The Next of Kin Part 8

In a few weeks another recruiting meeting was held, and again Stanley presented himself when the first invitation was given. The recruiting officer remembered him, and rather impatiently told him to sit down.

Near the front of the hall sat the German-American storekeeper of the neighboring town, who had come to the meeting to see what was going on, and had been interrupting the speaker with many rude remarks; and when Stanley, in his immaculate suit of gray check, his gray spats, and his eyegla.s.s, pa.s.sed by where he was sitting, it seemed as if all his slumbering hatred for England burst at once into flame!

"My word!" he mimicked, "'ere's a rum 'un--somebody should warn the Kaiser! It's not fair to take the poor man unawares--here is some of the real old English fighting-stock."

Stanley turned in surprise and looked his tormentor in the face. His look of insipid good-nature lured the German on.

"That is what is wrong with the British Empire," he jeered; "there are too many of these underbred aristocrats, all pedigree and no brains, like the long-nosed collies. G.o.d help them when they meet the Germans--that is all I have to say!"

He was quite right in his last sentence--that was all he had to say.

It was his last word for the evening, and it looked as if it might be his last word for an indefinite time, for the unexpected happened.

Psychologists can perhaps explain it. We cannot. Stanley, who like charity had borne all things, endured all things, believed all things, suddenly became a new creature, a creature of rage, blind, consuming, terrible! You have heard of the worm turning? This was a case of a worm turning into a tank!

People who were there said that Stanley seemed to grow taller, his eyes glowed, his chin grew firm, his shoulders ceased to be apologetic. He whirled upon the German and landed a blow on his jaw that sounded like a blow-out! Before any one could speak, it was followed by another and the German lay on the floor!

Then Stanley turned to the astonished audience and delivered the most successful recruiting speech that had ever been given in the Pembina Valley.

"You have sat here all evening," he cried, "and have listened to this miserable hound insulting your country--this man who came here a few years ago without a cent and now has made a fortune in Canada, and I have no doubt is now conspiring with Canada's enemies, and would betray us into the hands of those enemies if he could. For this man I have the hatred which one feels for an enemy, but for you Canadians who have sat here and swallowed his insults, I have nothing but contempt. This man belongs to the race of people who cut hands off children, and outrage women; and now, when our Empire calls for men to go out and stop these devilish things, you sit here and let this traitor insult your country. You are all braver than I am, too; I am only a joke to most of you, a freak, a looney,--you have said so,--but I won't stand for this."

That night recruiting began in the valley and Stanley was the first man to sign on. The recruiting agent felt that it was impossible to turn down a man who had shown so much fighting spirit; and, besides, he was a small man and he had a face which he prized highly!

When the boys of the valley went to Valcartier there was none among them who had more boxes of home-made candy or more pairs of socks than Stanley; nor was any woman prouder of her boy than Mrs. Corbett was of the lad she had taken into her home and into her heart ten years before.

They were sent overseas almost at once, and, after a short training in England, went at once to the firing-line.

It was a dull, foggy morning, and although it was quite late the street-lamps were still burning, and while they could not make much impression on the darkness, at least they made a luminous top on the lamp-posts and served as a guide to the travelers who made their way into the city. In the breakfast-room of Mayflower Lodge it was dark, and gloomier still, for "the master" was always in his worst mood in the morning, and on this particular morning his temper was aggravated by the presence of his wife's mother and two sisters from Leith, who always made him envious of the men who marry orphans, who are also the last of their race.

Mr. Goodman was discussing the war-situation, and abusing the Government in that peculiarly bitter way of the British patriot.

His wife, a faded, subdued little woman, sat opposite him and contributed to the conversation twittering little broken phrases of a.s.sent. Her life had been made up of scenes like this. She was of the sweet and pliable type, which, with the best intentions in the world, has made life hard for other women.

Mr. Goodman gradually worked back to his old grievance.

"This is a time for every man to do his bit, and here am I too old to go and with no son to represent me--I who came from a family of six sons! Anyway, why doesn't the Government pa.s.s conscription and drag out the slackers who lounge in the parks and crowd the theaters?"

Aunt Louisa paused in the act of helping herself to marmalade and regarded him with great displeasure; then cried shrilly:--

"Now, Arthur, that is nothing short of treason, for I tell you we will not allow our dear boys to be taken away like galley-slaves; I tell you Britons never, never shall be slaves, and I for one will never let my Bertie go--his young life is too precious to be thrown away. I spent too many nights nursing him through every infantile disease--measles, whooping-cough,--you know yourself, my dear Clara,--beside the times that he broke his arm and his leg; though I still think that the cold compress is the best for a delicate const.i.tution, and I actually ordered the doctor out of the house--"

"What has that to do with conscription?" asked her brother-in-law gruffly. "I tell you it is coming and no one will be gladder than I am."

"I think it is nothing short of unkind the way that you have been speaking of the Germans. I know I never got m.u.f.fins like the m.u.f.fins I got in Berlin that time; and, anyway, there are plenty of the commoner people to go to fight, and they have such large families that they will not miss one as I would miss my Bertie, and he has just recently become engaged to such a dear girl! In our home we simply try to forget this stupid war, but when I come here I hear nothing else--I wonder how you stand it, dear Clara."

Aunt Louisa here dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief in a way that her brother-in-law particularly detested.

"You will hear more about the war some of these days," he said, "when a German Zeppelin drops bombs on London."

Aunt Louisa came as near snorting as a well-bred lady could come, so great was her disdain at this suggestion.

"Zeppelin!" she said scornfully--"on England!! You forget, sir, that we are living in a civilized age! Zeppelin! Indeed, and who would let them, I wonder! I am surprised at you, sir, and so is mother, although she has not spoken."

"You will probably be more surprised before long; life is full of surprises these days."

Just then the butler brought him a wire, the contents of which seemed to bear out this theory, for it told him that Private Stanley Goodman, of the First Canadian Battalion, for conspicuous bravery under fire had been recommended for the D.C.M., but regretted to inform him that Private Goodman had been seriously wounded and was now in the Third Canadian Hospital, Flanders.

The nursing sister, accustomed to strange sights, wondered why this wounded man was so cold, and then she noticed that he had not on his overcoat, and she asked him why he was not wearing it on such a bitter cold night as this. In spite of all his efforts his teeth chattered as he tried to answer her.

"I had to leave a dead friend of mine on the field to-night," said Stanley, speaking with difficulty. "And I could not leave him there with the rain falling on him, could I, sister? It seemed hard to have to leave him, anyway, but we got all the wounded in."

In twenty-four hours after they received the telegram his father and mother stood by his bedside. Only his eyes and his forehead could be seen, for the last bullet which struck him had ploughed its way through his cheek; the chin which had so offended his father's artistic eye--what was left of it--was entirely hidden by the bandage.

The chill which he had taken, with the loss of blood, and the shock of a shrapnel wound in his side, made recovery impossible, the nurse said. While they stood beside the bed waiting for him to open his eyes, the nurse told them of his having taken off his coat to cover a dead comrade.

When at last Stanley opened his eyes, there was a broken and sorrowful old man, from whose spirit all the imperious pride had gone, kneeling by his bedside and humbly begging his forgiveness. On the other side of the bed his mother stood with a great joy in her faded face.

"Stanley--Stanley," sobbed his father, every reserve broken down; "I have just found you--and now how can I lose you so soon. Try to live for my sake, and let me show you how sorry I am."

Stanley's eyes showed the distress which filled his tender heart.

"Please don't, father," he said, speaking with difficulty; "I am only very happy--indeed, quite jolly. But you mustn't feel sorry, father--I have been quite a duffer! thanks awfully for all you have done for me--I know how disappointed you were in me--I did want to make good for your sakes and it is a bit rough that now--I should be obliged--to die.... But it is best to go while the going is good--isn't it, sir? It's all a beautiful dream--to me--and it does seem--so jolly--to have you both here."

He lay still for a long time; then, rousing himself, said, "I'm afraid I have been dreaming again--no, this is father; you are sure, sir, are you?--about the medal and all that--and this is mother, is it?--it is all quite like going home--I am so happy; it seems as if permission had come."

He laughed softly behind his bandages, a queer, little, choking, happy laugh; and there, with his mother's arms around him, while his father, stern no longer, but tender and loving, held his hand, "permission"

came and the homesick, hungry heart of the boy entered into rest.

CHAPTER IX

THE SLACKER--IN UNIFORM

Mrs. P.A. Brunton was convinced that she was an exceptional woman in every way. She would tell you this in the first fifteen minutes of conversation that you had with her, for many of her sentences began, "Now, I know, of course, that I am peculiar in many ways"; or, "I am afraid you will not understand me when I say this"; or, "I am afraid I am hopelessly old-fas.h.i.+oned in this." She would explain with painstaking elaboration that she did not know why she was so peculiar, but her manner indicated that she was quite content to be so; indeed, it can only be described as one of boastful resignation. She seemed to glory in her infirmity.

Mrs. Brunton was quite opposed to women voting, and often spoke with sorrow of the movement, which to her meant the breaking-up of the home and all its sacred traditions. She did not specify how this would be done, but her att.i.tude toward all new movements was one of keen distrust. She often said that of course she would be able to vote intelligently, for she had had many advantages and had listened to discussions of public matters all her life, having been brought up in an atmosphere of advanced thinking; but she realized that her case was an exceptional one. It was not the good fortune of every woman to have had a college course as she had, and she really could not see what good could come from a movement which aimed at making all women equal!

Why, if women ever got the vote, an ignorant washwoman's vote might kill hers! It was so much better to let women go on as they were going, exerting their indirect influence; and then it was the woman of wealth and social prestige who was able to exert this influence, just as it should be! She certainly did not crave a vote, and would do all she could to prevent other women from getting it.

Mrs. Brunton had come from the East, and although she had lived many years in the West, she could never forget what a sacrifice she had made by coming to a new country. Being a college graduate, too, seemed to be something she could not outgrow!

When her only boy was old enough to go to school, she became the teacher's bad dream, for she wrote many notes and paid many calls to explain that Garth was not at all like other children and must not be subjected to the same discipline as they, for he had a proud and haughty spirit that would not submit to discipline unless it were tactfully disguised. Garth was a quiet, mild little lad who would have been much like other boys if left alone.

Garth was twenty years old when the war began, and he was then attending the university. He first spoke of enlisting when the war had gone on a year.