the greatest anachronism ever conceived. It mocks everything high and holy; it is the devil incarnate! But one can't close one's eyes to facts. You remember what that preacher man said in his sermon. He told us that Almighty God often kept things from men and nations until they were ready, and that if, as sometimes happened, things came before a people were ready, they proved curses and not blessings. For my own part I believe we shall have victory as soon as we are ready for it; but are we ready?'
'Then what do you believe will happen?'
'I am afraid we have dark days before us. As a nation we are putting material gain before moral fitness. The people who are making fortunes out of our national curses are fighting like death for their hand, and the nation seems to believe in a policy oflaissez faire. If a man is in earnest about these things, he is called a fanatic. Purge England of her sins, my friend, and God will give us the victory.'
'That's as shadowy as a cloud, and has about as much foundation as a cloud,' I retorted.
'Perhaps events will prove that I am right. Don't let us imagine that God has no other means of working except through big guns. I have read a good deal of history lately, and I have seen that, more than once, when men and nations have been sure that certain things would happen, Almighty God has laughed at them. God answered Job out of the whirlwind; that's what He'll do to England.'
I laughed incredulously.
'All right,' he went on. 'It is very easy to laugh, but I should not be at all surprised if Russia were to make a separate peace with Germany, or if something were to happen to disorganize her forces. Would not that make a tremendous difference to the war?'
'Of course it would, but Russia will make no separate peace, and nothing will happen. Russia's as safe as houses, and as steady as a rock. Don't talk nonsense, old man, and don't conjure up impossible contingencies to bolster up your arguments.'
He was silent a few seconds, then he turned to me and said quietly, 'You know the country pretty well, don't you?'
'Pretty well, I think.'
'Do you think the condition of London represents the nation as a whole?'
'Yes, I think so. I don't say that such things as we witnessed down by Waterloo or in those so-called studios around Chelsea can be seen anywhere except in the big towns and cities, but otherwise I should say that London gives a fair idea of the condition of the country.'
'Let me ask you this, then. Bearing what we have seen in mind, the good as well as the bad, do you think we are ready for victory?'
I was silent for some seconds, then I said somewhat weakly I am afraid, 'You cannot expect us all to be saints, Edgecumbe. Human nature is human nature, and—and—but there is a great deal of good in the country.'
'Doubtless there is. When I think of the quiet determination, the splendid sacrifices, the magnificent confidence of our people, added to the unwearying kindness to the wounded and the needy, I feel like saying we are ready for victory. But could not all that be matched in Germany? With the world against them they have gone straight on. Have we been determined? So have they. Have we made sacrifices? So have they. Have we been confident? They have been more so. I dare say too that with regard to kindness and care for their wounded and dying they could match us. But Germany can't win; if they did, it would be victory for the devil. It would mean a triumph for all that was worst in human life. God Almighty is in His Heaven, therefore whatever else happens German militarism will be crushed, and the world rid of an awful menace. But this is what has impressed me. We as a nation have a unique position in the world, and if history ever meant anything at all, we are called to lead the world to higher things. Our opportunity is tremendous; are we ready for it? I do not close my eyes to all the good there is in the country, and I am sure there are millions who are leading godly, sober lives. But as far as the Government and the great bulk of the country are concerned, we are spiritually dead. I have been studying the utterances of our statesmen, and I have looked too often in vain for anything like idealism and for a vision. You know what the old proverb says, "Where there is no vision, the people perish," and that is what we lack.'
'You are very hopeless,' I laughed.
'No, I am not. I can see that out of this upheaval will come a new England, a new world. But not yet. We are not ready for the Promised Land, not ready for the higher responsibilities to which God is calling us. That is why the victory is delayed. Great God! I wish we had a few men like Admiral Beatty in the Government. We want to be roused out of our sleep, our indifference, our lethargy. When the nation gives itself to God, victory will come.'
I did not pursue the conversation any further. I could see what was in his mind, and I did not think that he looked at facts in their right perspective, although I could not help feeling the tremendous amount of truth in what he said.
The next day he went back to duty, while I was informed that for some time my work would lie at home. A fortnight later Edgecumbe wrote me a letter, telling me that he was ordered to the front. It seems that his colonel was more than ever impressed by his evident knowledge of artillery work, and he was made a special case.
A week later he had left England, while I, little dreaming of what the future would bring forth, remained at home.
The events which I have now to record bring this narrative into this present year of grace 1917. When I started writing, I had but little idea of the things I should have to narrate. The drama was then only partially acted, the story was not complete. As the reader may remember, when I was in Exeter, shortly after I had first met Edgecumbe, and had been telling Sir Roger Granville what little I knew of his history. Sir Roger was much interested. He said that the whole case promised great things, and that anything might happen to him, that he might have a wife living, and that he might be heir to big possessions, and that when some day his memory was restored to him many romantic things might come to pass.
Although I did not say so at the time, his words aroused my imagination, and when, months later, I fell in with Edgecumbe again, having some little time at my disposal, I set down as well as my memory would serve the story of our meeting, and what had happened subsequently.
The remainder of this narrative will, to an extent, be in the nature of a diary, for so close are some of the events at the time of which I am writing, that their recital becomes a record of what took place only a few weeks ago. It is many months ago since first I took pen in hand to set forth Edgecumbe's story, and now, as I draw near to what, as far as this history is concerned, is its ending, I am almost afraid to write of certain things in detail, for fear of wounding some of the people who are yet alive, and who may feel sensitive that I am making their doings public.
The year 1916 was drawing to an end when I received Edgecumbe's first letter after he had returned to the front.
'It's miserably cold, miserably wet, and frightfully unpleasant out here,' he wrote; 'still, it is better for me than it is for many others. Would you believe it, Luscombe, but Colonel —— has said so many kind things about me that I find myself a marked man. I have already got my full lieutenancy, and am down for my captaincy. Not long after I came here, I was brought before a very "big pot," whose name I dare not mention, but who is supposed to be the greatest artillery officer in the British Army. He put me through the severest examination I have ever had, and I scarcely knew whether I was standing on my head or my heels. He was very kind, however, and by and by we got talking freely, and I suppose I must have interested him in certain theories I had formed about artillery work. Anyhow, I am to be given my captaincy, and all sorts of important work is being put in my hands. There are big movements on foot, my friend,—what they are, I dare not tell you, but if they are successful they will, from a military standpoint, form an epoch in the history of this war.
'With regard to our prospects out here, I am exceedingly optimistic. The men are splendid, and although the conditions are hard, our health sheet is exceedingly good. From the standpoint of military preparedness, things look very rosy; but concerning the other things about which you and I did not agree I am not at all happy. I am a soldier, and I am inclined to think that as a boy I was trained for a soldier. I judge, too, that I have some aptitude in that direction. I believe, too, that the Almighty is using our military powers for a purpose, but I am sure that if England believes that this tremendous upheaval is going to be settled by big guns,—much as I realize the power of big guns, England will be mistaken. Unless we recognize the moral forces which are always at work, we shall not be ready in the hour of crisis.'
When I replied to this letter, I took no notice whatever of these reflections; indeed, I scarcely saw what he meant. I congratulated him most heartily on his phenomenally rapid promotion, and told him that he would soon be colonel, and that this was only a step to higher things.
As all the world knows, the events of the 1917 have followed each other with startling and almost bewildering rapidity. Indeed, from the time when Edgecumbe returned to the front, it is almost impossible to estimate the far-reaching results of what was taking place. The evacuation of large tracts of land by the Germans, the giving up of their Somme front, was more significant than we at the time realized. Then came the fulfilment of the German threat that on February 1 there would be unrestricted murder at sea, when vessels of all nationality, whether neutral or otherwise, would be attacked. At first we could scarcely believe it, it seemed too horrible to contemplate. War had ceased to be war; 'rules of the game' were no longer known as far as the Germans were concerned. Then came the Prime Minister's statement that the food supplies of the country had become very low, and that the strictest economy would have to be used. Appeals were made to the nation to conserve all our food resources, while the Germans jubilantly proclaimed that in three months we should be starved into submission.
'I suppose,' Edgecumbe wrote, 'that it is bad form on my part to say "I told you so"; but I saw this coming months ago. Indeed, no one could have an intelligent appreciation of German psychology without knowing that it must come. I am told that food is now only obtainable at famine prices at home, and that there is a cry on every hand,—"Eat less bread." But think of the mockery of it, my friend! While there is a threatened bread famine, beer is still manufactured. And that which was intended to provide food for the people is being used to make beer. If the Germans bring us to our knees, it will be our own fault. If the resources of the nation had not been squandered in this way, we could laugh at all the Germans say they are going to do.'
Then news came which staggered Europe and set the world wondering. The Revolution had broken out in Russia,—the Czar and Czarina became practically prisoners, the Russian bureaucracy fell, and although the Revolution was practically bloodless, that great Empire was reduced to a state of chaos. Of course our newspapers made it appear as though everything were in our favour; that the old days of corruption and Czardom were over, and that the people, freed from the tyranny and the ghastly incubus of autocracy, would now rise in their might and their millions, and would retrieve what they had lost in the Eastern lines. Some prophesied that the Revolution in Russia was but the beginning of a movement which should destroy all autocratic Governments and, with the establishment of that movement, the end of war would come. Then little by little it leaked out that liberty had become a licence,—that the Russian Army had become disorganized,—that the Socialistic element among the Russians had demanded peace at any price. Soldiers refused to fight, men deserted by the thousand, while Russian soldiers fraternized with the Germans.
'Aren't we living in great times,' Edgecumbe wrote to me,—'surely the greatest times ever known! They stagger the imagination,—they leave our minds bewildered,—they shatter our little plans like a strong wind destroys castles of cards made by children. God is speaking, my friend. Will England be wise, and hear His voice? Will we learn that, although the voice of great guns is loud, and the power of explosives mighty, yet they are not final in the affairs of men and nations? Why, our plans out here have been blown to smithereens by what has taken place many hundreds of miles away! We had everything in readiness, and, humanly speaking, it seemed as though nothing could have stopped our advance. We had the Germans on toast,—we took Vimy Ridge, and Lens was in our grasp,—we had advanced miles along the Douay road, and Lille seemed but the matter of a few days. Then God spoke, and Ecco! what were the plans of men? The Huns, of course, took advantage of the new situation, and removed vast hordes of men and guns from the East to the West, and now we are held up. Of course I am disappointed;—looking at the matter from the standpoint of a soldier, it seemed as though nothing could withstand us. But what are the plans of men when God speaks?
'Of course you will say that I am seeming to prove that God is on the side of the Germans and, seeing this Russian Revolution has meant our being held up here, that God Almighty meant that we should not advance. No, my friend, I am not such a fool as to pretend to understand the ways of the Omnipotent, but I have no doubt that this wide and far-reaching movement in Russia will eventually be on our side. It must be. But why will not England learn the lesson which is so plainly written from sky to sky? Why do not the people turn to God,—look to Him for wisdom, and fight in His strength? Then victory would come soon, and gloriously.
'As I said, I am disappointed at our temporary check, but I am convinced it is only temporary. God does things in a big way. He staggers our poor little puny minds by His acts. The world is being re-made; old systems, hoary with age, are being destroyed. The birth of new movements is on foot, new thoughts are in the air, new dreams are being dreamed, and the new age is surely coming. But sometimes it seems as though we have ears, and hear not,—eyes, and see not. God is speaking to us aloud, calling us to repentance, and yet we do not hear His voice, or seek His guidance. Still, we are on the eve of new movements, and out of all the confusion will come a great order, and men will yet see the hand of the Lord.'
His letter had scarcely reached me, when the news came that America had declared war on Germany, and was to act on the side of the Allies. This great free people, numbering a hundred million souls, made up of all nationalities, yet welded into one great nation, had spoken, and had spoken on the side of freedom and righteousness. Even the few who had been downhearted took fresh courage at America's action. The thought that the United States, with its almost illimitable resources of men, of money, and of potentialities, was joining hands with us, made everything possible. I was not surprised at receiving another letter from Edgecumbe.
'At last we have had a prophetic utterance,' he wrote. 'Wilson has spoken, not merely as a politician, or as the head of the American nation, but as a prophet of God. His every word made my nerves tingle, my heart warm. As an Englishman, I felt jealous, and I asked why, during these last months, there had been no voice heard in England, proclaiming the idealism, the inwardness of this gigantic struggle? But as a citizen of the world, I rejoiced with a great joy. I am inclined to think that Wilson's speech will form a new era in the history of men. That for which he contends will slowly percolate through the nations, and peoples of every clime will know and understand that nothing can resist the will of Almighty God.
'What pigmies we are, and for how little do the plans of individuals count! God speaks, and lo the pomp of the Czar becomes but as chaff which the wind drives away! Who would have believed a few months ago that all the so-called glory of the Imperial House of the Romanoffs would become the dream of yesterday? All the long line of Royal sons no longer counts. Czardom with all it meant has gone for ever. The man, whose word a few weeks ago meant glory or shame, life or death, is to-day an exile, a prisoner. His word no more than the cry of a puling child! And to-morrow? God may speak again, and then Kaiserism will fall with all its pomp and vanity.