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All for a Scrap of Paper: A Romance of the Present War

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Title: All for a Scrap of Paper: A Romance of the Present War

Author: Joseph Hocking


        
Release date: April 23, 2008 [eBook #25152]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/25152

Credits: E-text prepared by Al Haines


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E-text prepared by Al Haines



ALL FOR A SCRAP OF PAPER

A Romance of the Present War

by

JOSEPH HOCKING

Author of
"Dearer Than Life," "The Curtain of Fire," "The Path of Glory," Etc.

Fifteenth Edition







Hodder and Stoughton
London ---- New York ---- Toronto
MCMXVIII




JOSEPH HOCKING'S GREAT WAR STORIES


  THE PATH OF GLORY
  THE CURTAIN OF FIRE
  DEARER THAN LIFE
  TOMMY
  TOMMY AND THE MAID OF ATHENS


OTHER STORIES BY JOSEPH HOCKING

  Facing Fearful Odds
  O'er Moor and Fen
  The Wilderness
  Rosaleen O'Hara
  The Soul of Dominic Wildthorne
  Follow the Gleam
  David Baring
  The Trampled Cross




"I then said that I should like to go and see the Chancellor. . .  I
found the Chancellor very agitated.  His Excellency began a harangue
which lasted about twenty minutes.  He said that the step taken by His
Majesty's Government was terrible to a degree; just for a word,
'neutrality'--a word which in war time had also often been
disregarded--just for a scrap of paper. . . .  I protested
strongly. . . .  I would wish him to understand it was a matter, so to
speak, of 'life and death' for the honour of Great Britain that she
should keep her solemn engagement.  The Chancellor said, 'But at what
price will that compact have to be kept?  Has the British Government
thought of that?'  I hinted to his Excellency as plainly as I could
that fear of consequences could hardly be regarded as an excuse for
breaking solemn engagements."--_Extract of Report from Sir E. Goschen
to Sir Edward Grey, August 8, 1914._




CHAPTER I

Events have moved so rapidly in our little town of St. Ia, that it is
difficult to set them down with the clearness they deserve.  We Cornish
people are an imaginative race, just as all people of a Celtic origin
are, but we never dreamed of what has taken place.  One week we were
sitting idly in our boats in the bay, the next our lads had heard the
call of their country, and had hurried away in its defence.  One day we
were at peace with the world, the next we were at war with one of the
greatest fighting nations in the world.  At the end of July, little
knowing of the correspondence taking place between Sir Edward Grey and
the Ambassadors of Europe, we tended our flocks, prepared to garner our
harvest, and sent out our fishing-boats; at the beginning of August we
had almost forgotten these things in the wild excitement with which the
news of war filled us.  Placards headed by the Royal Arms were posted
at public places, calling up Army and Navy Reserves, and fervent
appeals were made to all our boys old enough to bear arms, to bid
good-bye to home and loved ones, in order to help England to maintain
her plighted word, and support her honour.

Not that we were in a state of panic, or fear, thank God.  There was
nothing of that.  Neither were we in doubt as to the ultimate issue.
We believed we had right on our side, and as our forefathers had fought
in every stage of our country's history, we were prepared to fight
again.  But we Cornish are a quiet, Peace-loving people, and many of us
hated, and still hate with a deadly hatred, the very thought of the
bloody welter, the awful carnage, and the untold misery and suffering
which war means.

But it is not of these things I have to write.  My work is to tell the
story of a lad I know, and love; the story, too, of a maid who loved
him, and what this great war, which even yet seems only to have just
begun, has meant to them.


It was on Monday, the twenty-ninth day of June in this present year,
that Robert, or, as he is generally spoken of by his friends, Bob
Nancarrow, got out his two-seater Renaud, and prepared to drive to
Penwennack, the home of Admiral Tresize.  Bob had but just "come down"
from Oxford, and was now in great good spirits at the prospect before
him.

This was scarcely to be wondered at, for Nancy Tresize had asked him to
take her to Gurnard's Head, which, as all Cornish people know, is near
to the town of St. Ia, and one of the most favoured spots in the
county.  Perhaps, too, the coast scenery around Gurnard's Head is among
the finest in Cornwall, while Gurnard's Head itself, the great rock
which throws itself, grim, black, and majestic, far out into the sea,
challenges comparison with even Land's End itself.

But Bob was not thinking of scenery as he got out his car.  His mind
and heart were full of the thought that he was going to spend the
afternoon with Nancy Tresize, the fairest girl in a county of fair
women.

For years Bob had loved her--loved her with a love which seemed to him
all the greater because it appeared to be hopeless.  As far as he could
remember, Nancy had never given him one shadow of hope, never by word
or action suggested that she cared for him in any way other than that
of a lifelong playmate and friend.  But then, as Bob reflected, Nancy
was not like other girls.  She was just a bundle of contradictions, and
was, as her brothers had often said, "always breaking out in new
places."

"Of course she'll not give me a chance to tell her what is in my
heart," he reflected, as the car spun along a winding lane, the hedges
of which rose high above his head; "but then I shall be with her.
That's something, anyhow."

Presently the grey, lichen-covered, weather-beaten walls of Penwennack,
Nancy's home, appeared, and Bob looked eagerly towards it as though he
were trying to discover something.

"I hope nothing has turned up to hinder her," he reflected.  "I know
that Captain Trevanion is coming to dinner to-night, and people have it
that the Admiral favours him as--as a----"

But he would not, even in his mind, finish the sentence that was born
there.  It was too horrible to contemplate, for to Bob, Nancy was the
only girl in the world.  She might be wilful and unreasonable, she
might change her mind a dozen times in a day, she might at times seem
flippant, and callous to the feelings of others, she might even be "a
little bit of a flirt"--it made no difference to him.  He knew that she
had not a mean fibre in her nature, and that a more honourable girl
never lived.  Besides, even if she were, what in his moments of anger
and chagrin he called her, she was still Nancy, the only girl he had
ever loved and ever could love.

"Of course there's no chance for me," he reflected.  "Trevanion is
always there, and any one can see he's madly in love with her.  He
bears one of the oldest names in England too, he's heir to an old
title, and he's Captain in one of the crack regiments.  And Nancy loves
a soldier.  She comes of a fighting race, and thinks there's no
profession in the world worthy of being compared with the army."

Bob Nancarrow was the only son of Dr. Nancarrow, a man much respected
in St. Ia, but whom Admiral Tresize regarded as a crank.  For Dr.
Nancarrow was a Quaker, and although he did not parade his faith, it
was well known that he held fast by those principles for which the
Society of Friends is known.  For one thing, he hated war.  To him it
was utterly opposed to the religion which England was supposed to
believe, and he maintained that it seemed to him an impossibility for
Christianity and war to be reconciled.

Admiral Tresize and he had had many arguments about this, and when the
Boer War broke out, the condemnation of the doctor was so strong that
it seemed almost inevitable that he and the Admiral should quarrel.
Indeed, a coolness did spring up between them, and but for the fact
that Mrs. Nancarrow had been a Miss Trelawney, and a direct descendant
of the most important family in the county, it is probable that the
coolness would have ended in an estrangement.

Bob, although he inherited his mother's looks, was greatly influenced
by his father's opinions.  Dr. Nancarrow died when he was quite a boy,
yet his father's memory became one of the most potent influences in his
life.

His mother sent him to Clifton College, and although to please her he
joined the Officers' Training Corps, he held by his father's opinion
that war and Christianity were a direct contradiction to each other.

Bob was one of those boys who throw their hearts into everything they
take in hand, and although soldiering as a profession was repugnant to
him, he made such progress in the O.T.C. that he quite distinguished
himself.  Indeed, he did so well, that Captain Pringle, with whom he
became very friendly, urged him to become a soldier.

"You would do well," urged the Captain; "you have the makings of a
first-class soldier, and if a war broke out, you'd be a valuable man."

"Not a bit in my line, I assure you," was Bob's reply.  "I went in for
this thing only to please my mater, and, to tell the truth, I regard it
as little more than waste of time."

"It wouldn't be waste of time if we went to war," said Captain Pringle.

"War! who are we going to war with?"

"We may be on the brink of it now."

"Excuse me, but I don't believe in all these war scares.  We are not a
military nation, and there's not a shadow of reason for believing that
while our Statesmen have level heads we shall be so mad as to embroil
ourselves."

"It may be forced upon us.  Think of the Boer War."

Bob laughed.  His father had often spoken of the Boer War as a crime
against humanity.  As something wholly unnecessary, as a waste of life
and treasure, waged on behalf of Jew financiers rather than for any
great principle.  In the doctor's eyes it had been a violation of
Christianity, and a disgrace to the country, and Bob, boy though he had
been at the time, felt that his father was right.

"I think the less we say about that the better," was his reply.
"Certainly I would never fight in such a war."

"You mean that?"

"Certainly, I do.  I doubt if war can be justified anyhow; but _that_
war!" . . .

"Anyhow, the Germans are aching to be at us," replied Captain Pringle,
who, although he was regarded as a good officer, was not deeply versed
in politics.

"Who says so?"

"Everybody.  They are jealous of us, and they'll be at it on the
slightest pretext."

"Don't you think the German bogey is very silly?" was Bob's retort.  "I
was in Germany last summer with my mother, and we had a great time.
She knew some German families there, and we became great friends with
them.  They don't want war any more than we do.  All they desire is to
develop their own resources and to live their lives quietly."

"Then what is the meaning of their huge army?  Why are they trying to
build a navy that shall out-match ours?"

"Of course there is a large war party in Germany just as there is in
England; but, as a people, they are as peace-loving as we are.  Why, a
war with Germany is unthinkable, and it would be the greatest crime in
history to draw our sword against them.  Even supposing we had a
quarrel with them, nothing could be more revolting to humanity than to
settle it by blood."

"I don't wonder that you will not go into the Army if those are your
views," replied Captain Pringle.  "You talk like a peace-at-any-price
parson."

From Clifton Bob went on to Oxford, where he became known as a "reading
man."  His ostensible purpose was to read for the Bar, after taking his
degree; but he secretly hoped to obtain a Fellowship at his college,
and settle down to a scholastic life.

While he was at Oxford Bob became acquainted with a Professor, named
Dr. Renthall, who had been an undergraduate there with his father.
Professor Renthall was also a Friend, and it was perhaps this fact that
first drew them together.  For while Bob did not in any way profess
adherence to the Society of Friends, he greatly admired those of that
persuasion.  In addition to this, too, his father's influence was still
strong upon him.  The boy revered his father's memory, and treasured in
his heart those faiths by which Dr. Nancarrow had steered his life.
Indeed, during his Oxford days he often declared that the Quakers were
nearer to the ideal of Christianity than any other body.

"My father was logical at all events," he often reflected, "and as a
consequence his life was a benediction.  On the other hand, religion
among most people, whether churchmen or nonconformists, seems to mean
nothing.  We attend so many 'chapels' as a matter of necessity, and are
glad when they are over.  As to religion having any effect on our
lives, it seems to be out of the question."

Dr. Renthall had a great influence over Bob.  Although he was nearing
fifty, he was a keen sportsman.  He played a scratch game at golf, and
during the cricket season he could keep his end up with the best of the
younger men.  This appealed to the young fellow strongly.  But, more
than this, he was one of the greatest authorities on history in the
University.  He was a saint too, although he made little profession of
Christianity.  He went regularly to the Meeting House, but never spoke,
while his theology was of too latitudinarian a nature, to be "sound."

Robert often went to Dr. Renthall's house, and it was during his many
visits that his hatred of war grew.

"War," said the Professor to him more than once, "cannot obtain where
there is real Christianity.  That is why Christianity is dying in this
country.  We are being more and more filled with the spirit of
militarism, which means the death of religion; while every new
Dreadnought, which drains the nation of its treasure, is another nail
driven into the Cross of Christ."

When Bob returned to St. Ia this summer, the influence of his father's
life, and his association with Dr. Renthall, had done their work.  He
detested militarism, and he hated the thought of war.  Not that the
thought of war loomed largely in the horizon.  The country was at
peace, and as far as he could judge no war-cloud hung in the sky.

"Ah, there she is!" Bob exclaimed, as presently the car drew up in
front of the door of the great house, and a few seconds later he was
talking eagerly with old Admiral Tresize, at the same time casting
fervent glances towards Nancy.

It was no wonder that Bob loved her, for no fairer or better girl lived
in the land of Tre, Pol, and Pen.  I, who have known her all her life,
can testify to this, and as she stood there that day, young, happy, and
beautiful, it was no wonder that his heart burned with a great love.

"You'll almost have time for a run to Land's End," said the Admiral,
looking at his watch, "and it's a glorious afternoon."

"No, we are going to picnic in the good old-fashioned way," said Nancy.
"We are going to have tea on the headland, after which we are going to
quarrel about things generally.  We always do."

The Admiral laughed.  He had not the slightest hesitation about
allowing Bob and Nancy to go to Gurnard's Head together.  They had been
playfellows and friends all their lives, as for their being anything
else, the thought never occurred to him.

"Off you go," he said, "and mind you take great care of her, Bob."

Admiral Tresize liked Bob very much, and always welcomed him to
Penwennack.  He remembered that he had Trelawney blood in his veins,
and, although his father had been a Quaker doctor, he made no secret of
the fact that he liked the boy, and he often spoke of him as a nice,
quiet, clever lad.

"Fine-looking chap too," he would add; "just the build for a soldier.
Six feet in his stockings, and forty inches around the chest.  But
there, although he has the looks of a Trelawney, he has the views of
his Quaker father, and it's no use talking about it.  But it's a pity
all the same, a great pity."

"Well, Bob, I hear you have done great things at Oxford.  Astonished
the professors, swept everything before you, and all that sort of
thing," said Nancy, as presently they stood on the headland.

Bob laughed, and looked rather shamefaced.  He was very sensitive about
his scholastic achievements, besides which he knew that Nancy thought
far more of a "blue" than of a classical scholar.

"You are fairly clever, you know, Bob," and the girl laughed as she
spoke.

"That does not count much with you, Nancy."

"How do you know?  It doesn't follow that because I don't like dressing
like a frump, and because I love hunting and dancing, that I don't
admire cleverness."

"It's not that at all, Nancy.  I know you admire clever people.  What I
meant was," and he stammered painfully, "that--that it's--a matter of
indifference to you whether I, personally, am dull or clever."

"What reason have you for saying that?"

"Hundreds," replied Bob.  "That is--you see, you are always laughing at
my desire to be 'a fusty bookworm,' as you call it, and--and, well, all
that sort of thing."

"Does that prove indifference?" she replied, and Bob thought he noted a
tremor in her voice.

"You know it does," he went on, hating himself for talking in such a
fashion, and yet unable to control his words.  "Only yesterday, when we
were talking together at tea, and some one said that I should die an
old bachelor, you said that I was far more likely to die an old maid.
Then, although you saw you wounded me, you went off with Captain
Trevanion."

"Hadn't you, just before, refused to stay the evening, although I went
out of my way to persuade you?  And you gave as your excuse that you
had some reading to do.  As though your--your books----"

"Did you want me to stay?" asked Bob eagerly.  "Nancy--did you really
care?"

The girl did not speak, but turned her eyes toward the great heaving
sea.

Robert's heart beat wildly as he looked at her.  Never did he love her
as he loved her now, never had she seemed so fair to him.  It was no
wonder he had fallen in love with her, for he knew that, in spite of
her love of pleasure, and her sometimes flippant way of talking, she
was one of the sweetest, truest girls that ever breathed.  Although she
might be wilful, and passionate, and sometimes seemed careless whether
she gave pain or pleasure, she would give her last farthing to help any
one in difficulty.

He had been surprised when she suggested his motoring her to Gurnard's
Head that afternoon, little thinking that she did it to atone for what
she had said two days before.

"Nancy, did you want me to stay?" he repeated.  "If--if I thought you
really----"

"Did it vex you that I asked Captain Trevanion to show me his new
horse?" she interrupted.

The flush on her face and the tremor of her lips set his heart beating
more wildly than ever.  All caution went to the winds.  The mad passion
which for years he had been trying to crush again mastered him.  He
knew that his hour had come, and that he must speak and know his fate.




CHAPTER II

"Nancy," repeated Bob, "you know what is in my heart, don't you?  Know
I've loved you for years?"

"You've never told me so," and there was a suggestion of a laugh in
Nancy's voice.

"Because I was afraid.  How could I dare to--to tell you--when--when
you never gave a sign, and when--you seemed to like others better?
Others have wanted you, I know that; fellows--better looking than I,
more--more attractive than I, and with far better prospects.  I am not
your sort of fellow--I know that; but--you've known all along that I
loved you.  I've been afraid to tell you so, but I would willingly shed
my life's blood for you."

"I hate a coward!" cried the girl.

"Yes, I've known that; but then, how dared I speak when a fellow like
Trevanion, heir to a title, and captain in a crack regiment, would give
his life to get you?  What chance had I?"

"Then why do you tell me this now?"

"Because I can't help myself.  Because--Nancy, is there any chance?  I
know your father would be mad, but I wouldn't mind that a bit.  Nancy,
is there any hope for me?"

Again the girl's lips became tremulous as she looked at the waves
lashing themselves to foam on the great black rocks, while the
sea-birds soared overhead.  It was easy to see she was greatly moved,
although it was her nature to hide her feelings.

"I don't know, Bob."

It did not seem like Nancy's voice at all.  It was almost hoarse, and
she had a difficulty in speaking.

"Don't know?" he repeated.  "Then--then----"

"I want to speak plainly.  Bob.  I may hurt you, although--I'll try not
to.  Yes, I have believed that--you cared for me.  I suppose I've seen
it, and I expect I've been vexed that you've never told me.  I--I
wanted you to."

"Wanted me to!" cried Bob.  "You have never given me a chance.
And--and you always seemed to care for--for those other fellows."

"I wanted you to make your chances.  If--if a man loves a girl, he
should dare anything to get her.  Anything.  What do I care about
Hector Trevanion?  He hasn't a thought in his head above his latest
horse and his newest uniform.  But how could I help being friendly with
him, when you--have always on the slightest pretext been ready to leave
me with him."

"And you wanted me all the time!"  There was a note of joy and triumph
in his voice.

"I don't know," replied the girl.  "I'll be absolutely frank with you,
Bob.  You are not the sort of man I wanted to love.  Yes, I'll admit
it--I wanted to love a soldier, a sailor, a man of action.  I can never
admire a man who will be content to spend his days in a library poring
over old dusty books.  That's why I have been angry when I've heard you
glorifying these useless old fossils.  And yet--oh, Bob!" and the girl
concluded with a sob.

"Do you mean," and Bob's voice was tremulous, "that you cared for me
all the time, although you--you didn't like my plans for my future?
That you preferred me to Trevanion?  Oh, Nancy!"

"As though a girl must care for six feet of flesh without brains
because she isn't a blue-stocking.  Why--why--couldn't you see, Bob?"

"And I say--oh, Nancy, does this mean that you care for me--love me?"

"I'm afraid I do," she half-laughed, half-sobbed.

"Afraid?"

"Yes, don't you see?  You are not in the least like the man I wanted to
love.  You could have won your blue as a cricketer, but you wouldn't
take the trouble to get it.  A man in Oxford told me that you could be
the best three-quarter in the 'Varsity Rugby team, but that you were
too lazy to play.  You've been a sort of negative creature, while I
love a man of action.  What are old shrivelled manuscripts worth to the
world to-day?  Who cares about the sayings of some old dead and
forgotten German, or some obscure passages in _Bede's Ecclesiastical
History_, when there's a great surging life all around us to-day?
History is only a record of what took place in the past; I love the
thought of a man who wants to make history, who sets his ideas to
action.  And you, Bob, you have told me again and again that you want
to spend your life in historical research, or some such useless thing."

"But--but, Nancy, what does all that matter when I love you--love you
with all my life?  Besides----"

"I come of a race of fighters," cried the girl.  "When Philip of Spain
sent over his Great Armada, to rob us of our liberty, one of my
ancestors fought the Dons.  He gave ships and men to our country, and
helped to save us from oppression.  When Napoleon cast a shadow over
Europe, and threatened to destroy our country, men of my name were
among the foremost in fighting him.  My grandfather represented St. Ia
in Parliament, and he roused the country.  While you--oh, Bob, forgive
me, but your ideal seems to be to sit in a library in Oxford, wearing a
dirty old dressing-gown and iron-rimmed spectacles, reading or writing
books which will be of no use to any one!  Is that a life for a man?"

"But if his mind is cast in that mould?"

"I haven't finished yet," went on the girl.  "Forgive me, Bob, for
talking so much.  I wouldn't only--oh, Bob, can't you see?  Why, at our
last dance--when--when I had kept four for you, you never even asked
for them.  And I--I wanted to dance them too; but--but I had to sit
them out, and when other men begged me to let them put their names down
on my card, I said I was tired.  Then, when I heard afterwards that you
had gone into the library, and were reading some old book which hadn't
been opened for years, I just--cried."

"Oh, Nancy, I never dreamt of such a thing!  I--I never thought you
wanted me.  I was just aching for you all the time, but I thought--why,
you've always laughed at my dancing.  But there, now I know, I can do
anything, be anything.  And there's nothing I won't do for you?"

"You are not vexed with me, are you?"

"I couldn't be vexed with you, Nancy.  I'd let myself be cut in bits
for you.  And you love me, don't you?  Oh, it's too good to be true!
but say you do, tell me that in spite of everything you love me?"

"Haven't I been telling you so all the time?  And--and yet you haven't
asked me to--to----"

"What, Nancy?"

"Oh, I do hate a coward!"

"But what haven't I asked you?"

"Bob, isn't there something you want very much?"

"Yes, there is," replied Bob.  "Something--that----  Nancy, you won't
be vexed with me if I ask you?"

"Risk my being vexed," laughed the girl.

"Then I want to take you in my arms, and kiss you--kiss you a hundred
times."

"Then, why don't you?"

Bob looked around him, like one afraid.  They were beneath the shadow
of a great rock.  At their feet was headland grass, wind-swept and
grey, but peeping through the grass were thousands upon thousands of
wild thyme, giving the little plateau a purple hue.  They were hidden
from the gaze of any who might be on the great rock.  His heart beat so
that his breath came with difficulty; he was trembling with a new-found
joy--a joy so great that it almost gave him pain.

"Oh, my love!--my love!" he cried, as he took her in his arms, and his
kisses were as pure as those with which a young mother lasses her
firstborn.


"What haven't I asked you?" he said, a few minutes later.

They were sitting beneath the shadow of the rock now, and Nancy was
rearranging her hat.  She did not reply, but her eyes were full of
gladsome mischief as she looked at him.

"I mean just now, when--when you said you had been telling me that you
loved me, but I hadn't asked for something.  What was it?"

"You've made up for it since," and there was a laugh in her voice.

"Do you mean that you wanted me to kiss you?  Oh, you are right, Nancy,
I am an awful coward, but I'll make up for lost time now."

The sea continued to roll on the great rugged rock, which threw its
mighty head far out into its depths.  Overhead the sea-birds hovered,
sailing with graceful motion over the silvery waters, and uttering
their mournful cry, while far out vessels ploughed their way up and
down the Atlantic; but neither noticed.  They were happy in each
other's love.  Nancy had forgotten the fact that Robert Nancarrow was
not the kind of man she had meant to love, while he was far too happy
to care for the lecture she had given him.  Her kisses were warm upon
his lips, her words of love rung in his ears.  They were in the
dreamland of happy lovers, while the sky of their lives was as free
from clouds as the great dome of blue overhead.  He was the only man
she had ever loved, or ever could love, while to him the maid, wilful
and passionate though she might be, was perfect.  What were books,
learning, and the fame of scholarship to him now?  He had won the love
of the girl whom for years he had loved, and ever despaired of winning.
She, who had seemed so far away from him, so far above him, had come to
his arms, willingly, gladly.  She, with her proud old name, and almost
lordly wealth, had chosen him, and forgotten everything in her choice.

It seemed too wonderful to be true, and he looked at her again and
again in his wonder, proud beyond all words, yet almost afraid to
believe in his good fortune.

"Oh, Nancy, you are beautiful!"

The light of joy flashed from her eyes.  What girl is there beneath the
all-beholding heavens who does not long to know that the man she loves
thinks her beautiful?--Who does not long for him to tell her?

"And what a lovely dress you are wearing."

"I've worn it three times since you came down from Oxford, and you've
never once mentioned it."

"I never saw it as I see it now.  I never saw as I see you now.  Nancy,
there's no one like.  Bless you, my love, for loving me."

But I must not dwell on that happy hour, much as I would love to.  We
who are older may laugh at "Love's young dream," and grow cynical about
its transitory nature.  We may say that lovers live in a fool's
paradise, and that the dream of lovers ends in the tragedies of later
years.  Still, there's nothing sweeter or purer on God's green earth
than the love of a clean-minded honest lad for the maid he has chosen
from all others.  It keeps the world young and hopeful; humanly
speaking, it is life's greatest joy, and the man who can throw scorn
upon its joys and utter cynical words about its reality has himself
lost the pearl of great price.  It is he who is to be pitied, and not
the lovers.  They hear the birds of paradise singing in the bowers of
Eden, while he hears only the croaking of the raven.

They got back to realities presently.  Bob's new-found joy had led him
to the realisation of the future.

"I'm going to speak to your father to-night, Nancy.  I know he'll be
angry, but that I don't mind a bit."

"No, Bob, you must not speak to him--at least not yet."

"Why?"

"Because he'll refuse, and you mustn't speak to him until you can make
him consent."

"I don't understand, Nancy."

"You see, he has exactly the same feeling that I have about men.  He
would never consent to my being the wife of a book-worm."

"Oh, I've thought that all out while I've been here," replied Bob
confidently.  "Yes, I know I've been unpractical--a dreamer, in fact.
But I'm going to alter all that.  Now you've told me--that--that you
love me, I feel I must become a man of action.  You've wakened
something in me that I didn't know existed.  I haven't been half alive.
I've imagined that only thoughts, ideas mattered; now I know
differently.  I've lived only half-life.  Mark you, I don't altogether
go back upon my faith--I only add a new element to it.  I've always
said that we owe everything to thought.  I've said that thoughts
covered the seas with floating cities, and converted the world into a
whispering-gallery.  That thoughts have belted the globe with electric
currents, and given us untold blessings.  Now I know that I've stated
only half a truth.  The man who is simply a man of ideas, is like a
bird trying to fly with one wing.  There must be action to put the
ideas into use.  Oh, yes, I see it all."

"Yes, yes, Bob; and what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to study for the Bar.  I'm going to set about it right away.
And then I'm going into Parliament.  I've big ideas, Nancy--big ideas
about governments, and about reforms in our laws.  There are great
things that want doing, and I'm going to do them.  I'm going to get at
the helm of government, and destroy abuses.  I am not going to be
content by writing books about what is needed; I'm going to see that my
ideas take shape in the laws of the country, and effect the betterment
of the world."

Please do not smile at Robert Nancarrow's somewhat highfalutin talk,
and set him down as a conceited prig.  Every young fellow who has ever
done or been anything in the world, has at some time in his life had
such thoughts.  Sad will it be for England as a nation when our boys do
not dream impossible dreams, and think thoughts which wiseacres call
foolishness.

"That's splendid, Bob!" cried Nancy, her eyes sparkling.  "I should
love you to go into Parliament--love to hear you speak in the House of
Commons.  Why, you might be elected for St. Ia!  Dad has at great deal
of influence there too, and could get you nominated.  But what things
would you advocate?"

"I know," cried Bob.  "I am going to create a peace party in England.
Yes, I know some of your people have been soldiers, while my mother
glories in the fact that many of the Trelawneys have been and are in
the Army.  But think of the horrors of war.  Even now Europe is said to
be sitting on a powder-barrel.  Every nation in Europe is being bled to
death, in order to pay war taxes, even although at present there isn't
a shadow of war in the sky.  Money that might be spent, and should be
spent, on the betterment of the lives of the people and destroying, the
possibility of poverty and want, is spent in Dreadnoughts and weapons
to kill.  Hundreds of millions are being spent on the Army and Navy,
while paltry sums are grudged for education and all those things which
go to make up the manhood of the nation."

"Yes, I know war is terrible, ghastly.  But how can you stop it?  You
wouldn't advocate the destruction of our Army and Navy.  It would be
madness, it would----"

"Not yet," interrupted Bob eagerly.  "I would labour for a great
European movement.  Take Germany for example.  The Germans are worse
taxed than we are to pay for armaments, but the people don't want war.
They are a peace-loving people.  The Kaiser doesn't want war.  He's
said so a hundred times.  The Czar of Russia doesn't want war.  And yet
hundreds upon hundreds of millions of money are being spent on war
implements, while the people want bread.  Besides, a ghastly, warlike,
unchristian spirit is kept alive by this eternal talk about the
possibilities of war.  What is wanted is an agreement among the
Governments of nations that there shall be no war.  We want to create
an anti-war spirit in the hearts of the people, and so kill the
terrible thing at the fountain-head."

"Yes, yes," cried the girl, "if all the nations could be persuaded to
disarm, it would be splendid!  But, but----"

"It can be done," cried Bob.  "I will give my life to it.  Everybody
hates war in the abstract, but no one seems to throw himself heart and
soul into a great peace crusade.  Even the Peace Society is
half-hearted.  The cause of Peace hasn't been voiced of late years.
That's it," and Bob rose to his feet excitedly; "I see my work, Nancy.
Neither your father nor any one else shall say that I'm unpractical, or
that I sit still and do nothing.  Think of the glory of such a cause!
Think of destroying for ever the ghastly horrors of war, of helping to
bring about universal peace."

"Yes," replied Nancy, "it would be glorious, simply glorious.  I was
only very little when the Boer War broke out, and when my eldest
brother Roger went away to it, father gave a dinner, and all our
friends came to bid him good-bye.  Although I was only a kiddie, I was
allowed to sit up to it, and I remember some of the speeches that were
made.  They promised him that he should be made a colonel and all that
sort of thing, and there was such laughing and shouting.  Every one
imagined it would be over in a few weeks; it seemed such a little thing
to crush a few Boer farmers.  After that I used to watch dad's face as
he read his newspaper, and wondered what he was so sad about.  Then one
day some one brought him a letter which almost killed him.  I shall
never forget it.  He staggered as though some one had struck him a
blow, and groaned as if he were in agony.  Roger was killed.  It added
years to dad's life, and he's never been the same since."

"War is that kind of thing multiplied thousands of times," said Bob.
"There were unnumbered homes in England, yes, and in South Africa too,
desolated by that war, when--when it ought to have been avoided.  Yes,
my mind's made up.  I'm going into Parliament, and I'm going to make
war against war.  The holiest and most Christlike work a man can
undertake.  Shan't I tell your father to-night, Nancy?"

"No, no, not yet.  I'm afraid he might----  I'll prepare him little by
little, and then, when the proper time comes, I'll tell you.  But,
Bob," and the girl laughed gaily, "I had almost to propose to you,
hadn't I?"

"No," replied Bob.  "I did the proposing, and you did the lecturing.
That's what it'll be all our lives, I expect; but what do I care, as
long as I have you?"

"I--I was afraid you were going to be a coward, though."

"And you don't like cowards?"

She became serious in a moment.  "If there's anything I hate and
despise, it's cowardice," she cried.  "I think I could forgive anything
but that.  It's--it's beneath even contempt.  Hark, what's that?"

They heard a rustling sound behind them, and saw, close by, a newspaper
blown towards them by the light summer breeze.

Bob put out his hand and caught it.  "It's to-day's paper," he said.
"I haven't looked at mine to-day."

He read it almost mechanically.  Neither dreamed that this paper,
carelessly dropped by a man who had come to see the famous rock,
contained news on which depended not only the future of their own
lives, but which altered the destinies of nations, and which turned a
great part of Europe into a shambles.




CHAPTER III

This is what he read:


  TERRIBLE TRAGEDY IN BOSNIA.

  ASSASSINATION OF THE HEIR PRESUMPTIVE TO THE
  AUSTRO-HUNGARIAN THRONE.

  BOMB THROWN INTO THE CAR OF THE ARCHDUKE
  FERDINAND AND HIS CONSORT, THE DUCHESS OF
  HOHENBERG.

  OVERWHELMING INDIGNATION IN VIENNA.
  GRIEF OF THE AGED EMPEROR.


These were the staring headlines which riveted the gaze of both, and
for the moment made them silent.

"Good heavens, how terrible!" cried Nancy presently.

"Ghastly beyond words," was Bob's reply.  "It has come like a
thunderbolt.  As I told you, I did not look at my paper this morning,
and, as I have not been to St. Ia to-day, I saw no announcements."

"And our papers were late this morning.  I have not seen them,"
rejoined Nancy.  "Fancy the grief of the poor old Emperor!  Who did
it?--and why was it done?"

"Evidently it was done by two young men, both anarchists, and both said
to be Servians."

"Aren't these anarchists terrible?  No king or queen in Europe seems to
be safe."

"This doesn't appear to have been done by anarchists in the usual sense
of the term after all," said Bob, who hastily scanned the paper.  "It
seems there are suspicions of political causes.  This paper suggests
that these fellows were agents of the Servian Government, who have a
special grudge against the Archduke Francis Ferdinand, who was
heir-presumptive to the Austrian Throne.  Are you interested in
European politics, Nancy?"

"Not a bit.  I always skip foreign news."

"If it is as this paper suggests, it might lead to serious
complications.  You see, it was hoped by the Servians that at the close
of the Balkan War they would be able to obtain a naval port on the
Adriatic, and it is said they would have got it but for the Archduke.
It is also commonly believed that a School of Servian Patriots have for
years been struggling to make Bosnia and Herzegovina part of Greater
Servia, owing to the preponderance of Serb population.  These two
provinces, in spite of Russia, belong to Austria."

"I suppose the Servians are awful people.  Always quarrelling and
fighting, and that kind of thing," and Nancy crept closer to Bob as she
spoke.

"It's a wonderfully interesting part of Europe, although it was so
little known before the war of the Balkan States with the Turks.  I
say, Nancy, wouldn't it be fun to go there for our honeymoon?"

"It would be like going into a savage country."

"Oh, no, not so bad as that.  I was talking a few weeks ago with a man
who was a war correspondent during their squabble, and he told me a lot
about Montenegro and Servia and Roumania.  He fairly fired my
imagination, and made me long to go.  It would be great fun."

Nancy shook her head.  "No, Bob," she said, with a blush, "when that
time comes, we'll go to some lovely spot somewhere on the Rhine, where
we shall be among civilised people, and where there will be no
possibility of meeting these half-civilised races.  But what do you
think the Austrians will do?"

"Oh, of course, if this murder is simply a revolt of the anarchists,
the murderers will be executed, and I suppose that will be the end of
it; but if there is evidence which goes to show that they were
emissaries of the Servian Government, it will lead to all sorts of
complications."

"What complications?"

"Well, of course, Austria will want an explanation from Servia, and if
Servia doesn't give a satisfactory reply, there will be trouble.  It's
common knowledge that Austria doesn't like Slav influence, and she'll
use this as an excuse for crushing all Slav ideals.  It might end in
Austria practically administering Servian affairs."

"That would be the best way, wouldn't it?  Austria is a civilised
country, while the Servians are savages.  One of the girls I went to
school with, spent a winter in Vienna, and she had a lovely time.  She
says that Vienna is one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and
the Austrians are such charming people."

"That would be easier said than done," replied Bob, smiling at her
school-girl fashion of settling European difficulties.  "You see,
directly Austria tried to do this, Russia would step in.  Russia is
practically under a contract to protect the Servians, and to help them
in need.  Russia, which is a great Slav Empire, wouldn't stand by and
see Austria swallow up Slav Servia."

"And then there might be a war between Russia and Austria?  And Russia,
with her countless hordes of men, would crush Austria?"

"That wouldn't suit Germany's book," was Bob's reply.  "You see, there
is a close alliance between Austria and Germany, and Germany wouldn't
allow Austria to be put under."

"Oh, it would be horrible!" gasped the girl.  "But there, we won't talk
about it any more.  It can't affect us, can it?  England has nothing to
do with Servians murdering an Austrian Archduke.  I'm awfully sorry for
the poor old Austrian Emperor, but--but----"

"It can't affect us, or our happiness," cried Bob, taking her
outstretched hand.  "No, thank God! but I say, Nancy, this is an awful
commentary on what we were saying just now, isn't it?  It makes me more
than ever determined to throw myself into a movement that shall make
war impossible.  But oh, my dear girl, I do wish you'd let me speak to
your father to-night!  I want my happiness assured.  I want everybody
to know that I've won you--that you've promised to be my wife."

A thoughtful look came into her eyes.  It might seem as though she were
fighting a battle between inclination and judgment.

"No, Bob," she said at length, "it won't do.  I'm sure dad wouldn't
consent.  The truth is----" she hesitated.

"What?" asked Bob eagerly.

"Dad's awfully fond of Captain Trevanion.  I--I believe he's set his
mind on it."

"On what?  On your marrying him!"

"Now, don't be jealous."

"I'm not jealous.  How could I be when"--he held her to him, and kissed
her passionately--"when you've told me you love me."

"He'll be terribly mad when he knows at first.  You see, he's always
looked on you as a--well, to put it mildly, a useless bookworm.  And he
likes Hector Trevanion because, although he's a fool in many things,
he's a good soldier.  He says he's very young for a captain, and with
his name and prospects--he'll be sure to be a major and afterwards a
colonel in a very short time, especially if a war breaks out.  And--and
he's very ambitious for me.  That's why I shall have to break it to him
by degrees.  I shall begin by talking about your successes at Oxford,
and then I shall tell him that you are going to study for the Bar, as a
preliminary to going into Parliament.  You are so clever, that you
won't be long before you are called to the Bar, will you?"

"I'll do it in record time," cried Bob.  "There are a number of dinners
to eat, and certain examinations to pass; but I can manage them all
right.  Don't think I'm conceited, Nancy; lots of the Professors told
me that the Bar exams. would be comparatively easy to me."

"Of course they will be," said Nancy confidently, "and meanwhile you
could be on the look out for a constituency, couldn't you?"

"Ye-es," replied Bob doubtfully.  "Of course, I'd rather get called
first, but it could be managed.  As it happens, I'm comfortably off,
and so I need not be dependent on my profession."

"Anyhow, we must say nothing about our--our----"

"Engagement," suggested Bob, as Nancy hesitated.

"Call it what you like, but we must keep it quiet for the present, and
be very circumspect and all that.  So, as we've been here for quite a
long while, we had better be getting home."

Bob crumpled up the newspaper and threw it over the cliff.

"It's horrible, isn't it?" she said, as they watched it falling from
rock to rock until it fell into the sea; "but it can't affect us, can
it, Bob?"

"No," replied Bob, "it can't affect us.  Nothing shall affect us,
Nancy, and nothing shall come between us.  I feel as though I could do
anything now, and there's nothing I won't do to win a position worthy
of you.  I'll work like a slave.  I'll map out my programme to the
minutest detail, and I'll win all along the line.  Edward VII was
called a peacemaker, and everybody admired him for it.  But I'll do
more than he ever did.  Just think of it!  To be known throughout the
country, and throughout the world, as the man who made war on war, and
made it impossible.  I'll give my life to it, Nancy--my whole life!"

"And where do I come in?" she asked, with mock sorrow.

"You!  You come in everywhere.  You are everything.  You are my love,
my inspiration; but for you everything would be impossible.  One more
kiss, Nancy, while no one can see us."

When Bob Nancarrow returned home that night he was the happiest man in
Cornwall.  More than he had ever hoped for had come to pass.  Nancy had
promised to wait for him because she loved him.  She had preferred him
to all others, and sacrificed brilliant prospects because of her love
for him.  The sky of his life seemed cloudless.  Nothing, as far as he
could see, stood in the way of his attaining his highest hopes.  The
plan which had so suddenly been born in his mind and heart grew in
attractiveness.  He had the most glorious objective in the world.  He
saw an outlet for his energies, while the cause for which he would
stand appealed to all that was noblest within him.

War against war!

The thing had become a passion with him.  Here was the great work
which, unknown to himself, he had all along wanted.  Even when he had
dreamed of becoming an Oxford Don, and of spending his life in a kind
of cultured seclusion, there had always been something wanting.  He had
fighting blood in his veins; the old fire for which the Trelawneys had
been famous had constantly made its appeal.  And now Nancy had shown
him how his life could be a positive one.  Now he could be true to the
principles which he had inherited from his father, and to which he held
with strong tenacity, and at the same time satisfy his desires to
participate in the struggles and battles of the great world.

"A noble cause demands your zeal!"

He found himself humming the words as he turned on the lights.  And he
had a noble cause, the noblest, the most Christlike on earth.  Warfare!
Yes, in spite of his peace principles he loved warfare.  Man was a
fighting animal, and he was a man, every inch of him.  And he was
called on to fight--to fight the War-god which had lifted its head so
arrogantly and brutally.  But his warfare was to be for peace--the
peace of the world.  It was to be for man's salvation, and not for his
destruction.  Not for pillage, carnage, cruelty, mad hatred,
overwhelming ambition, lust for blood; but brotherhood, kindliness,
love, mercy.  This was the battle of the Lord; this was the cause of
Christ.

In this way he could be true to his father's teaching, true to the
Christianity in which he believed; but more, he could by this means
make himself worthy of Nancy, and make a place in the world, in which
even her father would rejoice.

His heart beat with wild joy.  Even now Nancy's kisses were warm on his
lips, her words of love rang in his ears.

Yes, his plan of life was plain, his work arose before him, alluring,
ennobling, inspiring.  And Nancy loved him!  What more could he desire?

He looked around the room with a long tremulous sigh of contentment.
Life was indeed beautiful, glorious.  Around him were thousands of
books.  His father had been an omnivorous reader, and had amassed a
large library.  Nearly every inch of wall-space was covered with
book-shelves.  Only one space, above the mantelpiece, was uncovered,
and there hung what was even dearer than the books.  It was an oil
painting of his father.

Robert Nancarrow looked at it long and steadily, and as he did so his
eyes became moist.

"Dear old father!" he murmured; "the noblest man that ever breathed."

It was a fine face he saw.  Rather serious on the whole, but still with
a smile lurking around the lips and shining in the eyes.  The face of a
good--almost a great man.  No one could associate it with meanness or
impurity.  An intellectual face too, with a broad forehead and large,
speaking eyes.  A face which suggested conscientiousness, which
proclaimed the fact that its owner must do whatever conscience told him
to do, no matter what it might cost.

It seemed to Bob as he looked that his father smiled on him.

"Yes, it is what he would most desire," reflected the young fellow.
"It was the passion of his life, and it shall be mine."

He went to a bookcase, and took therefrom a small volume.  It was
entitled _Thoughts on the Boer War_, by Robert Nancarrow, M.D.

The young man opened it, and began to read; but his mind was too full
of his plans to concentrate his attention.

"Father would love Nancy," he reflected, and then he arose from his
chair and went close to the picture.  "He does love her," he reflected.
"He is alive, he knows, and he is pleased.  I feel as though he were
here now, and giving me his blessing on my love, and on my work."

The house was very silent.  Every one had long since gone to bed, and
not a sound was to be heard.  The night was almost windless too, and
not even the murmur of the waves in the Bay of St. Ia, which could be
faintly heard outside, reached him.  He felt himself alone with his
father.

"Good night, father," he said aloud, still looking the picture.  "I
love her as my life, and I am very happy.  I have your blessing,
haven't I?"

Again it seemed to him that his father smiled on him.  He was sure he
saw the quiet humour in his eyes which he remembered so well.

Bob was in a strange humour that night.  The day had been eventful
beyond all the days of his life.  He had entered into a happiness of
which he had never dreamed before; he had seen visions of the future of
which hitherto he had been blind.  He had been carried away by his love
and his enthusiasm; his nature had been moved to its depths.  Now the
memory of it all, the quietness of the house, caused thoughts to come
to his mind, and moved him to feelings to which he had been a stranger.

"It's what you would wish me to do, father, isn't it?" he still
continued aloud.  "To go into Parliament, and then work and fight for
the peace of the world?  To destroy the ghastly nightmare of war, to
fight against the War-god, to put an end to this eternal making of
implements of death.  I have your consent, and your blessing, haven't
I?"

Yes, he was sure his father was smiling on him, and giving him his
blessing.  There was something sacred, holy, in the thought.

He turned out the lights, but the beams of the moon streamed through
the window, and rested on the picture.

"Good night, father," he said.  "I'll try to be a true man," and then
he left the room, feeling as if indeed he had been talking to his
father.

"Is that you, Bob?"

He was passing his mother's bedroom door, as the words reached his ears.

"Yes, mother.  I thought you would have been asleep hours ago."

"No, I couldn't sleep till I heard you come in.  Come in, and kiss me
good night."

Bob entered his mother's room, and went towards the bed.  Mrs.
Nancarrow was still a young woman, and looked almost like a girl as she
lay on the snowy pillows.

"Whom was that you were talking to?"

"I--I was thinking, mother."

"Thinking?  Thinking aloud?"

"I suppose so."

"What about?"

"About father."

There was a silence for a few seconds.  Both felt they were on sacred
ground.

"Mother," said Bob, remembering what Nancy had said to him, "I want to
tell you something.  But you won't breathe a word, will you?  It's a
profound secret.  I mean that you must not mention it to _any one_,
must not speak about it to any one, under any circumstances."

"Of course I won't, if you don't wish it.  What is it?"

"I'm engaged to Nancy Tresize."

"What!"

Bob repeated the news.

"Aren't you pleased, mother?"

She lifted herself up in the bed and threw her arms around his neck.

"You don't mean it really, Bob?  Why, I never dreamed that such a thing
was possible."

"Neither did I until to-day.  I--I--mother, what are you crying about?
Aren't you pleased?"

"Of course I am; but oh, my dear boy!  Oh, if only your father had
lived!"

"He knows.  I've been telling him," said Bob, who had a strain of the
mystic in his nature.  "I'm sure I have his blessing."

"Nancy is the finest, sweetest girl in Cornwall," she cried; "I
couldn't have wished for anything better.  I've always loved her.  But
I never thought that----"

"Neither did I," interrupted Bob.  "It seems too good to be true, but
it is true.  I motored Nancy over to Gurnard's Head this afternoon,
and--and it is all settled.  She's the dearest girl in the world,
mother."

"Of course she is," sobbed Mrs. Nancarrow.  "There, wait a minute until
I dry my eyes.  I never expected such a thing, and--and oh, Bob, my
dear, dear boy!"

"You mustn't imagine that you aren't still dear to me, mother, or that
I love you one whit the less.  I don't, you know, and Nancy loves you
too."

"Yes, yes, I know that.  It isn't that, my boy!  But--but--you'll never
know what a woman feels when she first learns that her only boy loves
another woman better than he loves his mother.  It isn't sorrow.  Bob,
oh no!  I'm as glad as glad, and I couldn't wish for anything better.
But what about the Admiral?  Will he consent?  I know he wants Nancy to
marry Captain Trevanion."




CHAPTER IV

For the next few days Bob lived in happy dreamland.  It is true he did
not see Nancy much alone, and no suggestion of their betrothal was made
known.  But he found an excuse for going to Penwennack every day, and
Admiral Tresize, never imagining what was in his mind, always gave him
a hearty welcome.  Nancy had two brothers nearly of Bob's age, one of
whom had been to Clifton with him; and although he was on the military
side of the college, they saw much of each other.  Dick Tresize was
fond of Bob, in spite of the dissimilarity in their tastes, and as Bob
evinced a sudden love and efficiency for tennis, he became in great
demand.  He also raised himself in the Admiral's estimation by
challenging Captain Trevanion, who was a scratch man at golf, to a
match on the Leiant Links.

"How many strokes do you expect me to give you?" rather scornfully
demanded Trevanion, who had not been at all pleased at Nancy's constant
disinclination for his society and her sudden preference for Bob's.

"Oh, we'll play level!" was Bob's reply.

"I like a game when I play," said the Captain who joined heartily in
the laugh at Bob's expense.

"I'll try to give you a game," was Bob's reply.

"Good old Bob," cried Dick Tresize, "and the loser shall stand tea at
the Club House for the whole bally lot of us.  And it must be a good
tea too.  We'll have a dish of cream and all sorts of cakes.  We can
easily arrange it, for Thursday is a quiet day, and the crowds of
visitors haven't made their appearance yet.  Have you plenty of money
with you, Bob."

"Oceans," replied Bob, pulling out a handful of change.  "I'm only
thinking about the state of Trevanion's finances."

"They are all right," replied Trevanion.  "And I propose that we play
for a box of balls into the bargain."

"How many of you are going?" asked Bob quietly.

Several hands went up, including that of the Admiral, who had become
enthusiastic about forming what he called "a gallery."

"Good, Admiral.  I'm glad you are going.  That'll make twelve
altogether.  No, Trevanion, we won't play for the balls.  The tea will
be enough for you to pay for.  I am told that the Army pays junior
officers very badly."

"That's why I want to play for a box of balls.  My stock is running
low, and I want to get some on the cheap."

"Come, let's be off!" cried Dick.  "I'll tell the men to bring out the
cars, and we'll start right away.  Where are your clubs, Bob?"

"They are in my locker at the Club.  I haven't seen them since the
Easter Vac."

"But you've played at Oxford?"

"No; been too busy."

Dick held up his hands in mock horror, at which several of the party
laughed.

"Trevanion will wipe the floor with you," he said woefully.  "He's on
the links at least three days a week, and he plays a good scratch game."

"Aren't you in practice, Bob?" asked Nancy, when they had a few seconds
alone together.

"Scarcely played for a year."

"Then why did you challenge Captain Trevanion?"

"Because I was mad," replied Bob.  "He's been trying to raise a laugh
against me all the morning and so--well, there it is."

"But he'll be sure to beat you?"

"No, he won't," and there was a confident ring in his voice.

Half an hour later they had reached the Club House, and much laughter
and many pleasantries were exchanged as they teed their balls.  Captain
Trevanion's clubs were shining, while Bob's were rusty through disuse.

"They 'a'an't a bin clained for months," said the caddy, who was
vigorously rubbing them with emery paper.

Captain Trevanion won the toss, and took the honour.  He was a tall,
athletic fellow, and showed by his practice swing that he was master of
his tools.  He hit his ball straight and clean, and it fell a few yards
behind the great grass mound which guards the first green.  Bob, on the
other hand, felt nervous and awkward.  He was out of practice, and knew
his disadvantage.  He played the ball badly, and while it cleared the
rough, he had an awkward stance for his second.  In playing the odd,
too, he miscalculated the distance, and found himself in the rough, on
the offside of the green.  Captain Trevanion holed out in four and
although Bob got a five, he lost the hole.

"One up to the Army," laughed the Admiral.

The second hole, which can easily be reached by a good iron shot,
Captain Trevanion played perfectly.  His ball soared over a high
mountain of sand, and plumped down comfortably a few yards from the
hole.  Bob topped his ball, and it landed half way up the sand-hill in
a bad place.  Again it took him five to hole out, while Trevanion was
down in three.

At the third the Captain drove a perfect ball, while Bob, who though he
got just as far, landed in the churchyard, out of bounds.  The result
was that he lost this hole also.

"This is what I call a grand procession," remarked some one.

"Come, Bob," laughed the Admiral, "this looks as though you will have
to pay for the tea."

"I hope it'll be a good one anyhow," replied Bob quietly.  "I'm working
up a fine appetite."

At the next hole Captain Trevanion drove short, and landed in the
bunker guarding the green.  Bob, on the other hand, sent his ball
straight and true over the guiding-post.

"Fine shot," was the general remark.

"Too far," said Dick Tresize.  "That ball's over the green and gone
down the cliff.  I'd rather be where Trevanion is."

He proved to be right.  Bob had got into a well-nigh impossible place
and lost another hole.

"Beastly luck," remarked Dick.  "That's not a fair hole."

"Rub of the green," was all Bob said.

"Yes, but it makes you four down," said the Admiral.  "Trevanion has
done every hole in bogey so far, and he's not likely to make mistakes."

It seemed as though Bob were destined to bad luck, for although he
seemed to play the next hole perfectly, he made too much allowance for
the wind, and his second shot went over a high bank which guarded the
green, and fell among the shingle, near which some old boats were lying.

"Five up to the Military," shouted the Admiral.

"The same grand procession," giggled a girl who was a great admirer of
Trevanion.

"I say, Bob, I thought you were going to give Trevanion a game," said
George Tresize, Nancy's younger brother.

Captain Trevanion laughed confidently.  He felt certain of victory now,
and regarded the match as a walk over.

"Five down is a big handicap," said Bob.  "Still the match is young
yet."

"He's had beastly luck at the last two holes," grumbled Dick Tresize,
who was evidently deeply chagrined.

The next hole was halved in bogey.  Bob got his four easily, but
Trevanion only halved his by a long and uncertain putt.

"Five up at the sixth," shouted the Admiral.  "Come, Bob, that's
better, you've halved a hole at last."

Bob said nothing, but cast a look at Nancy, who was pale with
excitement.  He could see how anxious she was, and noted the confident
air with which Trevanion approached the next tee.  Although his
position seemed almost hopeless, a feeling of confidence came into his
heart.  He had measured his opponent by this time, and he knew he had
got to his old mastery of his clubs.  He felt sure, too, that he could
play the stronger game, even although he had lost hole after hole in
succession.

Trevanion again drove, but this time his ball was off the line and
landed in a huge basin of sand.  Bob's, on the other hand, was
perfectly straight.  It carried the bunker a hundred and forty yards
from the tee, and was well on its way to the green.  As a consequence,
although the bogey was five, Bob did it in four and won the hole.

"You played that well, Nancarrow," said Trevanion.

"The wind helped me," replied Bob.

The next hole was also a five bogey; but again Bob, who reached the
green in two, got out in four, while Trevanion took five.  He had
reduced the difference between them to three.  The ninth hole was
halved.

"Three up at the turn for the Army," shouted the Admiral.

The tenth hole, as all who have played on the Leiant Links know, is
very difficult.  If the player has a long drive, he can, if he has a
good second, land on the green in two; but in order to do so he has to
carry a very difficult piece of country, which, if he gets into it, is
generally fatal.  Bob's drive was short, and it seemed impossible for
him to carry the tremendous hazard with his second shot.  Trevanion, on
the other hand, was in an easy position.  When he saw Bob's short drive
he laughed contentedly.

"I'm wanting my tea badly," he said to Nancy.

"That's a pity," replied the girl.  "It'll take another hour to play
the next nine holes."

"It looks as though the match will be over before then," he replied
confidently.  "I'll bet you a box of chocolates that we shall finish at
the fourteenth."

"Done!" cried the girl, and there was a flash of anger in her eyes.

"Of course Bob'll have to play short here," grumbled Dick Tresize.  "He
ought to have insisted on Trevanion giving him strokes.  By George,
he's surely not going to be such a fool as to risk a brassy!"

The next minute there was great cheering.  Bob's ball had surely
mounted all difficulties and apparently landed on the green.

"A magnificent shot!" cried the Admiral.  "By gad, Bob, but Vardon
couldn't have done it better!"

It was easy to see that Trevanion was annoyed as well as surprised at
Bob's shot.  The bogey for the hole was five, and Bob had to all
appearance made a four possible by a very fine brassy shot.  Trevanion
had driven thirty yards further than Bob, but he had still a big
sand-hill, covered with long grass, to carry.  Whether Bob's shot had
made him fear that, after being five up, he might yet be beaten, it is
impossible to say, certain it is that he missed his ball, and Bob won
the hole.

"Military down to two," cried the Admiral.  "It's going to be a close
match, after all."

The rest of the spectators became silent; they felt that things were
becoming serious, and that they must not talk, especially as Trevanion
had looked angrily at some one who had spoken as he was addressing his
ball for the next drive.  The eleventh and the twelfth holes were
halved, and so the game stood at two up for Trevanion and six to play.

"I've won my box of chocolates, Captain Trevanion," Nancy could not
help saying, as they walked to the thirteenth tee.  "Even if you win
the next two holes you can only be dormy at the fourteenth."

"I shall buy the chocolates with all the pleasure in the world,"
replied the Captain.  "You see, I didn't reckon on that brassy of
Nancarrow's at the tenth."

"I think you are going to have an expensive afternoon," she laughed.

Bob, who still retained the honour, addressed his ball.  A strong cross
wind was blowing, but he made up his mind to carry the green, although
it was considerably over two hundred yards, and guarded by a high
mound.  If he could do so he stood a good chance of a three, and might
rob his opponent of another hole.  He hit the ball clean and true, and
as it left his club the spectators gave a gasp.  It looked as though it
would strike the guiding-post, but to the relief of all, and especially
of Nancy, it rose a foot above it, and was soon lost to sight.

"By gosh, Bob, I believe you've driven the green!" said Dick to Bob, in
a whisper.  "If you have, you stand a good chance.  You drive a longer
ball than Trevanion."

It was easy to see by the change that had come over the Captain's face
that he was becoming anxious.  He hit his ball with perfect precision,
but it dropped on the tee side of the high mound.  Dick Tresize turned
towards the green.

"You are on, old chap," he said, as his friend came up.  "It's at the
corner of the green, but you should do it."

Trevanion played a good approach shot, and then Bob laid his approach
putt dead.  His three was safe.  If Trevanion could not hole out, there
would be but one hole between them.  Trevanion did his best, but the
ball did not reach the hole by a few inches, and was not quite straight.

"The Army down to one," said the Admiral.

By this time several people had been attracted by the news of the
match, and among the new spectators was an amiable-looking gentleman
who wore large, round spectacles.  He had been seemingly much impressed
by Bob's last drive, and had loudly expressed himself to that effect.

"I tell you," he said, "I haf seen Vardon, and Braid, and all ze rest
of zem play, but I neffer saw a finer shot, neffer.  It vas great."

He spoke so loudly that, when they were walking to the fourteenth tee,
Trevanion, who was slightly ruffled, said:

"Excuse me, sir, but if you knew the etiquette of golf, you would know
that it is bad form to talk while people are playing."

The stranger lifted his hat, and bowed profoundly.  "I apologise, sir,"
he said; "nothing was further from my mind than to interfere with your
play.  I vill take much care not to offend again.  I hope I did not
offend you, sir," he added, bowing to Bob.

"Not the slightest," replied Bob.

The stranger bowed again, and from that time was silent, although he
followed the party at a distance.

The next three holes were halved, and there remained but two more to
play.  Bob was very quiet, Trevanion looked grim and determined, the
colour came and went on Nancy's face.  It seemed to her as though Bob's
future and her own depended on the result of the next few minutes.

"One up to the Military, and two to play," cried the Admiral.

"If you halve this, you'll be dormy, Captain Trevanion," said George
Tresize, who seemed very anxious for him to win.

The Captain did not reply.  Evidently he was in no mood for talk; as
for the rest of the crowd, a deadly silence rested on it.

Like nearly all the holes on the Leiant Links, the seventeenth is
blind, although it is just possible to see the top of the flag.  It is
not an easy hole to play, as I know to my cost.  The green is guarded
on the right by a hedge, which if you get over it, makes your case
desperate.  If you go too far, you are caught by a bunker; while if you
play to the left, the ground is so hummocky, that it is very difficult
to lay your ball dead.  That is why, although the hole is barely two
hundred yards long, the committee have given it a four bogey.

Bob took an iron, and played straight for the pin.

"Good shot, but a bit short, I'm afraid," whispered Dick, as Bob stood
aside for Trevanion to drive.  Trevanion also hit his ball clean, but
it was a trifle to the left.  A little later they saw that both balls
were on the green, although Bob's was several yards the nearer.
Trevanion examined the ground carefully.  He felt that much depended on
the approach putt.  If he laid himself dead, he was sure he could not
be beaten.  Every one stood breathless while the ball ran over the
hummocky ground.

"By gosh, it's too merry!" gasped George Tresize.  But he had not
accounted for a steep ascent.  The ball rested less than two feet from
the hole; Trevanion's three was safe.

Bob also carefully examined his ground, and then played his ball.  It
went to the lip of the hole, and then half-hanging over, stopped.  For
a second the little company held its breath, and then gave a gasp.  The
ball fell in.

"Beastly fluke!" muttered Trevanion, between his set teeth.

"A great putt!" cried Dick.

"All square and one to play," cried the Admiral.

Bob felt his heart bound as he addressed the ball for the last drive.
What if after all he should miss it!  A mist hung before his eyes.  But
no, he would not miss, and a second later he watched the ball as it
soared over the hazard.  Trevanion's was only a few yards behind.  It
required but a chip shot to reach the green, which lay in a hollow just
over a turf-grown hedge, and guarded by a bunker.  They had now reached
the final stage of the game.  One shot might win or lose the match.

Evidently Trevanion realised this as he took his mashie.  More than one
saw his cigarette tremble between his lips; there could be no doubt
that he was greatly excited.  Perhaps his nerves played him tricks, or
perhaps in his anxiety he looked up before he hit his ball.  Anyhow he
missed it, and he found himself badly bunkered.  Bob's chance had come,
and he took advantage of it.  His ball pitched over the hedge, and then
rolled towards the hole.  He had a possible three.  Trevanion, on the
other hand, failed to get out of the bunker at the first shot, and got
too far with the second.  Bob had won the match.

"Jolly hard luck, getting into the bunker, Trevanion," he said; but the
other did not speak.  For the moment he was too chagrined.

"Nancarrow wins the match on the last green; now for tea," shouted the
Admiral.  "Bob, my boy, you've played a great game.  I congratulate
you."

"A very fine game, Nancarrow," said Trevanion, who, like the sportsman
he was, had got over his disappointment.  "You played the last fourteen
holes like a book."

"Pardon me," said a voice, "I hope I shall not be considered to
indrude, but may I alzo congratulate you, sir.  I am not English, I am
sorry to say, but I take advantage of the _Entente Cordiale_.  You haf
given me much pleasure in watching you."

The stranger bowed as he spoke, and produced his card.  "Allow me," he
continued, as he presented it to Bob.

"Thank you, Count von Weimer," replied Bob, as he read the card.  "It
is very kind of you."

"Forgive me as a stranger in speaking to you," went on the Count, "but
I felt I must.  Never haf I seen such a feat of skill, and I cannot be
silent.  I take advantage of the _Entente Cordiale_.  I bear a German
name, but I am from Alsace, and my heart beats warm to you and your
country," then with another bow he walked away.

"Who is that old buffer?" asked Dick.

"You know as much about him as I," replied Bob; "evidently he wanted to
be friendly."

"What did you say he was called?" asked the Admiral.

"Count von Weimer, Château Villar, Alsace, and Continental Club,
London," said Bob, reading the card.

"Von Weimer is a good name," said the Admiral, "and the Continental is
a good club; I've been there several times.  I shall be civil to him if
I meet him again.  But now for tea.  By Jove, Trevanion, but the boy
has given you a twisting!"

"Oh, Bob, I am glad!" whispered Nancy, as they went towards the Club
House.  "At one time I--I; oh, Bob, I _am_ glad you've beaten him."

"So am I," replied Bob, "but I'm not thinking so much about the golf."

"Now for tea," said Trevanion, with a laugh.  "You've won on this field
of battle, but in the next my turn will come."




CHAPTER V

Bob was in great spirits at tea that day.  He had won his match, and
proved himself a stronger player than Trevanion.  Nancy, who sat by his
side, was radiant with smiles, while evidently the Admiral looked on
him with greater favour than ever before.

"A remarkable feat, my boy," he said again and again.  "To be five down
to a man like Trevanion, and then to beat him, means not only skill,
but nerve.  That's the thing I like about it--the nerve, the pluck."

"A game is never lost until it's won, sir," said Bob sententiously.

"That's it, my boy.  Stick to that.  What did I hear about your plan to
go into Parliament?  Do you mean it?"

"If I have good luck, sir."

"A great career, my lad, and you should do well.  I am so glad you've
given up the idea of being a book-worm.  Of course your scholarship
will come handy to you in Parliament, so perhaps you've been wise to
stick to your books.  But the country wants men who can _do_ things."

"I mean to do them too, sir."

"Trelawney blood," laughed the old man.  "Well, there's no reason in
the world why you shouldn't do big things.  I always had hoped that
Roger would go into Parliament; indeed, he was as good as nominated for
St. Ia.  But he was killed in the Boer War, poor fellow.  A fine lad
too, as fine a lad as ever stepped in shoeleather," and his eyes became
moist.  "Thank God we are at peace now!" he added.

"You are coming back with me to Penwennack?" he went on, when presently
the party were leaving the Club House.

"I'd love to, sir, but I can't.  I must get back.  I promised mother."

"Ah well, stick to your mother.  A lad who keeps his promise to his
mother seldom goes wrong.  But come up to dinner to-morrow night, and
bring your mother with you."

"You may depend on me," cried Bob.  "Thanks very much, Admiral, we
shall be delighted."

"Bob," said Nancy, "you've done more to soften dad to-day, and to
prepare the way for me, than if you had got ten fellowships.  He loves
a plucky fight, and hates a coward."

"And I'll fight," cried Bob, "because I shall fighting for you, Nancy."

"I wish you were going to spend the evening with us," she said
ruefully.  "I do want you with me."

"And don't I wish it too!  But I told you how things stood.  Till
to-morrow then."

"Be sure to come early," cried Nancy, as she drove away.

Bob made his way over the Towans towards St. Ia, as happy as a king.
Everywhere the sun seemed to be shining.  At his feet the wild thyme
grew in profusion.  Acres upon acres were made purple by this modest
flower.  The sea was glorious with many coloured hues, the whole
country-side was beautiful beyond words.  What wonder that he was
happy!  He was young and vigorous, the best and most beautiful girl in
the world loved him, and his future was rosy hued.

In order to reach his mother's house, he had to pass through St. Ia,
and he had barely entered the little town when he saw Count von Weimer,
who had expressed his congratulations so fervently on the golf links.

"Ah, this is lucky!" cried the Count.  "I was wondering if I should haf
the good fortune to meet you again.  May I walk with you?  That is
goot!"

"You are a stranger to St. Ia," said Bob.

"Yes.  I have been drawn here by the beauty of the place, and--and
because I want peace."  He still spoke in broken English, although I
will no longer try to reproduce it.

"You love peace?" Bob ventured.

"Love it!  Ah, young sir, you little know.  I am one of those
unfortunate men who are placed in an awful position.  I am, although I
bear a German name, French on my mother's side.  I love France too, and
am at heart a Frenchman.  But then my house is in Alsace--Alsace, you
understand.  France under German Government.  I can say here, what I
could not say there.  I hate Germany, I hate her government, her
militarism, her arrogance.  The Germans suspect my loyalty, and so I
have come to England."

"And you like England?"

"Ah, who can help loving it?  Your British flag means liberty, wherever
it flies.  It stands for peace, brotherhood, progress.  That is why I
think of buying a house near St. Ia, and settling down.  Realising my
position in Alsace, you can understand.  Besides, what can be more
beautiful than this?" and he waved his hand toward the sunlit bay.

"Yes, it's the most beautiful spot on earth!" cried Bob.

"It is indeed, and I love its peace.  I love the quiet ways of the
people.  I saw a house yesterday which captivated, charmed me.
Tre-Trelyon, yes, that's it; Trelyon, I was told it was called, and I
hear it is for sale, or to let, I don't know which."

"Yes, it is, and it is one of the finest places in the district.  Why,
it belongs to Admiral Tresize, whom perhaps you saw on the links this
afternoon."

"What, that stout, hearty, John Bull gentleman?  Oh, yes, I saw him!
What a splendid specimen of your British thoroughness.  It belongs to
him, eh?"

"Yes, it formerly belonged to his wife's family, the Trelyons.  I'm
sure he'd be glad of a good tenant."

"Ah, but that is pleasant.  I could perhaps deal with him personally?
I am, I suppose, what you would call a rich man, but I hate dealing
with agents, and lawyers, and that kind of thing.  He is--friendly,
this, what do you call him, Admiral----"

"Oh, yes, he's most friendly."

"He's in the Navy, I suppose?"

"He's retired from active service, but he is still one of the most
influential men in our Admiralty."

"Ah, yes, but I'm afraid I have but little knowledge of these things.
I am a man of peace.  I hate war of every sort.  I am at one with what
you English people call--Quakers.  But ah, it looks like war again now."

"You mean the Servian trouble?"

"Yes.  At first I thought the Austrians were going to be kind and
reasonable.  But they have Germany behind them, and now, I suppose,
they've sent impossible demands to Servia.  It is here in the evening
paper.  It seems, too, that Russia is going to back up Servia, and that
will mean trouble."

"How?"

"I am not an authority on European politics, but I am sure that if
Russia espouses the cause of Servia, Germany will throw in her lot with
Austria.  Don't you see what follows?"

"You mean that Germany would declare war on Russia too?"

"Yes, and that is not all.  France, my own country, although I am an
Alsatian, is bound to be dragged in.  And I am a man of peace.  I hate
war."

"I am with you there," cried Bob eagerly.  "War was born in hell."

"Ah, you say so, and you are a young man!  That is good!  But still you
need not fear.  England, in spite of the _Entente Cordiale_, holds to
her policy of splendid isolation.  She will not be dragged into the
turmoil?"

"No, I think that is impossible.  You see we are not a military nation,
in spite of a section of the community.  Our Army is small, and will, I
hope, remain small."

"Stick to that, my friend--stick to that.  Big armies only breed war,
and war is a crime.  But about my desire to buy Tre-Trelyon--ah, your
English names are hard to pronounce--do you, who know the owner, this
bluff John Bull, Admiral--what do you call him?"

"Admiral Tresize."

"Admiral Tresize, yes.  Do you think it would be possible for me to see
him?"

"I'm quite sure it would be," replied Bob, who remembered what the
Admiral had said.  "I'm dining at his house to-morrow night.  I'll tell
him what you have said."

"Ah, that is kind, friendly of you; but I must not detain you longer.
Good evening."

"What a friendly old fellow," reflected Bob, as he walked away.  "Yes,
I can quite imagine how one who is a Frenchman at heart would be
treated in Alsace," and then he forgot all about him.

As day followed day, disquieting news came from the Near East.  It
seemed as though the cloud which at first was no bigger than a man's
hand was covering the whole Eastern sky.  Disturbing news flashed
across the Channel, even while it was generally felt that the tragedy
of Sarajevo could never lead to open hostilities.  About the middle of
July, as all the world knows, it was believed that Austria had accepted
Servia's assurance that her attitude towards the greater Power was
altogether pacific, and that full justice should be meted out to all
who had participated in the ghastly murders.

On July 24, even in the quiet neighbourhood of St. Ia, much
apprehension was felt by many who took an interest in foreign affairs
at the announcement of the presentation of the Austro-Hungarian Note to
the Servian Government, especially when we read the terms of the Note.
They were so brutal, so arrogant, that we could not see how any
self-respecting people could accept them.  Still, we reflected that
Servia who had only lately been much weakened and impoverished by her
war with Turkey, might be humble.

On the morning of July 25, Admiral Tresize received a letter from a
friend who lived in Vienna, which caused him to be greatly perturbed.

"Things look very black here," ran the letter.  "Many of us, until a
day or so ago, believed that the Austro-Servian difficulty would be
amicably settled.  As a matter of fact, I know that Austria was
prepared to let Servia down rather lightly, but since then new forces
have been at work.  I am in a position to state that Germany, and by
Germany I mean the Kaiser and the War Party generally, whose word is,
of course, law in Germany, has instructed the Emperor Franz-Josef to
send Servia practically impossible demands.  What is in the Kaiser's
mind it is impossible to say, but, as is very well known, he has been
using almost superhuman efforts in perfecting his army and navy, until
Germany has become the greatest fighting machine in the world.  It is
well known, too, that the Kaiser believes that Russia is so
impoverished and enfeebled by her war with Japan that she is no longer
dangerous, and he considers France altogether unprepared for war.  This
being so, it is the general opinion in diplomatic circles that the
Kaiser's purpose in sending Servia impossible conditions is intended to
arouse hostilities.  Only to-day I had a chat with a man who moves in
the inner circle of things, and he told me, that if Russia defends
Servia, as he hopes she will, and that if France prepares to help
Russia, as she is sure to do, Austria can keep Servia and Russia busy,
while Germany fulfils her long-held determination to bring France to
her knees, and to make her practically her vassal.  No one believes
that England would interfere.  My own belief is that Germany is using
the present occasion as the first step towards carrying out her
long-cherished ambitions.  When once she has conquered France, and
commands her sea-board and her navy, she will then be able to crush
England, which is her ultimate aim."

When the Admiral showed me this letter, I suppose I smiled
incredulously, for the old man broke out into violent language.

"I believe it's true," he cried.  "The Kaiser, for all his pious
hypocrisies, is a war devil.  He hates the thought that England should
be such a World Power, while Germany is only an European Power."

"But the Kaiser isn't such a fool," I replied.  "He knows England and
her strength."

"Yes, but he's drunk with pride and arrogance.  He thinks Germany is
destined to rule the world."

A day or so later news came that Servia had consented to all Austria's
demands with the exception of two points, and suggested that these
should be submitted to the mediation of the Great Powers.

"Ah, that clears the air!" I thought; "nothing can be more reasonable."

Much to the surprise of every one, news came on July 26 that Austria
regarded Servia's answer as unsatisfactory, and that the
Austro-Hungarian Minister, with the Legation Staff, had left Belgrade
on the previous day.

On July 28 I called at Mrs. Nancarrow's house, where I saw Bob reading
the newspaper with a smile on his face.

"This is fine," he cried--"just fine.  What a splendid fellow Sir
Edward Grey is!  It was he who proposed a Conference in the
Turco-Balkan difficulty, and now it is he again who is going to settle
this."

"I am afraid the Turco-Balkan Conference didn't help much," I replied.

"Ah, but this will.  After all, what's the heart of the quarrel?  The
murder of the heir to the Austrian throne.  A ghastly affair, I'll
admit, but everything can be settled."

"Has Admiral Tresize mentioned a letter which he received from Vienna a
day or two ago?" I asked.

"Yes," replied Bob, "but of course it was pure imagination.  Do you
know, I admire the Kaiser.  He's a good man, a religious man."

I coughed.

"Of course it is easy to imagine a case against him," he went on
lightly; "but it has no foundation in fact.  I told the Admiral so.  We
had quite an argument about it, and I maintained that whatever the
circumstances, England had no occasion to be dragged in, and that it
would be criminal on the part of our statesmen if they allowed it.
Evidently Sir Edward Grey thinks the same.  Of course you've seen that
he has proposed a Conference.  He has suggested that Germany, France,
Italy, and Great Britain, who are not directly connected with the
quarrel, should meet, and settle it."

"Will Germany accept?"

"Of course she will," replied Bob confidently, "we shall soon hear that
the trouble is at an end."

"I hope you are right, but if the Kaiser holds the views expressed by
the Admiral's friend, I very much doubt it," was my rejoinder.

When we read that a Russian Cabinet Council was held, and regarded the
Austrian demands as an indirect challenge to Russia, and when we also
read that Austria, without giving Servia any chance for further
consideration, had declared war upon her, and seized certain of her
vessels which happened to be on the Danube, we began to fear trouble,
although even then we in St. Ia never seriously believed that England
would be directly implicated in it.

I am stating these things here, not that they are not known to every
one, but because they will help to make the story I am writing clearer
to the reader, especially when it reaches the later stages.

Later the news came to us that there was partial Russian mobilisation
along the Austrian frontier, and that as a consequence a Council was
held in Berlin.  Of course we knew nothing of what was said in that
Council, but when we heard that Russia's partial mobilisation had
become general, we began to shudder at the gradual darkening of the
European sky.

As all the world knows now, Germany declared war on Russia on August 1,
and I remember meeting Bob outside the St. Ia post office that day.

"You see you were not right about Germany," I said.  "Both France and
Italy accepted Sir Edward Grey's suggestion, and consented to join in a
Conference; but Germany refused.  Nothing can be plainer than that.  If
Germany had wanted peace, she could easily have secured it.  Austria
would not have opposed her in any case, but she would not even join in
a Conference in order to secure peace."

Bob shook his head.  "You know the reason Germany gave for refusing,"
he said.

"About the most arrogant, but the most characteristic possible.  Fancy
saying that Austria as a Great Power could not think of allowing
mediation as though she were a small Balkan state."

"Yes, it's terrible enough," replied Bob.  "But, thank heaven, we are
not likely to be dragged into it."

"I hope and pray not," I replied.

"Why?  Do you think it possible?" he cried.

"Anything is possible.  You've seen that Germany has invaded Luxemburg.
As you know, Luxemburg is a small neutral state, and has been promised
the protection of the Powers.  Germany was a party to this promise, and
yet she has violated everything."

"That's only hearsay," was his reply.

"It is more than hearsay," I answered; but Bob did not appear to be
convinced.

"I am almost glad dear old father is dead," he went on presently.  "The
Boer War nearly broke his heart, while this business threatens to be so
ghastly, that it would have driven him mad.  It is simply hellish."

After this we almost feared to open our newspapers, and events followed
so rapidly that we were unable to keep count of them.

Never shall I forget the look on Admiral Tresize's face when he read
Sir Edward Grey's momentous speech.  His ruddy face became almost pale,
and his hands trembled.

"Sir Edward has done all mortal man can do," he declared.  "Whose ever
hands are clean of this bloody business, his are.  He has simply
laboured night and day for peace."

"Seemingly all in vain," was my reply.

"I have been informed on unimpeachable authority that the Kaiser, in
spite of his pious harangues, has been preparing for this, planning for
this, for years."

"Still there is no necessity for us to be dragged in," I urged.

"Of course there is the _Entente_ between ourselves and France," he
replied.  "France will be bound to help Russia on account of their
alliance, and the question will naturally arise as to whether we can
stand aside while the German fleet bombards France's shores and while
German armies cross her frontier."

"But think of war, Admiral."

"Yes, God knows I think of it.  I didn't sleep last night for thinking
of it.  I know what war is, know of its bloody horrors.  War is hell, I
know that; but I would rather that my country should go through hell,
than allow a Power like Germany to crush her."

"But Germany couldn't crush us.  She has no desire to crush us."

The Admiral looked at me angrily, but did not speak for some seconds.

"I cannot say all I know," he said presently, "but, mark my words, in a
few days you will know by the most incontestable proofs that all this
is a part of Germany's plans; that she has used these Sarajevo murders
as a pretext for causing European war, that she thinks we shall do
nothing, and that her ultimate plan is to crush England, and to
dominate the world."

Every one knows the thrill that went through England when war was
declared.  The shadow of war had closed the Stock Exchange, and
paralysed business, but the declaration of war moved the nation to its
very depths.

Bob Nancarrow was at Penwennack when the call came to the young men of
England to rise and help their country in her need.  Several young
people had met there for a tennis party, and Bob was among them.

"I'm going to send in my name," cried George Tresize.  "I was in the
O.T.C. at Rugby."

"I shall join my regiment right away," said Dick quietly.  "Trevanion's
gone.  Of course you'll join, Bob?"

"No," replied Bob quietly, "I shall not join."




CHAPTER VI

"What!"

"Not going to join!  Why, you were in the O.T.C. while you were at
Clifton!  Not going to join!"

Bob's face was very pale, but he shook his head.

"You are joking, man!  Haven't you read Kitchener's call?  He wants
half a million men.  It's said he'll need a million before long.  You
can't stand out.  No decent fellow can.  You don't mean it!"

"Yes, I mean it."

"But why?"

"I'm afraid I couldn't make you understand."

"No, I don't think you could," and there was a sneer in George
Tresize's voice.

It happened at that moment that the girls had gone into the house, and
had not heard the conversation, but the half-dozen young men who were
there looked at Bob as though he were a kind of reptile.

"I say, Bob," said Dick Tresize, who had been always his close friend,
"you can't mean it!  You are joking.  Have--have you read the papers?
Have you read what led up to our being in it?  Have you seen the white
paper?"

"Yes, I've read everything."

"Then you must know that the war is right."

"No war is right," was Bob's answer.  "It's opposed to every law, human
and divine.  How can a fellow who is trying to be a--a Christian," his
voice trembled as he spoke, "deliberately enlist for the purpose of
killing his fellow-man?  If I have a quarrel with a man, and I murder
him, I am guilty of the most terrible deed a man _can_ be guilty of.
If I did it, I should be branded with the mark of Cain, and you would
shudder at the mention of my name.  A nation is a combination of
individuals, and if nations in order to settle their quarrel go to war,
and murder, not by ones, but by thousands, does it cease to be the
crime of Cain?  Does it cease to be murder?"

"Yes, of course it does," replied a young fellow, named Poldhu, who had
arranged to leave for his regiment on the following morning.

"How?"

Poldhu was silent for a moment, then he cried out, "Is a hangman a
murderer, for hanging a devil?  Is a judge a murderer for condemning a
fellow like Crippen to death?"

"And you mean to say you are going to funk it?"  There was something
ominous in Dick Tresize's voice.

"I am not going to enlist."

"I say, you fellows," said Dick, looking towards the others, "the
climate's not healthy here.  What do you say to a stroll?"

Without a word each one walked away, leaving Bob alone.  They had gone
only a few steps when there was a sound of many voices at the front
door, and a bevy of girls appeared in their light summer dresses.  A
few seconds later the girls and boys were talking eagerly together, and
before long were casting furtive looks towards Bob, who, miserable
beyond words, sat watching them.

"No," he heard one say, "I'm not going to play with him."

"Oh, but there's a mistake somewhere!  He's all right."

"Is he?  Then what did he mean by----"

Bob got up and walked to the other end of the lawn; he had been playing
the part of an eavesdropper in spite of himself.  He knew what they
were talking about--knew that in the future he would be treated as a
pariah.  They were good fellows, all of them.  Clean-minded, healthy
young Englishmen.  Tom Poldhu, Dick and George Tresize, Harry Lorrimer,
and the others were among the best products of English public schools,
and although they had their failings, each had his code of honour which
is generally held sacred by the class to which he belonged.  All of
them, too, had been reared in a military atmosphere.  Most of them, I
imagine, would, with a certain amount of reservation, drink to the old
toast, "My country.  In all her relations with other nations, may she
be in the right.  But right or wrong, my country."  They did not
trouble about the deeper ethics of international quarrels.  It was
enough for them to know that England was in danger; for them, forgetful
of everything else, to offer their lives, if need be, for the land of
their birth.

They could not understand Bob.  They simply could not see from his
point of view.  Only one thing was plain to them.  Their country was at
war.  The King's soldiers were going to defend their nation's word of
honour, and to crush a Power, which they had no doubt meant to rob
England of her glory, and conquer her.  Beyond that they troubled
little.  Neither of them understood much about the cause of the
trouble.  But that did not matter.  They had heard the call, "Your King
and Country need you," and that was enough.  To remain quietly at home
after that was the act of a poltroon and a coward.

"Bob, are you there?"

He had gone from the lawn into a shrubbery, where he was completely
hidden.  He felt as though he must get out of the sight of every one.

It was Nancy's voice, and every nerve in his body thrilled as he heard
it.  Yes, Nancy would understand him; he could make everything plain to
her.

"Yes, Nancy."  He tried to speak cheerfully, but his heart was like
lead.

"Bob," and there was a tone in her voice which he had never heard
before.  "What Dick has been telling us isn't true, is it?"

She had reached his side by this time, and, in spite of her pallor, and
the peculiar light in her eyes, he had never seen her look so beautiful.

"What has he been telling you?" he asked, feeling ashamed of himself
for asking the question.  He knew quite well.

"That--all the rest of them have offered themselves for their country,
and you--you----"

"Let me explain, Nancy," he cried eagerly.  "Let me tell you why I
can't----"

"I don't want any explanations," and there was anger in her voice.
"Lord Kitchener has called for volunteers.  He has asked for half a
million men, so that we may stand by our word of honour, and save our
country.  What I want to know is, are you going to play the coward?"

"You know my principles, Nancy.  You know what we said to each other
down at Gurnard's Head, and----"

"I don't want to hear anything more about that," she interrupted
impatiently.  "I want to know what you are going to _do_.  Please
answer me."

She had ceased to be pale now, although her lips quivered and her hands
trembled.  A pink spot burnt on each cheek, and her eyes burned like
fire.  Bob knew that she would not be satisfied with subterfuges, or
contented with evasions.  Neither, indeed, did he wish to shelter
himself behind them.

"I'm going to do nothing," he replied.  "That is I'm going to carry out
the plan we agreed on.  Look here, Nancy----"

But again she interrupted him.  She was angry beyond words, but she
kept herself in check.

"That's all I wanted to know.  Thank you.  We are not going to play
tennis for a little while.  We are all going for a walk.  Good
afternoon."

"You mean that you do not wish me to go with you."

"I do not think you--you would enjoy coming.  You see the others----"

She did not complete the sentence, but hurried away, leaving him alone.

Bob felt as though the heavens had become black.  He had expected to be
misunderstood, sneered at, despised; but he had never dreamed that
Nancy would turn from him like this.  He knew she hated war.  He
remembered her telling him about her eldest brother who had been killed
in the Boer War, and how it had darkened her home, and added years to
her father's life.  She had encouraged him in the career he had marked
out too; she had agreed with him that the work he had at heart was the
noblest any man could do.  As a consequence, he thought she would
understand him, sympathise with him.

Bob had not come to his decision carelessly, or with a light heart.  He
had gone over the ground inch by inch.  Yes, England was in the right.
He did not believe that Germany had planned the war, and he blamed the
Czar as much as he blamed the Kaiser.  No doubt Germany had broken
treaties.  It was wrong for her to invade Luxemburg, and then to send
her ultimatum to Belgium, after she had been a party to the treaty to
maintain Belgium's integrity and neutrality.  Of course, the King of
the Belgians had made a strong case when he had called upon England to
protect her.

But war!

He thought of what it meant, for his father's teaching and influence
were not forgotten.  Generations of Quaker influence and blood were not
without effect.  War was born in hell.  It was an act of savagery, and
not of Christian nations.  He pictured the awful carnage, the
indescribable butchery, the untold horror which were entailed.  He saw
hordes of men fighting like devils; realised the lust for blood which
was ever the concomitant of war.  Besides, they settled nothing.  Wars
always bred wars, one always sowed the seeds of another.  When this
bloody welter came to an end, what then?  After the nation's wealth had
been wasted, after tens of thousands of the most promising lives had
been sacrificed, after innumerable homes had been laid waste, after all
the agony, what then?  Would we be any nearer justice?  Would wrong be
righted, and love take the place of hatred?

But this was not all, neither did it touch the depths of the question.
War, ghastly as it was, might superficially be justified.  More than
once, when he thought of England's plighted word to defend a small,
neighbouring state, when he heard of tens of thousands of England's
most stalwart sons leaving home and country, not for aggrandisement,
nor gain of any sort, but out of desire to keep England's plighted
word, to maintain her honour unsullied, and defend the weak, he felt
that he must cast everything aside, and offer himself for the fray.
But then he had called himself a Christian, he believed in the teaching
of the Prince of Peace.  How could a man, believing in the lessons of
the Sermon on the Mount, accepting the dictum, "Bless them that curse
you, do good to them that hate you, pray for them that despitefully use
you and persecute you," do his utmost to murder men who believed in the
same Lord as he did?

No, no, it would not do.  If Christianity were right, war was wrong.
Either Christianity was a foolish thing, an impossible dream, and all
our profession of it so much empty cant, or war was something which
every Christian should turn from with loathing and horror.

Bob had made no outward profession of Christianity.  He had been so far
influenced by the spirit of the age, that he seldom spoke about
religion, and perhaps many would have regarded him as by no means an
exemplary Christian.  Nevertheless, deep down in his life was a
reverence for Christ and His words.  Humanly speaking, the most potent
influence in his life was his dead father.  Bob, although he had never
been inside a Friends' Meeting House, and was not in any way regarded
as a member of their community, was one at heart.  Either Christ's
teaching must be taken to mean what it said, or it was of no value; and
Bob took it seriously.  Hitherto, it had not clashed with what people
had expected of him; but now it seemed to him he must either give up
the faith his father had held, or he must hold aloof from this war, and
fight for peace.

For days he had seen the trend of affairs, and what they would lead to,
and although he had said nothing to any one, he had decided upon the
course of his life.  Thus it was, when at the tennis party the other
men had asked him what he was going to do, he told them.

But he had never dreamed that Nancy would turn from him, never imagined
that his decision would separate them.  Yes, that was what it meant.
If he held fast to his principles, then Nancy was lost to him.

He heard shouts of laughter near by.  Those fellows had no doubts, no
struggles.  They saw the way of duty clearly, and were going to follow
it, while he must go in the opposite direction, and thereby lose--oh
God, he could not bear it!

He felt himself a pariah.  He was no longer wanted, his presence would
no longer be tolerated.  Even his friend, Dick Tresize, would turn his
back on him if he attempted to join him.

"I was tempted to bring my evening clothes, and spend the evening as
the Admiral asked me," he reflected; "I'm glad I didn't.  I should be
frozen out of the house."

He made his way through the gardens towards the garage, where he had
left his car; on his way he came across an old gardener, whom he had
known for years.

"Well, Master Bob, we be in for a 'ot job."

"I'm afraid we are, Tonkin."

"I wish I was twenty 'ear younger.  I'd be off like a shot."

"Where, Tonkin?"

"Off to fight they Germans, to be sure.  Why, no young chap worthy of
the naame caan't stay 'ome, tha's my veelin'.  Tell 'ee wot, they
Germans 'ave bin jillus o' we for 'ears, and tes a put-up job.  They do
'ate we, and main to wipe us off the faace of the globe.  I d' 'ear
that the Kaiser ev got eight millyen sodgers.  Every able-bodied man
'ave bin trained for a sodger, jist to carry out that ould Kaiser's
plans.  A cantin' old 'ippycrit, tha's wot 'ee es.  But we bean't
fear'd ov'm, Maaster Bob.  One Englishman es wuth five Germans, 'cos
every Englishman es a volunteer, an' a free man.  Aw I do wish I wos
twenty 'ear younger.  Of course you'll be off with the rest of the
young gen'lemen?"

But Bob did not reply.  He did not want to enter into an argument with
the plain-spoken old Cornishman.

When he arrived home, he found that his mother had gone out, and would
not return till dinner-time.  He was glad for this.  He did not want to
explain to her why he had come home so early.  He felt he could not do
so.  Besides, her absence gave him an opportunity to think out the
whole question again.

Yes, his choice was plain enough.  Nancy, the daughter of an English
sailor, the child of many generations of fighters, had been carried
away by the tide of feeling that swept over the country.  Having
fighting blood in her veins, she could not understand his feelings.  To
her it was the duty, the sacred duty, of every healthy young Englishman
to defend his country, and none but shirkers, cowards, would stay
behind.  Therefore, if he stood by his principles, she would cast him
off with scorn and contempt.  If he continued to hold by what he
regarded as the foundation of the teachings of the Prince of Peace, he
would lose the girl who was as dear to him as his own life.

Oh, how he longed to join the fray!  Pride of race, and pride in the
history of that race surged up within him.  He, too, had fighting blood
in his veins, and he longed to share in the fight.  He did not fear
death.  Once accept the theory of war as right, and death on the
battlefield, especially in such a cause, would be glorious.  He was
young too, and his blood ran warm.  What nobler cause could there be
than to defend a small people, and to crush the fighting hordes of the
Kaiser?  And besides all that, there was Nancy.  He had been dreaming
love's young dream, he had been living in the land of bliss, he loved
with a pure, devoted love the fairest girl in the county.

And he could keep her love!  From signs which seemed to him infallible,
he judged that the Admiral during the last few days had learnt his
secret, and had not discouraged him from visiting the house, while
Nancy had hinted to him that the time was nearly ripe for him to
approach her father, and ask for his consent to their engagement.

But how could he?  There were things in the world deeper, more sacred,
even than love for a woman--principle, conscience, faith.  Could he
sacrifice these?  Could he trample on the Cross of Christ, in order to
embrace the sword, and hold to his heart the woman he loved?

He looked towards the mantelpiece, and saw the picture of his father,
whom he had idealised as the noblest man who ever lived.  He remembered
his teaching, remembered that to him the true man was he who sacrificed
everything to principle, to conscience.  He looked around among the
many books, and noted those his father loved.  He took from the table a
New Testament, and instinctively turned to the Sermon on the Mount.

"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of
God."

"Ye have heard it hath been said, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a
tooth.  But I say unto you, that ye resist not evil, but whosoever
shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also."

And so on and on.  How could a man believing in this, grasp the sword
to take away the lives of others.  The Germans were Christians just as
we were; Germany was the home of the Reformation, the home of religious
liberty.  Was it not Luther who, standing before the greatest tribunal
the world had ever known, and having to choose between conscience and
death, cried out:

"It is neither safe nor wise for any man to do aught against his own
conscience.  Here stand I; I can do no other, God help me!"?

No, no, he simply could not.  Though he were boycotted, scorned, held
up to derision, he could not change.  He must be true to his conscience.

But Nancy!

Yes, he must lose Nancy, and the very thought of it made him groan in
agony; but he must sacrifice his love rather than his Lord.

He heard his mother come in, and, although he dreaded her coming, he
steeled his heart to tell her the truth.

She, too, was full of war news; it had been the common talk at the
houses where she had called.

"Bob," she said; and her face was pale, her lips tremulous.  "Bob, the
thought of it is terrible; but you'll have to go.  It is your
duty--your country needs you."

She, too, had been fighting a hard battle.  A battle between love for
her only boy, fear for his safety, and what she believed her duty to
her country.  The struggle had been hard, but she had determined to
make her sacrifice.

"No, I'm not going, mother."

"What, you are going to allow those Germans to crush France and
Belgium, and finally conquer and crush us, and never lift a hand in
defence?"

Bob was silent.

"You can't mean it, my dear.  It's like tearing my heartstrings out to
let you go, but you must.  I know; you are thinking of me; but I shall
be all right.  You must do your duty."

"Would _he_ have me go?" and Bob nodded towards his father's picture.

"Your father was a Quaker," she said.

"He was a Christian," and Bob's voice was very low.  "That was why he
hated war, and denounced it.  That is why I am not going to fight."

"Then every brave, true Englishman will despise you."

"That's nothing," replied Bob; and his voice sounded as though he were
weary.

"And what of Nancy?"

"Yes, what of her?"

"I know what she feels, I know that----"

"Mother," Bob interrupted, "I can't bear any more just now; and it's no
use talking, my mind's made up."

He left the room as he spoke, and soon after, left the house.  He did
not have any dinner that night, but spent hours tramping the wild moors
at the back of the house.  The next day he was in misery.  Again and
again he reviewed the situation, but he could not change.  He could not
offer himself to be a legalised murderer, for that was how his
country's call appealed to him.  It was a battle between Calvary and
Militarism, and he could not take the side of Militarism.

When he reached the house in the evening, after a long, lonely walk,
his mother pointed to a letter lying on the table.

"It's from Admiral Tresize," he said, after he had read it.  "He wants
me to go up there to dinner, or as soon afterwards as possible."

"You'll go, of course," said the mother eagerly.

"Yes, I'll go.  Of course it is too late for me to get there in time
for dinner, but I'll go directly afterwards."

"That's right."

An hour later Bob got out his car, and drove towards Penwennack, with a
sad heart.  He dreaded what he felt sure was coming, and his heart beat
wildly with the hope that he might perhaps see Nancy, and make her
understand.




CHAPTER VII

When Bob knocked at the door of the house, he realised that he was
expected.  Without delay the servant opened the door, and without
question at once ushered him into the room which went by the name of
"the library," though there was but little indication that the
apartment was used as a storehouse for books.  Nautical charts, globes,
pictures of Dreadnoughts, and things appertaining to naval warfare
practically filled up all the available space.

As Bob entered, he saw the Admiral seated at a table, with a map of
Europe spread before him.

"Ah!  Bob," cried the Admiral, "glad to see you.  I hoped you would
have come in for dinner, but I suppose you were busy.  I wanted a chat
with you, my boy."

The old man spoke with an obvious endeavour to retain his old friendly
footing, but it was evident that he was anxious and somewhat nervous.

"This is a terrible business, my boy," he went on; "who would have
thought it a month ago?  I, who always believed that the Germans meant
war, never imagined it would come upon us like this.  But, by gad, they
have found us ready this time!  Never was the mobilisation of the Army
and Navy managed with such speed; everything has gone like
clockwork--just clockwork.  Of course you know that Dick and George are
gone?"

"I heard they were going," said Bob.

"Yes, the young rascals were just mad to go.  Naturally I expected it
of Dick, who had just finished his training at Sandhurst; but George
was just as keen.  I am proud of them too.  Yes, my boy, I have lost
one son in war, and God only knows what it meant to me; but I would
rather lose these two as well, than that England should not play her
part."

Bob was silent; he knew what the Admiral had in his mind, and what he
was leading up to.

"I have been thinking a good deal about you, Bob," went on the old man.
"Of course you have been almost one of the family for years; your
mother's people and mine have been friends for centuries.  Ah! my lad,
let the Radicals say what they will, but it's grand to come of a good
family.  You have to go a long way back in English history before you
come to the time when the Trelawneys and Tresizes were not known.  They
have fought in a hundred battles for their country, and, thank God,
their descendants are ready to do it again.  It is a great thing to
have a good name, eh, my boy?"

"Yes, sir," replied Bob.

"You told me some time ago that you were in the O.T.C. while you were
at Clifton College, and Dick says that you quite distinguished
yourself.  I am very glad of that; I have some influence in military
quarters, although I am a naval man, and I can arrange for you to have
your commission right away.  Of course it will be in a Cornish
regiment."  He did not refer to the conversation which had passed
between the young men two days before, although Bob felt sure he knew
of it, but was assuming his enlistment as a matter of course.

"I have not made up my mind to join," said Bob.

"Not made up your mind to join!  Then it is time you should.  Every
young fellow should join in these days.  Of course it will break in
upon your law studies and the other things you have in your mind, but,
God willing, we shall get all this business over in a few months, and
then you'll be able to come back to your work.  You'll not suffer for
it, my boy--you'll not suffer."

"It is not that at all, sir," replied the young fellow.

"What is it, then?"

"You knew my father, sir?"

"Knew him--of course I did!  A good fellow and an honest man, but, you
will excuse me for saying so, a crank."

Bob was silent; he did not dare let himself speak.

"Your father was a Quaker," went on the Admiral, "but your mother was a
Trelawney.  She told me only a few days ago that if war came, hard as
it would be for her, she would not move a finger to keep you from
going, even if it meant your going to your death.  Come now, I will do
all I can to push things forward for you."

"Thank you, sir," replied Bob, "but--but I have made up my mind that I
can't."

"In heaven's name, why?"

"Admiral," said Bob, and his voice became tremulous, "do you think it
right for a man to undertake anything which his conscience condemns?"

"No, of course not; what has that to do with it?"

"Everything, sir, to me.  War is brutal and devilish, opposed to
everything I have been taught to believe."

"Do you mean to say," cried the Admiral, "that you are not convinced of
the righteousness of this war?  Why, my lad, the thing is as plain as
the nose on your face.  Have you gone through the papers?  Have you
read the correspondence between the various ambassadors?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then do you not think that Germany has been planning this war for
years, and that she has checked every movement for peace?"

"That is debatable, isn't it, sir?"

"Debatable?  No!  You are not such a fool as to believe that this war
is on account of the Servian assassination?  That is a mere flimsy
pretext--one of the flimsiest ever known.  I have read all about it
to-day.  Austria had practically agreed to live at peace with Servia,
to allow Servia to retain her independence.  The trouble was, to all
intents and purposes, patched up, and then Germany insisted on an
impossible ultimatum.  Austria would never have declared war on Servia
had not Germany given her orders to do so.  Here is a letter written by
Sir Maurice de Bunsen, on July 26.  He states plainly that Germany
wanted war, that she had schemes in Asia Minor which she wanted to
carry out.  She believed that by war with Servia she would be able to
accomplish her purposes.  She believed that Russia would keep quiet
during the time Austria worked her will, and as de Bunsen says,
'Germany knew very well what she was about in backing up
Austria-Hungary in this matter.'"

"Yes, sir, that is all very well, but that does not make war right.
Personally, I find it easy to believe that Germany was the aggressor in
this case; I believe, too, that Russia decided to stand by Servia not
for the sake of the Servians, but for her own interests; that does not
justify her in dragging the whole of Europe into war."

"Yes, but are you mad, my boy?  The Servian business was only the
beginning of it.  Of course, when Russia prepared to protect Servia,
Germany, knowing that the war she had been trying to bring about must
come some time, declared war on Russia.  Then, without giving France a
chance, she invaded Luxemburg and French territory; don't you see?"

"I do not see how that makes war right, sir."

"No, but when Germany invaded Belgium, broke all treaty rights, and
Belgium asked us to protect her what were we to do?"

"Admiral," said Bob, "I believe you pretend to be a Christian."

"Yes, of course I do, but what has that to do with it?"

"Do you happen to believe in 'The Sermon on the Mount'?"

"Good Lord, yes!  Isn't it our Lord's own words?"

"Then I want to ask you how a man can reconcile the teaching of 'The
Sermon on the Mount' with bloody warfare such as this is to be?"

The Admiral was nonplussed for a moment; he was a simple seaman, and
not versed in the philosophy of ethics.

"Look here, my boy!" he cried passionately, "if I know anything about
Christianity, it teaches a man to be honourable, truthful, and to keep
his word.  I would not give a fig for any Christian who did not keep
his word.  Well, we gave our word to Belgium.  The Germans did so, too,
but, like the brutes they are, they violated theirs, and when Belgium
appealed to us, and asked us to keep our word, could we refuse?  Could
any Christian refuse?  No, by gad, no!"

"But, Admiral, don't you see that----"

"Look here, Bob, I want no more talking.  Are you going to back out of
your duty, or are you going to play the game like a man?"

"I am going to try to be true to my conscience, sir.  As I told you,
war to me is unchristian, devilish, and if I enlisted, I should, by so
doing, become a paid murderer."

The Admiral rose to his feet, his eyes blazing.  For a moment his
temper had got the better of him, and, had he been able to speak, he
would have hurled at Bob words for which he would have been sorry
afterwards.  Luckily, he could not.  Presently he had gained command
over himself.

"I do not think we had better say any more," he said quietly.  "I am
sorry I have been mistaken in you; sorry that you should have accepted
the hospitality of a Pagan home like this.  Of course you are not
renewing your visits here?"

"But, Admiral!" cried Bob, angry with himself for not weighing his
words before uttering them.  "I--I----"

"Excuse me," said the old man, "it is no use saying any more.  Good
night."

He did not offer to shake hands, but went to the bell push.  A second
later a servant appeared, to whom the Admiral nodded.  Without
hesitation the man opened the door and held it while Bob passed out,
and then led the way to the front entrance.  When he had gone, the
Admiral threw himself into an arm-chair and heaved a deep sigh; it was
like saying good-bye to his own son.

As Bob walked down the hall he felt as if an end had come to all his
dreams, and that he was being turned out of the house which he had
always looked upon as a kind of second home.  Of course Nancy would be
aware of the interview, and would learn the result.  In bidding
good-bye to the house, he was also bidding good-bye to her.  The
servant had his hand upon the door-knob when he heard the rustle of a
woman's dress, and Nancy, pale and eager-eyed, came from an adjoining
room.

"Jenkins," she said, "Mr. Nancarrow will not go yet; you need not
wait."  The man left without a word, and Nancy led the way into the
room where she had been sitting.

"I felt, perhaps, that I was not fair to you yesterday, and I thought I
would give you another chance of--explaining yourself."  Her voice was
hoarse and trembling--indeed it did not sound like Nancy's voice at all.

"Oh, Nancy," he said, "I was afraid I should not see you!  Thank you
for speaking."

"Father told me he had written you," she went on.  "I--I hope
everything is arranged all right.  Bob, do you mean what you said?  Do
you mean that you are going to play the coward?"

"I am doing the hardest thing I ever did in my life," he blurted out.

"In taking a coward's part?"

"Call it that if you like," was his reply.

They were alone by this time, and the door closed behind them.

"I am trying to be calm," said Nancy.  "You know all we had hoped and
planned, but--but I don't want to be foolish; there must be deeper
reasons than those you mentioned the other day.  I do not think you can
have realised the circumstances.  Since you left, I have done nothing
but read--and try to understand.  I have been very ignorant about such
matters, and I thought, perhaps, my ignorance kept me from
understanding you.  I have read all the papers which father has been
able to obtain, all the miserable story which led up to this war.  Have
you?"

"Yes," said Bob; "all!"

"Then surely you do not hold to what you said?"

"I am afraid I do."

"Then perhaps you will explain."

"That is what I want to do," cried Bob.  "Oh, Nancy, you don't know
what I have been through since I left you!--you don't know how I have
longed to enlist, longed to take part in the fray--but--there it is.
Look here, Nancy, I was never one to talk much about these things, but
you knew my father, knew that he was a Quaker, a Christian, in a very
real sense of the word.  When he died, my mother and others told me
they hoped I should be worthy of him, and--I have tried to be.  It is
difficult to talk about such matters, Nancy, and I am not one of those
fellows who parade their piety and that sort of thing.  I would not say
what I am going to now, but for the circumstances.  I have tried to
understand what Christianity means.  I have read the New Testament,
especially the Gospels, again and again.  I have tried to realise what
Jesus Christ said, what He lived for, what He died for, and I think I
have tried to follow him.  No, I am not namby-pamby, and this is not
empty talk.  I expect there are hundreds of young fellows who never
talk about religion, but who are trying, honestly and squarely, to live
Christian lives.  Anyhow, that is what I have tried to do.  When this
war seemed to be inevitable, I went into the whole business.  I read
everything I could,--newspapers, state papers, correspondence between
the ambassadors, and all that kind of thing.  You see, I felt what was
coming; and, Nancy, I simply cannot square Christianity with war.
Either Jesus Christ was mistaken, and Christianity is an empty dream;
or war is wrong--wrong under any circumstances.  It is hellish, and I
can't stand for it--I can't!"

The girl looked at him with wide open eyes, and her lips trembled, but
she did not speak.

"Yes," he went on, "I know what it means.  I shall be boycotted,
sneered at, called a coward, and all that; but that is nothing, is it?
What is much more terrible to me is the fact that I shall--that I shall
lose you!  You drove me away the other day, Nancy.  You did not mean
it, did you?  You would not have me go against my conscience?"

"Conscience!" there was a world of scorn in her voice.  She seemed to
be hesitating whether she should not open the door and tell him to
leave the house.  Perhaps there was something in the tone of his voice,
in the expression of his eyes, which kept her from doing this.
"Perhaps you have not thought of the other side," she tried to say
calmly.  "Have you ever thought what it would mean if Germany conquered
England--Germany with her militarism and her savagery?  Have you
thought how she would treat us, what would become of us, and all that
we hold most dear?"

"Yes, I have thought of that."

"And would it not be right, if, to save our country, and all our
country stands for, if need be, to deluge Europe in blood?  Oh, Bob,
can't you see?"

"It is never right to do wrong," said Bob.  "Is it right to tell a lie
that truth may come?  Is it right to tell a lie to save any one from
pain?  Is it right to commit murder to save some one from an even
greater calamity?  That's nothing but the old Jesuit doctrine of the
end justifying the means.  But, Nancy, don't let's talk anything more
about it.  I am tired, weary of it!  You love me, I love you.  Can't
you let me live my own life, carry out the projects I have in my mind,
and trust to Providence?"

"What right have we to trust in Providence," asked the girl
passionately, "when we stand by and do nothing?  Suppose at the end of
this war we come off victorious, I suppose that you, who have never
lifted your finger to save your country, will think it your right to
enter into the benefits which others have won for you?  That is your
idea of Christianity, I suppose?"

"But war cannot be right."

"I don't know about war in the abstract," cried the girl, "but I do
know that this war is.  I am not a sophist, and I can't put into words
what is in my mind.  I am only an ordinary girl; but, Bob"--she raised
her voice as she spoke--"if you can stand by while your country is in
danger, if you can turn a deaf ear to her call, if you refuse to help,
and go on working at your law books while other young men are fighting
for their country's honour and safety, then--then--don't you see?  We
live in different worlds, we breathe different air, and--there is an
end to everything."

"Have we tried to understand the German position?" said Bob.  "Germany
is a Christian country as much as England is; the German people are
what Thomas Carlyle calls them, a brave, quiet, patient people.  Are we
right in attributing evil motives to them?"

"But do you not believe," cried Nancy, "that the Emperor and his
ministers planned all this?--that they depended upon the neutrality of
England, thinking we would stand by and see a little nation crushed?
Everything proves that their object and desire is to crush England, and
to dominate the world.  You say you have read all about it.  Surely you
do not believe that Germany is going to war to crush Servia because of
the assassination of an Austrian prince?  You do not believe in that
flimsy pretext?"

"No," said Bob, "I can't say I do."

"And have you thought of this?" said the girl.  "When this war was
declared, it was not at the time the Crown Prince was assassinated, but
when things seemed to be favourable to the Kaiser's plans of
aggression.  Any one can see how everything fits in.  A speech had been
made in the French Senate about the unreadiness of that country for
war, and then when the President and Foreign Secretary of the French
Republic were staying in Russia and could not get back for days,
Germany hurled out her ultimatum.  War was declared at a time, too,
when Russia was believed to be confronted with revolutionary strikes,
and was almost bled to death by her war with Japan.  It was declared at
a time when England was believed to be on the eve of civil war on
account of her Irish troubles, and when it seemed that she must, of
necessity, remain neutral.  Can't you see the fiendishness of the plot?
The Kaiser and his creatures thought the time had come when they could
begin the war for which they had been preparing."

"Is not that a pure hypothesis?" exclaimed Bob; nevertheless, he was
struck with the girl's evident knowledge of affairs.

"Hypothesis!" cried the girl.  "Are you mad, Bob?  Isn't everything
plain?  What sense of honour has Germany shown?  What desire for peace?
She had her plans ready, and she determined to carry them out at
whatever cost.  To little Luxemburg she promised protection, and yet
without even saying 'by your leave,' invaded Luxemburg.  Belgium, also,
was protected by treaty.  Germany, as well as other countries, had
plighted her word that Belgium's neutrality and integrity should be
respected; yet she sent that infamous ultimatum to Belgium that if the
German troops were not allowed to march through the country without
opposition, she would be treated as an enemy.  Can you think of
anything more dishonourable?  Why," and Nancy's voice trembled with
pain, "I was just mad when I read it in the newspapers, and when
afterwards dad showed me the official reports about it, I could
scarcely contain myself.  The Chancellor of Germany said, 'Yes, we know
we have done wrong; we have broken our word to Luxemburg, and violated
the treaty we signed; but necessity knows no law.  It was a part of our
plan to do it, and we did it.  We know we signed a treaty that
Belgium's neutrality and integrity should be maintained, but you see it
did not suit our plans to keep our word, so we broke it.  We will make
it up to the Belgians afterwards, if they will do what we tell them;
but if they will not, we will crush them.'  What is honour to a country
like that?  Can't you see that all along Germany intended to dominate
Europe, and because she thought the present time propitious, she was
willing to cover herself with dishonour in order to do the thing she
wanted?"

"Is there not another side to that?" interjected Bob.

"Another side?  How can there be another side?  When our Ambassador met
the German Chancellor, what took place?  The Chancellor had the
audacity to make what our Prime Minister called an 'infamous proposal.'
He suggested that we should break our word to Belgium, and remain
neutral so that Germany could crush France.  Then when our Ambassador
asked, as any gentleman would ask, 'But what about the treaty we
signed?' he replied, 'What is a treaty?  A thing to be broken!  A scrap
of paper!  Will you go to war for that?'"

"But consider what war means!" cried Bob.  "Does it follow that because
the Germans are willing to plunge Europe into war, we should do
likewise?  Does anything, _anything_, justify the violation of every
law, human and divine?"

"Bob, do please just call to mind what that horrible German, who had
not even the first instincts of a gentleman, said, 'Have you counted
the cost, and still stand by your honour and plighted word?'  As if an
English gentleman could ever count the cost when his plighted word was
given!"

"Yes," said Bob, "but any statesman ought to count the cost.  Think of
what it will all mean, Nancy; think of all the hatred, the feelings of
devilish revenge, the mad passions that will be roused; think of
countries lying waste, think of the whole spirit of war, of the untold
misery and horror of it all, and then ask if anything justifies war.  I
know you have a strong case, but two wrongs cannot make a right.
Suppose a man broke his word to me, outraged my feelings, did me great
wrong; would that justify my driving a knife into his heart?  I should
be called a murderer if I did it, and be hanged for my deed.  Besides,
to come back to where we were just now, Nancy, how could I pretend to
be a Christian, if I enlisted, and went to the war for the purpose of
killing my fellow-men?  Christ said, 'Love your enemies, do good to
them that hate you, pray for them that despitefully use you and
persecute you.  If a man smite thee on thy right cheek turn to him the
other.'  Oh, Nancy, can't you see how utterly opposed Christianity is
to the whole ghastly thing?  Here is the German Emperor saying to his
soldiers, 'Go to church and pray--we are fighting God's battle.'  Here
are our clergymen saying to our people, 'Go to church and pray--we are
fighting God's battle.'  How can God answer both our prayers?  They
believe they are in the right, we believe we are in the right, and so
to uphold what we both believe to be right we engage in this hellish
business."

"And that is your explanation," she said.

"Yes, Nancy; I cannot, I simply cannot be a soldier and a Christian at
the same time.  But you will not let this come between us, will you?  I
am trying to be true to my conscience, to act in accordance with the
teaching of the New Testament, and I cannot reconcile Christianity with
war."

"Do you believe that we shall win in this fight?" and the girl's voice
became hard as she asked the question.

"Yes," said Bob.  "Yes, I believe we shall in the end.  After rivers of
blood have been shed, after horrors worse than can be described have
been realised, after tens and tens of thousands of men have been
killed, after a whole continent has been desolated, I believe we shall
win.  We shall be stronger than the Germans because we have such vast
numbers of men in reserve; yes, I expect that in the long run we shall
be able to dictate terms of peace; yes, I expect that."

"But you believe that no war can be justified?"

Bob shook his head.

"Think," said the girl, "think of the sixteenth century, when Philip of
Spain made such great preparations to conquer and subdue England.  If
he had succeeded, our religion would have been destroyed, our homes
taken away from us, our liberty torn from us, our existence as a nation
would have been practically wiped out.  Do you believe God meant Drake
and Hawkins and the rest of them to sit down quietly while the
Spaniards invaded our land and destroyed our liberties?  Do you believe
that?"

Bob was silent.

"No, you do not believe it.  You know that had Philip II succeeded
there would be no England to-day such as we know.  Well, now it comes
to this: A greater and a more terrible power than Spain seeks to crush
us; but our men, thank God, have not ceased to be Englishmen, and they
will safeguard our liberties, and keep for us still the England we
love.  When the war is over, and all danger is gone, I suppose that
you, who stand idly by, and talk about the ethics of war, will think it
your right to enjoy the liberties which these brave fellows suffer and
die to give you.  Is that it?"

"Nancy, that's not fair."

"I want to be fair.  Tell me, is that your attitude?  It is un-English,
and it is cowardly.  Is it yours?"

"I will not try to answer you, Nancy--I should be sorry afterwards,
perhaps; but--but--Nancy, is everything over between us?"

"That's for you to say."

"For me?"

"Yes, you.  You have your choice.  I--I had nearly overcome
dad's--objections to you."

"But, Nancy, do you mean to say that----"

"I can never marry a man who shrinks from his duty at such a time as
this?  Yes, I mean that."

"Nancy, you make it a choice between you and my conscience."

For a few seconds she looked at him without speaking.  Her lips were
quivering, and her hands were trembling.  It was easy to see that she
was greatly wrought upon.

"No, that is not the choice," she said, and her voice had a hard ring
in it.

"What is it, then?"

"A choice between me and cowardice."

He staggered as if some one had struck him.  "Do you mean that?" he
asked hoarsely.

"Yes, I mean that."

Without speaking another word, he staggered blindly out of the house.
Nancy heard him close the front door behind him, and then, throwing
herself into a chair, sobbed as though her heart would break.




CHAPTER VIII

For the next few days St. Ia was completely under the influence of the
war fever.  Although we have only about three thousand inhabitants,
three hundred of our men belonging to the Naval Reserve left in one
day, while many who were away in their fishing-boats were expected to
join their vessels as soon as they could return home.  Young
territorials left the neighbourhood by the score, and many a lad who
had previously been laughed at, when wearing his uniform, was looked
upon as a kind of hero, and everywhere one turned, the only subject of
conversation was the war.

Each morning at eight o'clock, the time at which our newspapers usually
arrive, there was such a rush for the train, in order to obtain early
copies, as I had never seen before; and presently, when the news came
that an army consisting of one hundred thousand men had landed on
French soil without even a hitch or casualty, we cheered wildly.
Evidently our War-office machinery was in good order, and our soldiers,
perhaps the best armed and equipped that ever left our shores, would,
we were sure, give a good account of themselves.

Among the older and more staid people the inwardness of the situation
was more and more realised.  It seemed so strange that the German
nation, which a few weeks before was looked upon as a nation of
friends, was now spoken of as "the enemy."  We held our breaths when we
read of the bombardment of Liége, and cheered wildly at the thought of
the brave Belgian army holding the forts against the opposing forces,
and driving back the hordes of Huns with such valour.  "How long will
the English take to get there?" we asked again and again.  "When shall
we come to close grips with them?"  Many a mother grew pale as she
thought of her boy in the line of battle.

Presently news came of the fall of Liége and the victorious march of
the Germans towards Brussels.  The terror of the whole thing got hold
of us, as we thought of the unfortified capital being seized by the
advancing hosts of a great military Power.  We troubled very little
about French successes or losses in Alsace and Lorraine.  We knew that
the French, true to their characters, had yielded to sentiment rather
than to strategy in making what seemed to us a foolish attempt to win
back these provinces.  Of course it was only forty-four years ago that
they had been taken from them by their conquerors in the Franco-German
war.  We knew too that, ever since, they had been longing for revenge,
longing to win back what they felt to be part of their own country.
Naturally we sympathised with the French in this, and tears came to our
eyes, and sobs to our throats, when we read how old Frenchmen who had
been through the Franco-German war, welcomed the soldiers with wild and
tumultuous joy.  Nevertheless we knew that victory could not be won by
sentiment, and that if the carefully trained German soldiers were to be
driven back, there must be strategy on our side equal to theirs, and
that the armies must be led, not only courageously, but intelligently.
Thus, although we had no proof of the rumour, we rejoiced when we heard
that Lord Kitchener had gone to Paris, and by his wise counsels and
tremendous personality had altered the whole course of the campaign.

"He's the man!" one would say to another; "he's like the Iron Duke in
Boney's time.  Nerves like steel, a mind like a razor, and the heart of
a lion."

Nevertheless day by day our hearts grew heavier and heavier as we read
of the steady German advance towards Paris.  "If the capital is taken,"
men said, "Isn't everything done for?" and then we weighed the pros and
cons with all the wisdom of a rustic population.

Another thing added to our discomfort.  The lads of Cornwall were not
responding as we thought they should, to the call of their country.
From all parts of England young men were coming forward, and London was
enlisting volunteers at the rate of a thousand a day.  Yorkshire and
Lancashire proved their devotion and their loyalty.  Devon, too, our
sister county, more than maintained her traditions.  We read how in one
little village where only thirty young men lived, twenty-five of them
had volunteered.  "It is because our boys don't understand, don't
realise what we are fighting for," said one to another; and then we
heard with delight that Admiral Tresize and the Member of Parliament
for St. Ia were arranging for a public meeting, at which truth should
be made known.

During this time Bob Nancarrow was much alone.  He seldom left the
house, neither was he to be seen in any of his old favourite haunts.
No one followed the fortunes of the war more closely than he.  With
almost feverish eagerness he read every item of news, although, by his
own decision, he was an outsider.  He was torn by two opposing forces.
One was the love of his country and his own people, and the other was
the voice of his conscience.  He thought, when he happened to go into
the little town, that people nudged each other significantly as he
passed, and made unflattering remarks about him.  As a matter of fact,
however, no such thing happened.  True, there were some who wondered
why he remained at home, while all his schoolfellows and friends had
volunteered; but many more remembered that he was the son of Dr.
Nancarrow, a man who, to the time of his death, was an apostle of
peace.  Of course the inner circle of his acquaintances knew the truth,
but they only talked of it among their own set, and thus Bob's fears
were groundless.

One day he was attracted by a large placard which appeared on all the
public hoardings headed by the Royal Coat of Arms: "'Your King and
Country Need You!'  A great meeting will be held in the Public Hall on
Thursday night in order to explain why this war has taken place, and
why it is the duty of every man to help."  It announced also that
Admiral Tresize was to take the chair, while, in addition to the local
Member, the meeting was to be addressed by Captain Trevanion, who was
coming down from Plymouth for this purpose, just before leaving for the
front.

"Of course I shan't go," said Bob to himself.  "I know the reasons for
the war, and I should be in utter misery if I went."  Nevertheless he
found himself making plans for going.

For several days Mrs. Nancarrow had been cold and uncommunicative, and
he knew that a cloud of reserve hung between them.  He felt that his
mother despised him.  He felt sure, too, that she knew all that had
taken place at Penwennack--that he was henceforth to be treated, in
what he had regarded as his second home, as worse than a stranger.

"There is to be a great meeting at the Public Hall to-night," said Mrs.
Nancarrow, on the day of the meeting.  "Are you going?"

Bob shook his head.

"There seems to be tremendous enthusiasm about Captain Trevanion's
coming down, although, of course, he is no speaker," went on Mrs.
Nancarrow.  "But you see, the fact of his starting for the front in a
day or so, makes him of special interest.  I understand that Nancy
Tresize is going away as a Red Cross nurse, almost at once."

Bob's heart fluttered wildly as he heard her name.

"Captain Trevanion stayed at Penwennack last night.  Naturally the
Admiral admires him more than ever.  The Captain and Nancy motored to
Land's End yesterday afternoon."

Her every word was like a sword thrust into the young fellow's heart.
He knew what she meant--knew too, that the Admiral had always favoured
Trevanion as a suitor for his daughter.  How could it be otherwise,
when Trevanion was a man after the Admiral's own heart?  _He_ had
showed no hesitation about the right of defending his country; rather
he had throughout been enthusiastic to a degree, while Bob had hung
back.  Mad jealousy filled his heart as he realised what might possibly
be taking place.  Even then, Nancy, in her scorn for the man whom she
believed to have been unworthy of her love, might be listening to the
pleadings of one who was worthy.

"I expect Nancy will be at the meeting," went on Mrs. Nancarrow.  "As
you know, she goes almost everywhere with her father, and as the
Admiral will take the chair, I expect she will be on the platform."

Bob conjured up the scene.  He fancied he saw Trevanion, in his
uniform, speaking in a soldier-like fashion about the duty of defending
his country, the crowd cheering wildly, while Nancy, carried away by
her admiration of the man who accorded with her ideals of how an
Englishman should act, would yield to the gallant soldier the love for
which he would give his life.

That night, with a kind of savage love for self-torture, Bob made his
way to the Public Hall.  He got there half an hour before the announced
time, and found the place nearly full.  All round the walls hung
bunting, characteristic of the county.  The Cornish Coat of Arms hung
over the chairman's table, while the chorus of the old Cornish song:

  And shall they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen,
  And shall Trelawney die?
  Then twenty thousand Cornishmen
  Will know the reason why.

was printed in large letters, and hung in a prominent place.  At the
back of the platform some one had written, "Cornwall has never failed
her country yet.  Shall she be unworthy of the names of Trelawney,
Killigrew, Boscawen, Carew, Tresize, and Trevanion?  Never!"

To Bob's chagrin he was led to a seat close to the platform.  Evidently
the man who took him there, wanted him, as the son of one who had been,
perhaps, the most respected man in the town, to have a place of honour.

In a few minutes the audience was singing patriotic songs.  It was true
that there was something jingoistic about them, nevertheless Bob's
heart thrilled.  Perhaps there are no people in the whole country whose
voices are sweeter than those of the dwellers in our most Western
county.  His heart caught fire as he listened.  Yes, there was
something in fighting for home and fatherland, something sublime in
dying for a noble cause.  Then again the horror of war, the brutal
butchery, the senseless hatred, the welter of blood, the blighted lives
and homes, arose before him.  He knew that the meeting would have no
message for him.

Precisely at the time announced the speakers appeared on the platform
amidst a tumult of shouting, and then Bob's heart gave a great leap,
for he saw that Nancy Tresize, with several other ladies, followed the
old Admiral.  In spite of himself his eyes were drawn towards her as if
by a magnet.  He tried to look away from her, but could not, and then,
when he least expected it, her gaze caught his.  It was only for a
second, but that second plunged him into the deepest darkness.  He saw
the flush that mounted to her cheeks, the smile of derision that passed
her lips, and the look of scorn and contempt that expressed itself on
her face.  He knew then what Nancy felt about him, and that he had lost
her--lost her for ever.

I am not going to try to describe the speeches at length--there is no
need.  The Admiral spoke in a bluff, hearty way about the causes which
led up to the war, and then told of the part which the county had
always played, and of her great names which had gone down to history.
Spoke, too, of the need of men at the present time, and then made his
appeal.

After him came the Member for St. Ia.  He evidently tried to speak as a
statesman on the question.  He was listened to respectfully, but
without enthusiasm.  He was little fitted to explain the intricacies of
international politics.  Bob felt, during the whole time he was
speaking, that he did not know the A.B.C. of his subject, felt that if
he had been in his place he would have made a far stronger case for the
country and the cause.

Then some one got up and recited some doggerel by a London journalist
which was said to be very popular in various parts of the country, but
which did not appeal to our Cornish boys at all.

Up to this point the meeting could not be pronounced a success.  Crowds
were there, and the people were waiting to be caught on fire; but the
right spark had not been struck.  It only wanted a little to rouse the
whole audience to white heat; the train was laid, the powder was set,
but no one seemed able to ignite the match.  People looked at one
another doubtfully.  The youths who had been expected to enlist
remained cold and almost jeeringly critical.  Then the Admiral called
for Captain Trevanion.

A feeling of envy came into Bob's heart as the Captain rose.  He was
wearing his regimentals and looked a soldier, every inch of him; tall,
stalwart, straight as a rule.  Young and handsome, he bore proudly a
name which might be found in the remotest history of his county.

"I am no speaker," he began, "and never pretend to speak; in fact, this
is almost the first time that I have tried to address a meeting.  I am
a soldier; I start in a few days for the front, and I have only come to
tell you why I am going."

There was evidence of sincerity in his words, and they were spoken in
such a hearty and convincing way that they appealed to every one
present.  Bob felt it more than any one else.  Yes, he envied him.  Oh,
if he could only take his place!  If he could say, "I am going to the
front in a few days!"

"I have been working hard, these last weeks," went on Trevanion;
"drilling, drilling; training, training; preparing for the fray, and
waiting and longing to, hear the command, 'Up, lads, and at them!'
Thank heaven the command has at last come!"

His voice rang out clearly, and as he spoke a new light came into the
eyes of many.

"And why am I going?" he cried.  "Why are tens of thousands of the
brave lads from all over the Empire going to France at this time?  I'll
tell you!"

He was not eloquent.  He had no great command of language, but he
stirred the hearts of the people, because he told a simple story,
which, while from the standpoint of the cold critic it might appear
unconvincing, was, when listened to by patriotic Englishmen, full of
appeal and power.

He drew two pictures, and although he did it crudely he did it well.
He described first a meeting of Cabinet Ministers in Whitehall.  These
men had for a long time been labouring night and day for peace, and now
the final stage had come.  They had sent what was in some senses an
ultimatum to Germany, and they were now waiting for the answer.  War
and peace hung in the balance.  The time was approaching midnight, and
the hour when the final decision was to be made was near at hand.  The
question they had asked Germany was this: "Will you keep your word to
Belgium, or will you violate the treaty you have signed?"

"The Belgians," said Trevanion, "had the promise of the Kaiser to
maintain their country's neutrality and integrity.  Was that promise to
be trusted, or was it a sham and a lie?  'We Britons gave our word,'
our statesmen had said, 'and, like Britons, we are going to keep it.
What are you going to do?  If you prove false, we are going to stand by
our promise, if it cost us our last man and our last pound.

"Presently the sound of Big Ben at Westminster boomed across the city.
The Germans had not replied.  This meant that the Kaiser had played the
traitor, that he had torn up the treaty he had signed; and thus when
the last stroke of Big Ben sounded across London, the four statesmen
looked at each other, and said, 'This means war.'  Could they have done
any other?" cried the Captain--"could they?  No!"

From the hall, rose the many-throated reply, "No, by God, no!"

"Now for another picture," he went on.  "It is not in London, not in
Whitehall this time; it is in Germany, at Berlin.  Our Ambassador
there, was speaking to a representative of the German Kaiser, the
mouthpiece of the German nation.  'What will you do?' asked the German.
'Surely you English will be neutral?'

"'That depends,' said the Englishman.

"'On what?' queried the German.

"'It depends whether you Germans are going to be true to the treaty you
have signed, true to your plighted word.'

"'And if not?' the German asked.

"'In that case,' replied the Englishman, 'we are not going to stand by
and see a little state wronged and ruined, because a great nation like
Germany, who should keep her word, is playing Belgium false.'

"'Treaty,' questioned the German, 'what is a treaty?  Will you go to
war with us for that--just for a scrap of paper?'

"'But that scrap of paper means our nation's honour,' the Englishman
said.

"'Have you counted the cost?' asked the German, thinking to frighten
the Englishman.

"'We English,' replied the British Ambassador, 'are not likely to go
back on our word because of fear.'

"The German left him in a passion, and the Englishman said in his
heart, 'It is war.'

"Would you have had him give another answer?"

And again a mighty shout from the hall, "No, by God, no!"

"Then do your duty--help us in the fight," cried the Captain.  The
right note was struck now, and it had been struck by Bob's rival.  Oh,
how he envied him!  He saw that Nancy's eyes were ablaze with joy, that
she was moved to the depth of her being; and the man who had moved her
to enthusiasm and admiration was the man who wanted the woman Bob
loved, and whom he had lost.

"Can any Englishman," went on Captain Trevanion, "stand by after that?
If he can, what is he worth?  Of course he will make paltry excuses, he
will say this and that and the other thing, but what are his excuses
worth?  I have heard of young fellows, men who have been trained in our
public schools, who stand by and refuse to help; what shall we say of
them?  And you young chaps, healthy, strong, unmarried, without home
ties, what if you refuse to respond to the call of your country?  I
will tell you what I think of you: you are white-livered cowards."

Again the audience cheered, and Captain Trevanion, fired by the
enthusiasm he had roused, became almost eloquent.  He knew he had the
grip of his audience, and his words came more easily.

"I want to appeal to you girls," he went on.  "Your sweethearts are
sitting by you: well, a fellow who is such a coward as to refuse to
fight for his country isn't worth having.  Tell him so, shame him into
being a man!" he cried, and his voice rang out, as though he were
giving orders on parade.

"What shall we do?" shouted a voice in the hall.

"Make them feel what cowards they are.  Here," and he laughed as he
spoke, "I have in a basket a lot of white feathers; I think they might
be of use.  Any of you girls who know men who are hanging back from
cowardice, just give them a white feather, and never speak to them
again until they have wiped away their disgrace."  He took up the
basket and held it out.  "There," he said, "I have finished my speech:
men and women do your duty!"

As he sat down the whole meeting was in a state of wild uproarious
enthusiasm.

A few minutes later the hall began to empty itself, although a number
of people remained behind to discuss the situation.  An old retired
sergeant of seventy years of age stayed with a number of young fellows
who lingered behind, and as they stood near to Bob he could hear every
word that was said.

"Come, you chaps," said the sergeant, "aren't you going to be men?
aren't you going to fight the Germans?"

"Why shud us?" they asked.  "What 'ave we got 'ginst the Germans?"

"Would you like the Germans to conquer your country? would you like to
have the Kaiser for a king?"

"Dunnaw: why shudden us?" replied one.

"Laive they that want to fight the Germans, fight 'em--we bean't goin'
to," said another.  "Why shud we all git killed to plaise Members of
Parliament?"

"I be sheamed ov 'ee," cried an old man near; "you bean't worthy to be
called Englishmen."

"Why bean't us?"

"'Cos you be cowards.  Wud 'ee like to be traited like they Germans be?"

"From oal accounts they be a darned sight better on than we be," was
the reply.

"Wot do 'ee main?"

"Why," laughed a young fellow, "at the last general election one of the
spaikers, I doan' know who 'twas, but the one that talked Tariff
Reform, zaid that the Germans was a lot better off than we be.  He zaid
that the Germans was fat, and that we was lean, and that the Germans
had better times, shorter hours, and higher wages than we've got.  Ef
tha's so, we'd be a lot better off under the Germans than we be now."

"Bean't 'ee Englishmen?" cried the old man.  "Bean't 'ee goin' to fight
and keep 'em from England?"

"I bean't goin' over there to git killed--not me.  I knaw trick worth
two of that"; and then shamefacedly the whole lot of them left the hall
without enlisting.

Bob's anger rose as he listened.  "What mean cowards they are!" he said
to himself; "I feel almost ashamed to be a Cornishman.  Of course
scores of our boys are playing the game like men, but these creatures
make one sick."  A moment later his face became crimson with shame.
Was he not doing the same?  Yes; his reasons were different, and of
course he could have made a better case for himself than they did, but
was he not a shirker just as much as they were?  Then all such thoughts
were driven from his mind in a second, for down the platform steps,
with the evident intention of passing into the hall, came Admiral
Tresize, Captain Trevanion, and several ladies, among whom was Nancy.
At first he felt as if he must rush out of the hall, but his feet
seemed rooted, he could not move.  Captain Trevanion and Nancy came
towards him.

"Now then, Nancarrow, have you enlisted yet?" asked Trevanion.  "You
should, as an old O.T.C. man.  I find that hosts of the fellows from
Clifton College have enlisted.  Aren't you going to?"

Bob did not speak, he could not.  He heard the sneer in the Captain's
voice, saw the look of contempt on his face, and he knew why he spoke.
But he could not understand why Nancy stood waiting as if with the
intention of speaking to him.  He knew that he cut a poor figure
compared with Trevanion, and that to Nancy he must seem a slacker, a
wastrel.  Still he could not speak nor move.  He felt that the girl's
eyes were upon him, felt contempt in her every gesture, her every
movement.  She came up close to him.

"Aren't you going to help to uphold your country's honour?" she said,
and her voice quivered with excitement.  Evidently she was deeply moved.

He felt as if the room were whirling round.  He thought he noted a sign
of pleading in her voice, and that her eyes became softer.  It seemed
to him that she was giving him his last chance.  He could not speak, he
could only shake his head.

"Then allow me to present you with this," she went on, and she held out
a white feather.  "I am sure you must be proud of it, and that you will
wear it honourably, especially at such a time as this."

The insult pierced his heart like a poisoned arrow.  He knew that her
intention was to heap upon him the greatest ignominy of which she was
capable.  There were not many people in the room, but there were some
who must have seen her action.  As for Trevanion he turned away his
head with a laugh.

"Come, Captain Trevanion," said Nancy, "we must be going."  She took
hold of his arm, and they walked out of the hall together.

Bob made a stride forward as if to follow them.  He wanted to hurl
defiance at them, wanted to tell her that her action was mean and
contemptible, unworthy of an Englishwoman.  Wanted to--God knows what
he wanted.  His brain was whirling, everything seemed to be mad
confusion, but he only took one step; the uselessness of it all
appealed to him.  What could he do, what could he say?  He had made his
decision, taken his stand, and must be ready to suffer.

Then he remembered what Captain Trevanion had said at the close of the
golf match:

"In this field of battle you have beaten me, but in the next I shall be
the conqueror."

"Yes," said Bob, and he silently made his way home.  "I have lost her.
I have lost everything, but what could I do?"




CHAPTER IX

"Mother," said Bob, on his return home, "I shall be leaving St. Ia
to-morrow morning."

"What! going away, Eh?" said Mrs. Nancarrow, looking at him
searchingly.  For days she had been hoping that he would see it his
duty to offer himself to his country, and yet all the time dreading the
thought of parting from him.

"Where are you going?"

"To Oxford," he replied.

"Then you are not going to enlist?"

He shook his head.  "I am going to Oxford," he repeated.

"Bob, my dear, we have not seemed to understand each other just lately.
I am afraid I spoke unkindly to you the other day, and as a consequence
there has been a lack of trust.  Won't you tell me all about it?"

"There is nothing to tell, mother; I simply cannot do what you expect
me to, that is all.  You see I believe in what my father taught me,"
and he looked towards the fireplace, over which hung Dr. Nancarrow's
picture.  "Perhaps it is in my blood, perhaps----  I don't know;
anyhow, I think my hand would shrivel up if I tried to sign my name as
a soldier."

"But you have a mother, Bob, a mother whose name was Trelawney, and the
Trelawneys have never failed in time of need.  Are you going to be the
first to fail, Bob?  Oh, please don't think I do not dread the thought
of your going to the front, and perhaps being killed; but I cannot bear
the thought that my boy should shirk his duty to his country.  Tell me,
Bob, why do you want to play the coward?"

"Play the coward!  Great God, mother! don't you understand me?  I
simply long to go.  It seems to me as though everything in life worth
having depends on my doing what you and others want me to do.  But how
can I!  I hate talking about it, it sounds so pharisaical, but my
father wanted me to be a Christian, and you know what Christianity
meant to him.  As I have said again and again, it comes to this--either
war is wrong and hellish, or Christianity is a fable.  Both cannot be
right.  And if I went as a soldier I should have to renounce my
Christianity--at least that is how it seems, to me.  If I went to a
recruiting station I should have to go there over Calvary; that is the
whole trouble."

Mrs. Nancarrow sighed.

"Think, mother," went on Bob, and again he looked towards his father's
picture.  "Do you believe he would have me go?"

"Why are you going to Oxford?" she asked.

"I want to see my father's old friend Renthall."

"And get strengthened in your Quaker opinions, I suppose?"

"I have heard nothing about them lately, at all events," said Bob, and
his voice became almost bitter.  "It would seem as though we had
accepted a new Gospel which has taken the place of the New Testament.
Big guns are believed in rather than the Cross.  But there is no use
talking any more.  Good night."

The following morning Bob made his way to the little station at St. Ia
in order to catch an early train for London.  When he arrived there he
saw that it was the scene of unusual excitement.  A great crowd of
people had gathered, many of whom evidently had no intention of
travelling by train.  A few minutes later he saw the reason for this.
Admiral Tresize's motor-car was driving up, containing not only the
Admiral himself, but Captain Trevanion and Nancy.  No sooner did the
people see them, than there was a wild shout.  Evidently the Captain,
since the meeting, had become a kind of hero, and the fact that he was
starting for the front added fresh lustre to his name.

"We'll see you back again by Christmas," some one shouted.  "The
Germans will be licked by that time, and you will be a Colonel at
least.  Oh, we don't fear for you--you will be all right."

"It was a fine speech you gave, Trevanion," said another.  "By George,
that idea of giving a white feather to all the shirkers was just fine.
I hear that the basket is nearly empty."

"I am afraid I cannot claim the credit for that," laughed the Captain.

"Who suggested it, then?"

"Oh, it was Miss Tresize here.  She thinks it such a disgrace for any
man to shirk at such a time as this, that she thought they should be
shamed to some sense of decency and pluck."

"Three cheers for Miss Tresize!" shouted some one, and a minute later,
Nancy, half-angry and half-pleased, was blushing at the shouts of her
friends.

Bob felt himself to be a complete outsider.  He too was going by that
train, but no one thought of cheering him--indeed, no one spoke to him.
He was what the people called a shirker.  He would have given anything
he possessed to have gone up to Trevanion, and said, "I'll go with
you," but he could not.  If he did, he would have to uproot the Faith
of a lifetime.

The Captain moved towards the carriage which was close to his own,
Nancy accompanying him.  Bob knew that the girl saw him, but he might
not have existed as far as she was concerned.  She spoke gaily, and her
face was wreathed with smiles, but the smiles were not for him, they
were for the man who was going to fight for his country.

The Admiral and the Captain also saw him, but neither spoke.  They
seemed to regard him as one who henceforth could not be one of
themselves.

"A man must pay his price, I suppose," reflected Bob.  "If he does not
shout with the crowd, he is despised by it.  I knew that when I made up
my mind, but I never thought it would be so hard.  She thinks I am a
coward--the cowardice would lie in doing what she wants me to do."

"Well, good-bye, Captain: a fine time to you; come back safe to us.
You shall have a great homecoming," shouted the Admiral.  "There,
another cheer, lads; he is going to fight for his country," and amidst
wild shouting Trevanion entered the carriage, while only looks of
derision and scornful glances were directed towards Bob.

Arrived in London, Bob caught the first train for Oxford, and before it
was dark entered that classic city.  But it was not the Oxford he knew;
an indescribable change had come over everything.  When he had left it,
the streets were full of undergraduates, who with merry jest and
laughter had thronged the public places.  The colleges then were all on
the point of breaking up, and the students, wearing their short, absurd
little gowns, made Oxford what it ordinarily is in term time.  Now the
streets were comparatively empty, many of the colleges had been taken
by the Government in order to be made ready to receive wounded
soldiers.  There were no shouts of jubilation, for the news in the
papers that day saddened the hearts of the people.  The German army was
steadily driving back the Allied forces towards Paris.  Whispers were
heard about the French Government's being shifted to Bordeaux.  It
seemed as though Germany were going to repeat the victories of
forty-four years before, when the great _débâcle_ of the French nation
startled Europe.  Business was at a standstill.  How could the city be
gay when the English soldiers were being driven back with enormous
losses?

"They called it a strategical retreat," Bob heard some one say as he
stood outside the door of The Mitre.  "I do not believe in strategical
retreats--it is not like the English to run away."

"Ah! but General French is only carrying out his plans," said another.

"Well then, they're mighty poor plans," was the response.

It seemed to Bob as though a cloud of gloom hung over this old
university town.

His luggage having been taken to the hotel, he found his way into the
dining-room, and the waiter, whom he had known for years, came up to
him and spoke familiarly.

"Bad times, Mr. Nancarrow," he said.  "Oxford won't be a university
town now, it'll be a barracks town.  I suppose you have come up for
training.  Yes, hosts of the young gentlemen have.  We shall send out
one of the finest Companies in the British Army, from Oxford.  It's
grand, sir, it's grand, the way you young gentlemen come up at this
time.  After all, your learning is no good at a time like this; it do
not save the country, sir.  We want fighting chaps."

Bob sat down at a little table and picked up the menu.

"Yes, sir," went on the waiter.  "It is splendid, the way the young
gentlemen are coming up, and I say a man isn't a man if he stays at
home at a time like this.  I wish I was ten years younger, I'd be off
like a bird."

"It's the same everywhere," reflected Bob, "wherever I go I seem to
have poisoned arrows shot at me.  I don't care what this fellow thinks
about me, and yet I am ashamed to tell him that I have not come up for
training, at all."

"By the way," he said to the waiter in order to stop his garrulous
talk, which was becoming painful to him, "will you ring up Dr.
Renthall, and ask him if he can see me in about an hour's time?"

A little later Bob was out in the streets again, on his way to Dr.
Renthall's house.  It was a relief to him to feel that here, at least,
was one man who would understand his position.  After the experiences
of the last two or three weeks the Professor's study would be indeed a
haven of rest.

Bob was not kept waiting at the door.  The Professor's old serving-man
knew him well, and showed him into the study without any delay whatever.

"I am glad to see you, Nancarrow," said the Professor.  "Oxford has
been a strange city to me these last few weeks; even here, in my den, I
cannot get away from the strife and turmoil.  Tell me what you have
been doing, and how you have been getting on."

"I have been like one in an enemy's country," was the young fellow's
reply, and then he briefly told him what had taken place.

"The thing that troubles me," said the Professor, "is the utter failure
of Christianity.  All our old ideas seem to have gone by the board.
Even many of my Quaker friends have got the war spirit and are no
longer sane.  It is true we have placards all over the town calling us
to prayer, but as far as Christianity is concerned it seems as dead as
Queen Anne."

"Then what is your attitude?" asked Bob.

A few minutes later the Professor was explaining the beliefs which he
had for long held so strongly, and Bob listened greedily.  He spoke not
only of the horror of war, but of its unrighteousness and of its
futility.

"We talk about the country going into war for the sake of honour," he
said warmly.  "But has there ever been a war in which we have not made
the same plea, and how much honour has there been in it all?  What
honour was there in the Boer War?  What honour has there been in half
the wars we have made?  In the main it has all been a miserable game of
grab.  How much was the Founder of Christianity considered when we
bombarded Alexandria?  How much of the Sermon on the Mount was
considered when we went to war with those Boer farmers?"

"Yes, yes, I know," replied Bob.  "But isn't this war different?  I am
not thinking now of the righteousness or unrighteousness of many of the
wars of the past; the thing which troubles me is just this: Is it ever
right to go to war?  Can a nation, according to Christian principles,
draw the sword?  Mind you, I have gone into this business as carefully
as I have been able.  I have read everything that I can get hold of
which bears on it, and I cannot close my eyes to the fact that as far
as justice and righteousness go we are in the right.  I have but little
doubt that the Kaiser is playing his own game; he wants some of the
French Colonies, he also wants to extend his power in Asia Minor.  In
order to do this he has for years been perfecting his army and
strengthening his navy.  But here is the question: Can a nation like
England, according to Christian principles, engage in a bloody war in
order to crush any one or anything?"

"Impossible!" cried the Professor.

"Then, according to you," went on Bob, "the Kaiser should be allowed to
work his will without protest?  He should be allowed to crush France,
to violate his promises to Belgium, and to carry out his purposes,
whatever they may be, without resistance on our part."

"I do not say that," replied the Professor.  "I only say that war is
never a remedy, and that by trusting in the sword we only add wrong to
wrong, and thus keep back the day of universal brotherhood.  Think what
this war has done, even although it has scarcely begun.  It has
destroyed the good work of centuries.  A few months ago, we in England
had only kind feelings towards the Germans.  We regarded them as
friends.  We spoke of them as a great Protestant people.  To-day, the
bitterness and hatred of all England is roused against them.  On every
hand the Germans are being distrusted and abused.  Think what this
means?  It has put back the clock of Christianity, it has aroused
hatred instead of love, and the whole country is being carried off its
feet by militarism.  Even from the pulpit has gone forth the cry of
battle.  Militarism has overwhelmed Calvary, and Christ and all that He
stood for have been swept away amidst the clash of arms."

"Yes," was Bob's reply.  "But that does not seem to me to solve the
present difficulty.  My point is this: What ought one to do at the
present time?  Of course, it is easy to say that this war ought never
to have begun.  Easy to believe, too, that all wars mean hell let loose
upon earth.  We can urge that those old treaties ought never to have
been signed, that alliances ought never to have been formed.  But that
does not help us forward.  We have to face the situation as it is.  We
did sign the treaty and promise our support.  There is an _Entente
Cordiale_ between us and France.  On the other hand, there is very
little doubt that Germany means to crush France.  She means also to
dominate the life of the world.  War has been declared, Germany has
marched across Luxemburg, through Belgium, into France.  England, in
response to the plea of Belgium, is fulfilling her promise, and scores
of thousands of our soldiers are fighting on the side of the French.
The cry is for more men.  On every hand one is appealed to to join the
Army.  Now then, what ought one who is trying to be a Christian, to do?"

"There is only one thing to do, it seems to me," was Professor
Renthall's reply.  "That is for him to follow the leadings of his
conscience and leave results to God.  When Jesus Christ called His
disciples, He made them no alluring promises; in accepting His call,
they simply followed Him regardless of consequences.  That, it seems to
me, is the position to-day.  We have nothing to do with this wild war
spirit.  There are a few men in England, thank God, who protest against
war, and it is for them to be true to the light that is within them, no
matter what the result may be.  Of course, we are told that if we do
not crush Germany our liberties will be destroyed and our Empire taken
from us.  What have we to do with that?  We believe in an over-ruling
Providence.  Believing that, and knowing that Christ is the Prince of
Peace, we must absolutely refuse to meet force with force, bloodshed
with bloodshed."

Bob stayed a long time with the Professor, and when he left he was more
than ever convinced that he had done right.  A Christian could not
participate in this war, and still be true to his Christianity.

In spite of this, however, there was something at the back of his mind
which told him that the Professor was not right.  He could not tell
what it was; nevertheless, it was there.

It was eleven o'clock when he left Dr. Renthall's house, and then,
instead of going back to his hotel, he wandered away in the opposite
direction towards the country.

Heedless of time, and forgetful of everything in the maze of his own
thoughts, he went farther than he had intended, and presently, when he
heard the sound of a clock striking midnight, he realised that he was
staying at an hotel, and ought to have been back long since.

No sooner had he turned, however, than he was startled by a cry of fear
and pain.  It was the cry of a woman's voice too, and, acting upon the
impulse of the moment, he rushed to the spot whence the sound came.

Near by was a little village, every house of which was in darkness.  At
first he could see nothing, then he heard the sound of struggling
coming from a lonely lane close by the village.

"Give it me, I say, or I'll murder you."

It was a man's voice, raucous and brutal.

"No, no, you may kill me if you like, but I won't," a woman's voice
replied.

Bob saw the man lift his hand to strike her, but before it fell he had
rushed upon him, and hurled him aside.

"Who are you, and what do yer want?" cried the fellow, interlarding his
question with foul epithets.

"No matter who I am, or what I want," replied Bob.  "Leave that woman
alone."

The man eyed Bob for a moment, stealthily, and then without warning
rushed upon him.

A minute later the two men were struggling wildly.  The man was
strongly but clumsily built, and lacked the agility and muscular force
of the young athlete.  But Bob's victory did not come easily.  Again
and again the fellow renewed his attack, while the woman stood by with
a look of terror in her eyes.

"Save me," she cried, again and again, "or he will kill me."

At length, by a well-planted blow, Bob sent his opponent staggering to
the ground.  The man was stunned for a second, but only for a second.
He raised himself to his feet slowly.

"All right, guv'ner, you have beaten me," he said.  "It wasn't my
fault; if she weren't so b---- obstinate, there would have been no
trouble."

Then evidently hearing some one near by, he shouted aloud: "I say,
Bill, come here;" and Bob realised that a new danger was at hand.

"Wait a minute, guv'ner," said the fellow, "I just want to ask your
advice."  But Bob was too alert to be caught in this way.  Believing
that there must be a police station in the village, he, too, shouted
aloud.

"Help!--help!"

A minute later he found his position doubly dangerous.  The one man he,
after a severe struggle, had been able to overcome, but he knew that he
would be no match for the two, and that the woman would be at their
mercy.

"Get away while you can," he said to her; but the woman did not appear
to heed him--she seemed spellbound by what was taking place.

Both men rushed on him madly, and only by a trick which he had learned
as a boy did he save himself.  Tripping one of them up, he was able at
the same time to parry the other's blow, and keep him at bay.

His position, however, was desperate, for the second man had again
risen to his feet, and prepared for another attack.

Then suddenly it was all over, the heavy thud of a policeman's
truncheon was heard, and a few minutes later, with Bob's help, the two
men were led away to the police station.

"Lucky for you I was near by, sir," said the constable.

"Lucky for the poor woman too," was Bob's rejoinder.

"I've had my eye on these two blackguards for a day or two," replied
the policeman.  "They are a bad lot, and I do not think the woman is
much better than they are.  Tell me exactly what happened, sir?"

The policeman nodded his head sagely when Bob had finished his story.

"Yes, sir," he said, "you have done a good night's work.  I am afraid I
shall have to take your name and address, because you will be called
upon as witness against them.  You have helped me to put my hand upon a
nice little plot, and if these fellows don't get six months, I am very
much mistaken."

When Bob got back to his hotel that night, and was able to think calmly
of what had taken place, he was considerably perturbed.

Of course the incident in itself was sordid enough.  The woman was
supposed to be the wife of one of these men, and Bob by his
intervention had hindered what might have been a brutal tragedy.

But that wasn't all.  The thing was a commentary on his conversation
with Dr. Renthall.

Two days later Bob appeared at the police court against these men, and
heard with satisfaction the Magistrates sentence them both to severe
punishment.

There is no need for me to tell the whole story here, a story of
cruelty and theft.  The fellows received less than their due in the
sentence that was pronounced, and Bob felt that he had freed society,
for some time at all events, of two dangerous characters.

The local papers made quite a feature of the case and spoke with great
warmth of Bob's courage, and the benefit he had rendered the community.

"I say, Nancarrow," said Dr. Renthall, when next they met, "they are
making quite a hero of you.  I must congratulate you."

"On what?" asked Bob.

"On the part you played in that affair."

"I am all at sea," was the young man's rejoinder.  "It seems to me that
according to Christian principles I should have done nothing.  If I had
literally interpreted the dictum: 'If a man strike thee on thy right
cheek, turn to him the other also,' I should have allowed the fellow to
work his will without opposition.  But you see, I could not stand by
and see that fellow ill-treat the woman.  That was why, before I knew
what I was about, I was fighting for life.  Do you think I did right?"

"I see what you are driving at," replied the Professor, "and I admit
you were in a difficult position."

"You said the other night," said Bob, "that force was no remedy.
Perhaps it is not a remedy, but it seems to me necessary.  After all,
if you come to think about it, the well-being of the community rests
upon force.  But for force that brute would perhaps have killed the
woman.  But for force the two fellows would have killed me, but it so
happened that the police came up and saved me, and a policeman
represents force, both moral and physical.  No, force may not be a
remedy, but without it, while society is as it is, everything would be
chaos and mad confusion."

"You are thinking about the war, I suppose," said Dr. Renthall.

"One can scarcely think about anything else," replied Bob.  "I am all
at sea, Professor--simply all at sea.  Oh!  I confess it frankly--I
admit that I acted on impulse the other night.  My one thought was to
master that fellow, and if I had been driven to extremes, I should have
stopped at nothing, to keep him from harming the woman.  For the moment
there was no thought of love, no thought of brotherly feeling in my
heart, I simply yielded to the impulse of my nature.  The man
threatened to kill his wife, and if I had not defended her I should
have been unworthy to be called a man.  How does that square with
Christianity?  Was I wrong?"

"I think you were right," said the Professor slowly.  "Yes, I am sure
you were."

"Then, if I were right," replied Bob, "and Germany is acting in the
same spirit as that fellow was acting, is not England right in going to
war?   We promised to defend the Belgians, and Germany with brutal
arrogance swept into their country."

"Yes," replied Renthall; "but would it not have been better for Belgium
to have acted on the spirit of non-resistance?  If they had, Liége
would never have been bombarded.  All the atrocities at Louvain would
never have been heard of."

"You mean, then," said Bob, "that they should have allowed a bully like
Germany to have swept through their country, without resistance, in
order that they might crush France?  Don't you see?  If it were right
for me to defend the woman against a brute; if I were right in knocking
down that fellow; if the police were right in taking them both to the
police station; if the Magistrates were right in sending them to
prison; was not England right in attacking Germany?  Nay, was she not
acting in a Christian spirit in saying: 'This bully shall be crushed.'"

"Have you read the papers to-day?" asked the Professor.

"Yes."

"Did you come across that account of the correspondent who described
what he had seen on the stricken field?  Did you get at the inwardness
of it all?  You are a fellow with imagination, Nancarrow; didn't you
feel a ghastly terror of war?"

"Yes," replied Bob, "but that does not clear up the question.
Meanwhile, Germany is marching towards Paris and Lord Kitchener is
calling for more men.  What ought I to do?"

"Read your New Testament," said the Professor, "remember the words of
our Lord just before He was crucified, 'My Kingdom is not of this
world, else would My servants fight.'"

"Yes," cried Bob, "but----"

"I really cannot stay any longer now," interrupted the Professor, and
he slipped away, leaving Bob alone.




CHAPTER X

The next day Bob was in London.  He had engaged chambers in the Temple
in order to prepare for his examinations.  In spite of what he had said
to Professor Renthall, his old opinions remained unshaken.  It might be
right, it undoubtedly was right, to defend the weak against brutal
strength in the way he had done, but war between nations was different.
He simply could not participate in it.

He had been stigmatised as a coward, and as a traitor to his country,
but still he must be true to his conscience.

Law and order were different from the arbitrament of the sword.  War
was a violation of all that was best and noblest in humanity, and he
must walk along the lines he had marked out.

Still he could not get away from the spirit of the times.  The one
subject talked about in restaurants, in clubs, in offices, and in the
streets was this bloody carnage which was convulsing Europe.  Almost
every vehicle that passed was placarded with a call to war.  Every
newspaper he opened was full of news of the war.  Even the religious
papers seemed to have forgotten that the Gospel of Christ was the
Gospel of Peace.

It was true that here and there were letters from correspondents
protesting against the whole horrible business, but these were in the
main, at a discount.

After he had been in London a few days, he happened to get hold of a
German newspaper, and there he read the German side of the question.
This newspaper pleaded that the Kaiser never wanted war.  That he had
struggled against war, and that during the whole of his reign, war had
been kept at arm's length.  If the Kaiser loved war, the paper urged,
the country would not have remained at peace so long, seeing that never
since 1870 had Germany drawn the sword.  Now that war was forced upon
them, the people were only doing what they were obliged to do.

One evening he dined at a small hotel, and, having found his way to the
smoke-room after dinner, he met a man from Cornwall with whom he was
slightly acquainted.

They talked about other things at first, but were eventually led to the
one subject of the times.

"Do you know," said the man from Cornwall, Richards by name, "that I
heard a strange story the other day?"

"What story?"

"A man with whom I am acquainted, a financier from Alsace, told me that
he, with two other bankers, were some weeks ago dining with the Kaiser;
and the Kaiser spoke to them about the mission of Germany.  He said
that a great part of Europe was paralysed by materialism, that
immorality had eaten out the best life of France, and was fast finding
its way into the vitals of England.  That Germany was called by God to
purify Europe, and that he who was anointed by God to reign over
Germany, felt it his duty to fight against this scourge of materialism
and immorality.  In no other way could Europe be saved from infidelity
and ruin, and that he, the Kaiser, was raised up as a scourge of God.
That just as Jesus Christ drove the hucksters and money-lenders out of
the Temple when He was on earth, so was he, the Kaiser, called upon to
cleanse Europe, and that this war was God's crusade to bring back
Europe to purity and righteousness."

"Your informant told you this?"

"Yes.  He said that the Kaiser was undoubtedly sincere, and was one of
the most religious men he had ever met.  Of course the man is mad, but
there is not the slightest doubt but that he believes this."

When Mr. Richards had gone, Bob felt very lonely.  He wanted to get
away from his sad thoughts, wanted to blot from his memory the facts
which had seemingly blighted his life.  He was alone in London; he had
no friend to whom he could go.  Of course a hundred places of amusement
were open, but he did not feel in the humour to go to them.  He dreaded
the thought of going back to his chambers, while the streets repelled
him.

He glanced around the smoke-room, and noticed that it was peculiarly
shaped, and then, looking behind a huge palm, he saw an alcove which he
had not hitherto noticed.  Sitting in it, he would be completely hidden
from the rest of the room, and yet could command a view of a great part
of it.  The place was quite empty, and, although in the heart of
London, singularly quiet.  Acting on impulse, he threw himself into a
chair behind the palm, and prepared to light another cigar.

He had scarcely taken his seat in the alcove when two men entered and
summoned a waiter.  The man fulfilled their orders and left the room.

One of the men got up and looked around.  "We are lucky," he said;
"there's not a soul here."

"Yes, we have an opportunity for our chat.  Not that there's much
difficulty anywhere.  The English people are the most unsuspicious in
the world.  No matter what nationality a man may be, he is absolutely
free to go where he likes, and do what he likes."

"Except the Germans and Austrians," and the other laughed meaningly.

"Yes, yes, and aren't their precautions silly?  Because our parents
thought it wise to educate us in England, we speak the language like
natives, and are looked upon as thorough John Bulls.  Heavens, if they
only knew!"

Bob's pulses began to quicken.  Surely he had seen one of them before.
Where, he could not tell, but both face and voice were familiar.

Evidently they had no idea that he was near.  Even if they looked
towards him, he was hidden from them by the huge palm fronds.

"Yes," responded the other.  "Of all the guileless people in the world,
these British fools are the worst.  Here are you and I regarded as
English people.  We do what we like, we go where we like, and they
welcome us.  It is true, since the war broke out, they have taken all
sorts of precautions against what they call German spies.  But, bah!
they are as easy to deceive as children.  Why, only a week or two ago,
by the simplest ruse imaginable, I obtained some valuable information
down in Cornwall."

Again Bob looked at the face, and wondered.  The speaker was a
middle-aged man, and spoke without the slightest suggestion of a
foreign accent.  He would pass anywhere as an Englishman.  He had an
air of assurance too, as though it were his habit to move in good
society.  Dress, manner, and general appearance suggested an Englishman
of good standing and yet he spoke as an enemy to the country.

"In Cornwall, eh?  That's an out-of-the-way part of the country."

"Yes, in Cornwall.  It was at a little fishing village called St. Ia.
I laugh when I think of it, the whole thing was so amusing."

Bob gave a start.  He knew who was speaking now.  His whole appearance
had changed, but he could not help penetrating his disguise.  It was
the man who had called himself Count von Weimer--an Alsatian whose
sympathies were so strongly French, and who had come to Cornwall for
peace.  The simplicity, and yet the audacity, of his action made Bob
wonder.

Forgetful of the fact that he was playing the part of an eavesdropper,
he sat still, and listened.

"Yes, I promised I'd tell you about it," the man went on, "although,
strictly speaking, I ought to say nothing.  Still, the matter is over
and done with now, and the information lodged in the right quarter;
besides we, to an extent, work together, so it will be all right.  As
you know, I was instructed to obtain information on certain naval
matters, and I had a great difficulty in getting it.  You see, I
couldn't get introduced in the right quarters.  By and by I discovered
that a retired Admiral who was in the secrets of the Admiralty lived in
a little out-of-the-way place in Cornwall.  I learnt all that was
possible about his fads and prejudices, and then went down there as an
Alsatian."

"An Alsatian, eh?"

"Yes, as an Alsatian, who, although bearing a German name, was a
suspect by the Germans on account of his love of France.  It was a move
which presented certain difficulties, but, having considered
everything, I thought it best to risk it.  You see, I went down as a
lover of peace, as one who was tired of the militarism of Germany and
wanted the quiet and rest which only such a place could afford."

Both of the men laughed heartily at this.

"Of course I looked the part.  I adopted the circular spectacles, and
assumed the manner befitting my role.  I knew that a Count von Weimer
lived in Alsace, knew also that this old fool of an Admiral had heard
of him.  So I went to the golf links."

"Golf links?"

"Yes.  I knew that a young chap called Nancarrow often played there,
and that he was very friendly with the Admiral's family.  A worshipper
of his daughter in fact.  This Nancarrow is of Quaker descent on his
father's side, and is a sort of peace-at-any-price fellow.  Rather a
nice chap, but brought up with his father's notions.  As luck would
have it, a match had been arranged between Nancarrow and a rival for
the Admiral's daughter's affections, and the old man was present.  You
see, my star was in the ascendant.  Of course I followed the match as
an ignorant but ardent admirer of the game."

"I see.  Spare me the details."

"Pooh! the tricks of a child!  I feel almost ashamed of them!  Of
course I made no attempt to get introduced to the old fool just then,
but in Continental fashion I praised the prowess of the young one.  I,
the simple foreigner, thought him wonderful!  Eh?"

"Just so."

"Naturally I met him later--of course by accident.  I played my cards
carefully.  I was a rich man charmed by the place, and was on the look
out for a house to buy.  What could one want more?  Eh?"

"Exactly."

"Of course I had seen a house of the Admiral's that was for sale, and I
hated dealing with house agents.  Would it be possible to deal direct
with the Admiral?  The little fly walked into my parlour at the first
invitation, and two or three days later I was introduced to the
Admiral.  Your line of work has not drawn you into contact with this
class of man.  A typical John Bull, my dear chap.  Blunt,
straightforward, above board.  No diplomacy, no _arrière pensée_, but
loud-voiced and hearty.  Proud as Lucifer in one way, but as gullible
as a hedgehog.  English, quite English, you know, with a proper scorn
for everything that isn't English.  The British Navy, you know--the
British Navy can defy the world!

"Of course I was ignorant of the British Navy.  I was not anxious to
hear anything about it.  I was keen to buy or rent his house, and I was
able to refer to the names of men who were just slightly above the
Admiral in social position.  Of course one can't take a house without
some palaver, and one meeting led to another.  Naturally I offered my
cheque as a deposit, and a guarantee of my good faith.  I was invited
to dinner, and then, without the old buffer suspecting anything, I drew
the truth from him as easily as a wine waiter draws the cork out of a
champagne bottle.  I learnt man--I learnt----" and his voice became so
low that Bob could not catch what he said.

"By Jove, that was a haul!"

"A haul!  I should think it was.  It told me what our people were
willing to give their eyes to know.  And the best of it was, he did not
think he was telling me anything!  Ah, you should have seen me, the
mild-eyed Alsatian pleading the uselessness of a big navy, and he, to
prove me in the wrong, giving me all sorts of information.  Of, course,
when I had sucked him dry, I hooked it.  I paid him for my information;
all the same, I got it cheaply.  A year's rent for his house!  I expect
he is wondering why I don't come and take possession."

"The British are fools!"

The other laughed.  "Fools, yes, but arrogant fools, proud fools,
dangerous fools too, in a way.  They are what we are not, and what we
are destined to be--a World Power.  But the reckoning day has come."

"Do you think so?  That is, do you think this is the right moment for
the war?  Of course it had to come--we had made up our minds to that;
but don't you think William forced the pace too soon?  Surely he meant
to crush France, and control her navy before he angered the little dog
which calls itself the British Lion.  I had always reckoned England's
turn would come about 1920."

"Perhaps you are right; but the result will be the same.  Austria will
deal with Russia and the Balkan States while William marches to Paris;
then, when we have a repetition of 1870, we can go back and settle
Russia."

"The English generally put up a good fight!"

"A pricked bubble, my dear fellow.  It took the whole British Empire
four years to deal with about 70,000 Boer farmers; how then can it do
anything against us?  Aren't facts speaking aloud?  In about three
weeks we have armies within twenty miles of Paris.  In another week
that capital will be in our hands.  What is the use of Kitchener's
absurd army?  Before it can do anything, England will be on its knees.
As for the French!  Bah!"

"And meanwhile we play our little game here."

"Yes, John Bull may have the heart of a lion, but he hasn't the brains
of a water-hen.  Oh, John is hospitable, very hospitable.  You and I,
my dear Charles, with hundreds more, go around as Englishmen.  Doesn't
John scorn a spy?  That's why we can go everywhere.  At present I am
London born, never having been out of England in my life.  I know the
Stock Exchange inside and out.  I am a city man!  And who suspects?
There are over 20,000 Germans in London, all registered, yes, _all_
registered.  Meanwhile--eh?"

"But if we are beaten!"

"We can't be.  It is impossible.  The time-table will be kept.  But oh,
I can't help laughing!  They never suspected our designs, never
imagined the game we have been playing.  They were just contented with
their contemptible little army, and they allowed us to learn their
secrets, not dreaming that England will be a vassal state to Germany,
and that all her colonies will be ours.  But there is that other
matter.  I want to speak about it.  You remember that at the close of
the Boer War----"

During the whole time Bob had listened like a man in a dream.  He felt
as though he were standing on the brink of a precipice.  His eyes were
opened to truths that he never dreamt of.  He saw that for years there
had been a deliberate plot to conquer England, that the Kaiser had not
only made Germany an armed camp, and had strained every nerve to
construct the greatest and most powerful and complete fighting machine
the world had ever known, but he had sent an army of spies to the
country to learn her secrets and fasten upon her weaknesses.  He
realised that the Kaiser had been our enemy during all the years he had
been pretending to be our friend.  He had been spending vast sums of
money on men and women who were willing to do the dirtiest kind of
work, in order that he might cause our downfall.

His honest, straightforward nature revolted at it.  These two men were
spies, traitors.  He wondered at their speaking so freely, that they
had not taken greater precaution to make sure no one was near.  But the
room was peculiarly shaped, and it was difficult for them to see the
recess in which he sat, hidden as it was by the huge palm.  To all
appearance the place was empty.

Again he acted on impulse.  Forgetting the rights and wrongs of the
situation, he felt he must act.  Looking through the fronds of the
palm, he saw that the two men were conversing eagerly.  Behind him was
a door, but where it led he did not know.  He must get out without
their being aware of his presence.

Silently he opened the door, and soon found himself in the domestic
portion of the little hotel.  A waiter looked at him questioningly.
Bob held up his finger to command silence.

"Show me to the manager, at once," he said.

The waiter instinctively felt how much in earnest he was, and obeyed
him.

"This way, sir," he whispered.

"There are two German spies in the smoke-room," Bob said to the manager
a minute later, and he explained how he had been led to this conclusion.

"Did you serve two men in the smoking-room?" asked the manager, turning
to the waiter.

"Yes, sir, I served them each with a whisky-and-soda.  But they are not
Germans, sir, I'll swear to that."

"We'll see, anyhow," was the manager's response. 

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