All for a Scrap of Paper Part 16

"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 s.h.i.+rker 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 pa.s.sing 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--G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+rk his duty to his country. Tell me, Bob, why do you want to play the coward?"

"Play the coward! Great G.o.d, 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 h.e.l.lish, 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."