All for a Scrap of Paper Part 11

"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 n.o.blest 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 h.e.l.l. 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 l.u.s.t 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 aggrandis.e.m.e.nt, 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 G.o.d, 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, d.i.c.k 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 s.h.i.+rkers, 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 n.o.bler 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 n.o.blest 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 G.o.d."

"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, G.o.d 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.