All for a Scrap of Paper Part 17

"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 l.u.s.tre 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 s.h.i.+rkers 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 s.h.i.+rk 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 blus.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+rker. 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 cla.s.sic 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 s.h.i.+fted to Bordeaux. It seemed as though Germany were going to repeat the victories of forty-four years before, when the great _debacle_ 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 att.i.tude?" 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 h.e.l.l 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 G.o.d. 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 G.o.d, 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 partic.i.p.ate 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."