WAR
“Come, Jane, we have just time to take a look at the lake from the top
of the hill before we get ready for church,” said Ethel Murray. “It will
be worth seeing to-day.”
“Me too, me too,” shrieked two wee girls in bare legs and sandals,
clutching Jane about the legs.
“All right, Isabel; all right, Helen. I'll take you with me,” said Jane.
“But you must let me go, you know.”
They all raced around the house and began to climb the sheer, rocky hill
that rose straight up from the rear.
“Here, Jim, help me with these kiddies,” said Jane to a lank lad of
fifteen, whom she ran into at the corner of the house just where the
climb began.
Jim swung the younger, little Helen, upon his shoulder and together they
raced to the top, scrambling, slipping, falling, but finally arriving
there, breathless and triumphant. Before them lay a bit of Canada's
loveliest lake, the Lake of the Woods, so-called from its myriad,
heavily wooded islands, that make of its vast expanse a maze of
channels, rivers and waterways. Calm, without a ripple, lay the glassy,
sunlit surface, each island, rock and tree meeting its reflected image
at the water line, the sky above flecked with floating clouds, making
with the mirrored sky below one perfect whole.
“Oh, Ethel, I had forgotten just how beautiful this is,” breathed Jane,
while the rest stood silent looking down upon the mirrored rocks and
islands, trees and sky.
Even the two little girls stood perfectly still, for they had been
taught to take the first views from the top in silence.
“Look at the Big Rock,” said Helen. “They are two rocks kissing each
other.”
“Oh, you little sweetheart,” said Jane, kissing her. “That is just what
they are doing. It is not often that you get it so perfectly still as
this, is it, Jim?”
“Not so very often. Sometimes just at sunrise you get it this way.”
“At sunrise! Do you very often see it then?”
“Yes, he gets up to catch fishes,” said wee Helen.
“Do you?”
Jim nodded. “Are you game to come along to-morrow morning?”
“At what hour?”
“Five o'clock.”
“Don't do it, Jane,” said Ethel. “It tires you for the day.”
“I will come, Jim; I would love to come,” said Jane.
For some time they stood gazing down upon the scene below them. Then
turning to the children abruptly, Ethel said, “Now, then, children, you
run down and get ready; that is, if you are going to church. Take them
down, Jim.”
“All right, Ethel,” said Jim. “See there, Jane,” he continued, “that
neck of land across the traverse--that's where the old Hudson Bay trail
used to run that goes from the Big Lakes to Winnipeg. It's the old war
trail of the Crees too. Wouldn't you like to have seen them in the old
days?”
“I would run and hide,” said Isabel, “so they could not see me.”
“I would not be afraid,” said Helen, straightening up to her full height
of six years. “I would shoot them dead.”
“Poor things,” said Jane, in a pitiful voice. “And then their little
babies at home would cry and cry.”
Helen looked distressed. “I would not shoot the ones that had babies.”
“But then,” said Jane, “the poor wives would sit on the ground and wail
and wail, like the Indians we heard the other night. Oh, it sounded very
sad.”
“I would not shoot the ones with wives or babies or anything,” said
Helen, determined to escape from her painful dilemma.
“Oh, only the boys and young men?” said Jane. “And then the poor old
mothers would cry and cry and tear their hair for the boys who would
never come back.”
Helen stood in perplexed silence. Then she said shyly, “I wouldn't shoot
any of them unless they tried to shoot me or Mother or Daddy.”
“Or me,” said Jane, throwing her arms around the little girl.
“Yes,” said Helen, “or you, or anybody in our house.”
“That seems a perfectly safe place to leave it, Helen,” said Ethel.
“I think even the most pronounced pacifist would accept that as a
justification of war. I fancy that is why poor little Servia is fighting
big bullying Austria to-day. But run down now; hurry, hurry; the launch
will be ready in a few minutes, and if you are not ready you know Daddy
won't wait.”
But they were ready and with the round dozen, which with the visitors
constituted the Murray household at their island home, they filled the
launch, Jim at the wheel. It was a glorious Sunday morning and the whole
world breathed peace. Through the mazes of the channels among the
wooded islands the launch made its way, across open traverse, down long
waterways like rivers between high, wooded banks, through cuts and gaps,
where the waters boiled and foamed, they ran, for the most part drinking
in silently the exquisite and varied beauty of lake and sky and woods.
Silent they were but for the quiet talk and cheery laughter of the
younger portion of the company, until they neared the little town,
when the silence that hung over the lake and woods was invaded by other
launches outbound and in. The Kenora docks were crowded with rowboats,
sailboats, canoes and launches of all sorts and sizes, so that it took
some steering skill on Jim's part to land them at the dock without
bumping either themselves or any one else.
“Oh, look!” exclaimed Isabel, whose sharp eyes were darting everywhere.
“There's the Rushbrooke's lovely new launch. Isn't it beautiful!”
“Huh!” shouted Helen. “It is not half as pretty as ours.”
“Oh, hush, Helen,” said the scandalised Isabel. “It is lovely, isnt it,
Jane? And there is Lloyd Rushbrooke. I think he's lovely, too. And who
is that with him, Jane--that pretty girl? Oh, isn't she pretty?”
“That's Helen Brookes,” said Jane in a low voice.
“Oh, isn't she lovely!” exclaimed Isabel.
“Lovely bunch, Isabel,” said Jim with a grin.
“I don't care, they are,” insisted Isabel. “And there is Mr. McPherson,
Jane,” she added, her sharp eyes catching sight of their Winnipeg
minister through the crowd. “He's coming this way. What are the people
all waiting for, Jane?”
The Reverend Andrew McPherson was a tall, slight, dark man, straight but
for the student's stoop of his shoulders, and with a strikingly Highland
Scotch cast of countenance, high cheek bones, keen blue eyes set deep
below a wide forehead, long jaw that clamped firm lips together. He came
straight to where Mr. Murray and Dr. Brown were standing.
“I have just received from a friend in Winnipeg the most terrible news,”
he said in a low voice. “Germany has declared war on Russia and France.”
“War! War! Germany!” exclaimed the men in awed, hushed voices, a
startled look upon their grave faces.
“What is it, James?” said Mrs. Murray.
Mr. Murray repeated the news to her.
“Germany at war?” she said. “I thought it was Austria and Servia. Isn't
it?”
“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Murray hastily, as if anxious to cover up his
wife's display of ignorance of the European situation. “Austria has
been at war with Servia for some days, but now Germany has declared war
apparently upon France and Russia.”
“But what has Germany to do with it, or Russia either, or France?”
They moved off together from the docks toward the church, discussing the
ominous news.
“Oh, look, Jane,” said Isabel once more. “There's Ramsay Dunn. Isn't he
looking funny?”
“Pickled, I guess,” said Jim, with a glance at the young man who with
puffed and sodden face was gazing with dull and stupid eyes across the
lake. On catching sight of the approaching party Ramsay Dunn turned his
back sharply upon them and became intensely absorbed in the launch at
his side. But Jane would not have it thus.
“Ask him to come over this afternoon,” she said to Ethel. “His mother
would like it.”
“Good morning, Ramsay,” said Ethel as they passed him.
Ramsay turned sharply, stood stiff and straight, then saluted with an
elaborate bow. “Good morning, Ethel. Why, good morning, Jane. You down
here? Delighted to see you.”
“Ramsay, could you come over this afternoon to our island?” said Ethel.
“Jane is going back this week.”
“Sure thing, Ethel. Nothing but scarlet fever, small-pox, or other
contectious or infagious, confagious or intexious--eh, disease will
prevent me. The afternoon or the evening?” he added with what he meant
to be a most ingratiating smile. “The late afternoon or the early
evening?”
The little girls, who had been staring at him with wide, wondering eyes,
began to giggle.
“I'll be there,” continued Ramsay. “I'll be there, I'll be there, when
the early evening cometh, I'll be there.” He bowed deeply to the young
ladies and winked solemnly at Isabel, who by this time was finding it
quite impossible to control her giggles.
“Isn't he awfully funny?” she said as they moved off. “I think he is
awfully funny.”
“Funny!” said Ethel. “Disgusting, I think.”
“Oh, Ethel, isn't it terribly sad?” said Jane. “Poor Mrs. Dunn, she
feels so awfully about it. They say he is going on these days in a
perfectly dreadful way.”
The little brick church was comfortably filled with the townsfolk and
with such of the summer visitors as had not “left their religion behind
them in Winnipeg,” as Jane said. The preacher was a little man whose
speech betrayed his birth, and the theology and delivery of whose sermon
bore the unmistakable marks of his Edinburgh training. He discoursed in
somewhat formal but in finished style upon the blessings of rest, with
obvious application to the special circumstances of the greater part
of his audience who had come to this most beautiful of all Canada's
beautiful spots seeking these blessings. To further emphasise the value
of their privileges, he contrasted with their lot the condition of
unhappy Servia now suffering from the horrors of war and threatened with
extinction by its tyrannical neighbour, Austria. The war could end only
in one way. In spite of her gallant and heroic fight Servia was doomed
to defeat. But a day of reckoning would surely come, for this was not
the first time that Austria had exercised its superior power in an act
of unrighteous tyranny over smaller states. The God of righteousness was
still ruling in his world, and righteousness would be done.
At the close of the service, while they were singing the final hymn, Mr.
McPherson, after a whispered colloquy with Mr. Murray, made his way to
the pulpit, where he held an earnest conversation with the minister.
Instead of pronouncing the benediction and dismissing the congregation
when the final “Amen” had been sung, the minister invited the people to
resume their seats, when Mr. McPherson rose and said,
“Friends, we have just learned that a great and terrible evil has fallen
upon the world. Five days ago the world was shocked by the announcement
that Austria had declared war upon Servia. Through these days the powers
of Europe, or at least some of them, and chief among them Great Britain,
have been labouring to localise the war and to prevent its extension.
To-day the sad, the terrible announcement is made that Germany has
declared war upon both Russia and France. What an hour may bring forth,
we know not. But not in our day, or in our fathers' day, have we faced
so great a peril as we face to-day. For we cannot forget that our Empire
is held by close and vital ties to the Republic of France in the entente
cordiale. Let us beseech Almighty God to grant a speedy end to war
and especially to guide the King's counsellors that they may lead this
Empire in the way that is wise and right and honourable.”
In the brief prayer that followed there fell upon the people an
overpowering sense of the futility of man's wisdom, and of the need of
the might and wisdom that are not man's but God's.
Two days later Mr. Murray and the children accompanied Dr. Brown and
Jane to Kenora on their way back to the city. As they were proceeding to
the railway station they were arrested by a group that stood in front
of the bulletin board upon which since the war began the local newspaper
was wont to affix the latest despatches. The group was standing in awed
silence staring at the bulletin board before them. Dr. Brown pushed his
way through, read the despatch, looked around upon the faces beside him,
read the words once more, came back to where his party were standing and
stood silent.
“What is it?” inquired Mr. Murray.
“War,” said Dr. Brown in a husky whisper. Then clearing his throat,
“War--Britain and Germany.”
War! For the first time in the memory of living man that word was spoken
in a voice that stopped dead still the Empire in the daily routine of
its life. War! That word whispered in the secret silent chamber of the
man whose chief glory had been his title as Supreme War Lord of Europe,
swift as the lightning's flash circled the globe, arresting multitudes
of men busy with their peaceful tasks, piercing the hearts of countless
women with a new and nameless terror, paralysing the activities of
nations engaged in the arts of peace, transforming into bitter enemies
those living in the bonds of brotherhood, and loosing upon the world the
fiends of hell.
Mr. Murray turned to his boy. “Jim,” he said, “I must go to Winnipeg.
Take the children home and tell their mother. I shall wire you to-morrow
when to meet me.” Awed, solemnised and in silence they took their ways.
Arrived at the railway station, Mr. Murray changed his mind. He was a
man clear in thought and swift in action. His first thought had been of
his business as being immediately affected by this new and mighty fact
of war. Then he thought of other and wider interests.
“Let us go back, Dr. Brown,” he said. “A large number of our business
men are at the Lake. I suppose half of our Board of Trade are down
here. We can reach them more easily here than any place else, and it is
important that we should immediately get them together. Excuse me while
I wire to my architect. I must stop that block of mine.”
They returned together to the launch. On their way back to their island
they called to see Mr. McPherson. “You were right,” was Mr. Murray's
greeting to him. “It has come; Britain has declared war.”
Mr. McPherson stood gazing at him in solemn silence. “War,” he said at
length. “We are really in.”
“Yes, you were right, Mr. McPherson,” said Dr. Brown. “I could not
believe it; I cannot believe it yet. Why we should have gone into this
particular quarrel, for the life of me I cannot understand.”
“I was afraid from the very first,” said McPherson, “and when once
Russia and France were in I knew that Britain could not honourably
escape.”
As they were talking together a launch went swiftly by. “That's the
Rushbrooke's launch,” said Jim.
Mr. Murray rushed out upon the pier and, waving his hand, brought it to
a halt and finally to the dock. “Have you heard the news?” he said to
the lady who sat near the stern. “Britain has declared war.”
“Oh,” replied Mrs. Rushbrooke, “why on earth has she done that? It is
perfectly terrible.”
“Terrible, indeed,” said Mr. McPherson. “But we must face it. It changes
everything in life--business, society, home, everything will immediately
feel the effect of this thing.”
“Oh, Mr. McPherson,” exclaimed Mrs. Rushbrooke, “I can hardly see how it
will quite change everything for us here in Canada. For instance,” she
added with a gay laugh, “I do not see that it will change our bonfire
tonight. By the way, I see you are not gone, Dr. Brown. You and Jane
will surely come over; and, Mr. Murray, you will bring your young people
and Mrs. Murray; and, Mr. McPherson, I hope you will be able to come. It
is going to be a charming evening and you will see a great many of your
friends. I think a bonfire on one of the islands makes a very pretty
sight.”
“I am not sure whether I can take the time, Mrs. Rushbrooke,” said Mr.
Murray. “I had thought of seeing a number of our business men who are
down here at the Lake.”
“Oh, can't you leave business even while you are here? You really ought
to forget business during your holidays, Mr. Murray.”
“I mean in relation to the war,” said Mr. Murray.
“Good gracious, what can they possibly do about the war down here? But
if you want to see them they will all be with us to-night. So you had
better come along. But we shall have to hurry, Lloyd; I have a lot of
things to do and a lot of people to feed. We have got to live, haven't
we?” she added as the launch got under way.
“Got to live,” said Mr. McPherson after they had gone. “Ah, even that
necessity has been changed. The necessity for living, which I am afraid
most of us have considered to be of first importance, has suddenly given
place to another necessity.”
“And that?” said Mr. Murray.
“The necessity not to live, but to do our duty. Life has become all at
once a very simple thing.”
“Well, we have got to keep going in the meantime at any rate,” said Mr.
Murray.
“Going, yes; but going where?” said Mr. McPherson. “All roads now, for
us, lead to one spot.”
“And that spot?” said Mr. Murray.
“The battlefield.”
“Why, Mr. McPherson, we must not lose our heads; we must keep sane and
reasonable. Eh, Doctor?”
“I confess that this thing has completely stunned me,” said Dr. Brown.
“You see I could not believe, I would not believe that war was possible
in our day. I would not believe you, Mr. McPherson. I thought you had
gone mad on this German scare. But you were right. My God, I can't get
my bearings yet; we are really at war!”
“God grant that Canada may see its duty clearly,” said Mr. McPherson.
“God make us strong to bear His will.”
They hurried back to their island, each busy with his thoughts, seeking
to readjust life to this new and horrible environment.
Mrs. Murray met them at the dock. “You are back, Dr. Brown,” she cried.
“Did you forget something? We are glad to see you at any rate.” Then
noticing the men's faces, she said, “What is the matter, James? Is there
anything wrong?”
“We bring terrible news, Mother,” he said. “We are at war.”
Mrs. Murray's' mind, like her husband's, moved swiftly. She was a life
partner in the fullest sense. In business as in the home she shared his
plans and purposes. “What about the block, James?” she asked.
“I wired Eastwood,” he replied, “to stop that.”
“What is it, Mother?” inquired Isabel, who stood upon the dock clinging
to her mother's dress, and who saw in the grave, faces about her signs
of disaster.
“Hush, dear,” said her mother. “Nothing that you can understand.” She
would keep from her children this horror as long as she could.
At lunch in the midst of the most animated conversation the talk would
die out, and all would be busy fitting their lives to war. Like waves
ever deepening in volume and increasing in force, the appalling thought
of war beat upon their minds. After lunch they sat together in
the screened veranda talking quietly together of the issues, the
consequences to them and to their community, to their country, and to
the world at large, of this thing that had befallen them. They made the
amazing discovery that they were almost entirely ignorant of everything
that had to do with war, even the relative military strength of the
belligerent nations. One thing like a solid back wall of rock gave them
a sense of security--the British Navy was still supreme.
“Let's see, did they cut down the Navy estimates during the last
Parliament? I know they were always talking of reduction,” inquired Mr.
Murray.
“I am afraid I know nothing about it,” said Dr. Brown. “Last week I
would have told you 'I hope so'; to-day I profoundly hope not. Jane, you
ought to know about this. Jane is the war champion in our family,” he
added with a smile.
“No, there has been no reduction; Winston Churchill has carried on his
programme. He wanted to halt the building programme, you remember, but
the Germans would not agree. So I think the Navy is quite up to the
mark. But, of course,” she added, “the German Navy is very strong too.”
“Ah, I believe you are right, Jane,” said Dr. Brown. “How completely we
were all hoodwinked. I cannot believe that we are actually at war. Our
friend Romayne was right. By the way, what about Romayne, Jane?”
“Who is he?” inquired Mr. Murray.
“Romayne?” said Dr. Brown. “Oh, he's a great friend of ours in the West.
He married a sister of young Gwynne, you know. He was an attache of
the British Embassy in Berlin, and was, as we thought, quite mad on the
subject of preparation for war. He and Jane hit it off tremendously last
autumn when we were visiting the Gwynnes. Was he not an officer in the
Guards or something, Jane?”
“Yes,” replied Jane, fear leaping into her eyes. “Oh, Papa, do you think
he will have to go? Surely he would not.”
“What? Go back to England?” said Dr. Brown. “I hardly think so. I do not
know, but perhaps he may.”
“Oh, Papa!” exclaimed Jane, the quick tears in her eyes. “Think of his
wife and little baby!”
“My God!” exclaimed Dr. Brown. “It is war that is upon us.”
A fresh wave of horror deeper than any before swept their souls. “Surely
he won't need to go,” he said after a pause.
“But his regiment will be going,” said Jane, whose face had become very
pale and whose eyes were wide with horror. “His regiment will be going
and,” she added, “he will go too.” The tears were quietly running down
her face. She knew Jack Romayne and she had the courage to accept the
truth which as yet her father put from his mind.
Dumb they sat, unschooled in language fitted to deal with the tides of
emotion that surged round this new and overwhelming fact of war. Where
next would this dread thing strike?
“Canada will doubtless send some troops,” said Dr. Brown. “We sent to
South Africa, let me see, was it five thousand?”
“More, I think, Papa,” said Jane.
“We will send twice or three times that number this time,” said Mr.
Murray.
And again silence fell upon them. They were each busy with the question
who would go. Swiftly their minds ran over the homes of their friends
and acquaintances.
“Well, Doctor,” said Mr. Murray, with a great effort at a laugh, “you
can't send your boy at any rate.”
“No,” said Dr. Brown. “But if my girl had been a boy, I fear I could
not hold her. Eh, Jane?” But Jane only smiled a very doubtful smile in
answer.
“We may all have to go, Doctor,” said Mr. Murray. “If the war lasts long
enough.”
“Nonsense, James,” said his wife with a quick glance at her two little
girls. Her boy was fifteen. Thank God, she would not have to face the
question of his duty in regard to war. “They would not be taking old men
like you, James,” she added.
Mr. Murray laughed at her. “Well, hardly, I suppose, my dear,” he
replied. “I rather guess we won't be allowed to share the glory this
time, Doctor.”
Dr. Brown sat silent for a few moments, then said quietly, “The young
fellows, of course, will get the first chance.”
“Oh, let's not talk about it,” said Ethel. “Come, Jane, let's go
exploring.”
Jane rose.
“And me, too,” cried Isabel.
“And me,” cried Helen.
Ethel hesitated. “Let them come, Ethel,” said Jane. “We shall go
slowly.”
An exploration of the island was always a thing of unmixed and varied
delight. There were something over twenty-five acres of wooded hills
running up to bare rocks, ravines deep in shrub and ferns, and lower
levels thick with underbrush and heavy timber. Every step of the way new
treasures disclosed themselves, ferns and grasses, shrubs and vines, and
everywhere the wood flowers, shy and sweet. Everywhere, too, on fallen
logs, on the grey rocks, and on the lower ground where the aromatic
balsams and pines stood silent and thick, were mosses, mosses of all
hues and depths. In the sunlit open spaces gorgeous butterflies and
gleaming dragon flies fluttered and darted, bees hummed, and birds sang
and twittered. There the children's voices were mingled in cheery shouts
and laughter with the other happy sounds that filled the glades. But
when they came to the dark pines, solemn and silent except when the wind
moved in their tasselled tops with mysterious, mournful whispering, the
children hushed their voices and walked softly upon the deep moss.
“It is like being in church,” said Helen, her little soul exquisitely
sensitive to the mystic, fragrant silences and glooms that haunted the
pine grove.
On a sloping hillside under the pines they lay upon the mossy bed, the
children listening for the things that lived in these shadowy depths.
“They are all looking at us,” said Isabel in a voice of awed mystery.
“Lots and lots of eyes are just looking, looking, and looking.”
“Why, Isabel, you give me the creeps,” laughed Jane. “Whisht! They'll
hear you,” said Isabel, darting swift glances among the trees.
“The dear things,” said Jane. “They would love to play with you if they
only knew how.” This was quite a new idea to the children. Hitherto
the shy things had been more associated with fear than with play. “They
would love to play tag with you,” continued Jane, “round these trees, if
you could only coax them out. They are so shy.”
Stealthily the children began to move among the bushes, alert for the
watching eyes and the shy faces of the wild things that made their homes
in these dark dwellings. The girls sat silent, looking out through the
interlacing boughs upon the gleam of the lake below. They dearly
loved this spot. It was a favourite haunt with them, the very spot for
confidence, and many a happy hour had they spent together here. To-day
they sat without speech; there was nothing that they cared to talk
about. It was only yesterday in this same place they had talked over all
things under the sun. They had exchanged with each other their stores of
kindly gossip about all their friends and their friends' friends. Only
yesterday it was that Ethel for the twentieth time had gone over with
Jane all the intricately perplexing and delightful details in regard
to her coming-out party next winter. All the boys and girls were to be
invited, and Jane was to help with the serving. It was only yesterday
that in a moment of quite unusual frankness Ethel had read snatches of
a letter which had come from Macleod, who was out in a mission field in
Saskatchewan. How they had laughed together, all in a kindly way, over
the solemn, formal phrases of the young Scotch Canadian missionary,
Ethel making sport of his solemnity and Jane warmly defending him. How
they had talked over the boys' affairs, as girls will talk, and of their
various loves and how they fared, and of the cruelties practised upon
them. And last of all Ethel had talked of Larry, Jane listening warily
the while and offering an occasional bit of information to keep the talk
going. And all of this only yesterday; not ten years ago, or a year
ago, but yesterday! And to-day not a word seemed possible. The world
had changed over night. How different from that unshaded, sunny world
of yesterday! How sunny it was but yesterday! Life now was a thing of
different values. Ah, that was it. The values were all altered. Things
big yesterday had shrunk almost to the point of disappearance to-day.
Things that yesterday seemed remote and vague, to-day filled their
horizon, for some of them dark enough. Determined to ignore that gaunt
Spectre standing there, in the shadow silent and grim, they would begin
to talk on themes good yesterday for an hour's engrossing conversation,
but before they were aware they had forgotten the subject of their talk
and found themselves sitting together dumb and looking out upon the
gleam of the waters, thinking, thinking and ever thinking, while nearer
and ever more terrible moved the Spectre of War. It was like the falling
of night upon their world. From the landscape things familiar and dear
were blotted out, and in their place moved upon them strange shapes
unreal and horrible.
At length they gave it up, called the children and went back to the
others. At the dock they found a launch filled with visitors bringing
news--great news and glorious. A big naval battle had been fought in the
North Sea! Ten British battleships had been sunk, but the whole German
fleet had been destroyed! For the first time war took on some colour.
Crimson and purple and gold began to shoot through the sombre black and
grey. A completely new set of emotions filled their hearts, a new sense
of exultation, a new pride in that great British Navy which hitherto
had been a mere word in a history book, or in a song. The children who,
after their manner, were quickest to catch and to carry on to their
utmost limits the emotions of the moment, were jubilantly triumphant.
Some of them were carrying little Union Jacks in their hands. For the
first time in their lives that flag became a thing of pride and power, a
thing to shout for. It stood for something invisible but very real. Even
their elders were not insensible to that something. Hitherto they had
taken that flag for granted. They had hung it out of their windows on
Empire Day or on Dominion Day as a patriotic symbol, but few of them
would have confessed, except in a half-shamed, apologetic way, to any
thrill at the flapping of that bit of bunting. They had shrunk from a
display of patriotic emotion. They were not like their American cousins,
who were ever ready to rave over Old Glory. That sort of emotional
display was un-Canadian, un-British. But to-day somehow the flag had
changed. The flag had changed because it fluttered in a new world, a new
light fell upon it, the light of battle. It was a war flag to-day. Men
were fighting under it, were fighting for all it represented, were dying
under its folds, and proudly and gladly.
“And all the men will go to fight, your father and my father, and all
the big boys,” Ethel heard a little friend confide to Isabel.
“Hush, Mabel,” said Ethel sharply. “Don't be silly.”
But the word had been spoken and as a seed it fell upon fertile soil.
The launch went off with the children waving their flags and cheering.
And again upon those left upon the dock the shadow settled heavier
than before. That was the way with that shadow. It was always heavier,
thicker, more ominous after each interlude of relief.
It was the same at the bonfire in the evening at the Rushbrookes'.
The island was a fairy picture of mingling lights and shadows. As the
flaming west grew grey, the pale silver of the moon, riding high and
serene, fell upon the crowding, gaily decked launches that thronged the
docks and moored to the shore; upon the dark balsams and silver birches
hung with parti-coloured gaudy Chinese lanterns; upon the groups of
girls, fair and sweet in their white summer camping frocks, and young
men in flannels, their bare necks and arms showing brown and strong;
upon little clusters of their fathers and mothers gravely talking
together. From the veranda above, mingling with the laughing, chattering
voices, the alluring strains of the orchestra invited to waltz, or fox
trot. As the flame died from the western sky and the shadows crept down
from the trees, the bonfire was set alight. As the flame leaped high the
soft strains of the orchestra died away. Then suddenly, clear, full and
strong, a chord sounded forth, another, and then another. A hush fell
upon the chattering, laughing crowd. Then as they caught the strain men
lolling upon the ground sprang to their feet; lads stood at attention.
“Send him victorious,”
some one sang timidly, giving words to the music. In one instant a
hundred throats were wide open singing the words:
“Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us,
God save our King.”
Again the chords sounded and at once the verse from the first was sung
again.
“God save our gracious King,
Long live our noble King,
God save our King,
Send him victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us,
God save our King.”
As the last note died Ramsay Dunn leaped upon a huge boulder, threw up
his hand and began,
“In days of yore, from Britain's shore.”
A yell greeted him, sudden, fierce, triumphant, drowned his voice, then
ceased! And again from a hundred throats of men and women, boys and
girls, the words rang out,
“There may it wave, our boast and pride,
And joined in love together,
The thistle, shamrock, rose entwine,
The Maple Leaf forever.”
Again and again and once again they followed Ramsay in the quick, shrill
Canadian cheer that was to be heard in after days in places widely
different and far remote from that gay, moonlit, lantern-decked,
boat-thronged, water-lapped island in that far northern Canadian lake.
Following the cheers there came stillness. Men looked sheepishly at each
other as if caught in some silly prank. Then once more the Spectre drew
near. But this time they declined not to look, but with steady, grave,
appraising eyes they faced The Thing, resolute to know the worst, and in
quiet undertones they talked together of War.
The bonfire roared gloriously up through the dark night, throwing far
gleams out upon the moonlit waters in front and upon the dark woods
behind. The people gathered about the fire and disposed themselves in
groups upon the sloping, grassy sward under the trees, upon the shelving
rocks and upon the sandy shore.
But Mr. Murray had business on hand. In company with Dr. Brown and the
minister, Mr. McPherson, he sought his host. “Would it be possible,
Mr. Rushbrooke,” he said, “to gather a number of business men here
together?”
“What for?” inquired Rushbrooke.
“Well, I may be all wrong,” said Mr. Murray apologetically, “but I have
the feeling that we ought without delay to discuss what preliminary
steps should be taken to meet with the critical conditions brought on by
the war.”
“But, Mr. Murray,” cried Mrs. Rushbrooke, who was standing by her
husband's side, “they are all so happy it would seem a great pity to
introduce this horrible thing at such a time.”
“Do you really think it necessary, Murray?” said Mr. Rushbrooke, who was
an older man than Mr. Murray, and who was unwilling to accede to him any
position of dominance in the business world of Winnipeg. “There's really
nothing we can do. It seems to me that we must keep our heads and as far
as possible prevent undue excitement and guard against panic.”
“Perhaps you are right, Mr. Rushbrooke. The thought in my mind was that
we ought to get a meeting together in Winnipeg soon. But everybody is
away. A great many are here at the Lake; it seemed a good opportunity to
make some preliminary arrangement.”
“My dear Mr. Murray,” said Mrs. Rushbrooke, “I cannot help feeling that
you take this too seriously, besides there can hardly be need for such
precipitate action. Of course, we are at war, and Canada will do her
part, but to introduce such a horrible theme in a company of young
people seems to me to be somehow out of place.”
“Very well, Mrs. Rushbrooke, if you say so. I have no desire to
intrude,” said Mr. Murray.
“But, Mr. Rushbrooke, the thing has to be faced,” interposed Mr.
McPherson. “We cannot shut our eyes to the fact of war, and this is the
supreme fact in our national life to-day. Everything else is secondary.”
“Oh, I do not agree with you, Mr. McPherson,” said Mrs. Rushbrooke,
taking the word out of her husband's mouth. “Of course war is terrible
and all that, but men must do their work. The Doctor here must continue
to look after his sick, Mr. Murray has his business, you must care for
your congregation.”
“I do not know about that, Mrs. Rushbrooke,” said the minister. “I do
not know about that at all.”
“Why, Mr. McPherson, you surprise me! Must not my husband attend to his
business, must not the Doctor look after his patients?”
A number of men had gathered about during the course of the
conversation. “No,” said Mr. McPherson, his voice ringing out in decided
tones. “There is only one 'must' for us now, and that is War. For the
Empire, for every man, woman, and child in Canada, the first thing, and
by comparison the only thing, is War.”
That dread word rang out sharp, insistent, penetrating through the quiet
hum of voices rising from the groups about the fire. By this time a very
considerable number of men present had joined themselves to the group
about the speakers.
“Well, Mr. Murray,” said Mr. Rushbrooke, with a laugh, “it seems to me
that we cannot help it very well. If you wish to discourse upon the war,
you have your audience and you have my permission.”
“It is not my intention to discourse upon the war, Mr. Rushbrooke, but
with your permission I will just tell our friends here how my mind has
worked since learning this terrible news this morning. My first impulse
was to take the first train to Winnipeg, for I know that it will be
necessary for me to readjust my business to the new conditions created
by war. My second thought was that there were others like me; that, in
fact, the whole business public of Winnipeg would be similarly affected.
I felt the need of counsel so that I should make no mistake that would
imperil the interests of others. I accepted Mrs. Rushbrooke's invitation
to come to-night in the hope of meeting with a number of the business
men of Winnipeg. The more I think of it the more terrible this thing
becomes. The ordinary conditions of business are gone. We shall all need
to readjust ourselves in every department of life. It seems to me that
we must stand together and meet this calamity as best we can, wisely,
fairly and fearlessly. The main point to be considered is, should we
not have a general meeting of the business men of Winnipeg, and if so,
when?”
Mr. Murray's words were received in deep silence, and for a time no one
made reply. Then Mr. Rushbrooke made answer.
“We all feel the importance of what Mr. Murray has said. Personally,
though, I am of the opinion that we should avoid all unnecessary
excitement and everything approaching panic. The war will doubtless be
a short one. Germany, after long preparation, has decided to challenge
Great Britain's power. Still, Britain is ready for her. She has
accepted the challenge; and though her army is not great, she is yet
not unprepared. Between the enemy and Britain's shores there lies that
mighty, invisible and invincible line of defence, the British navy. With
the French armies on the one side and the Russian on the other, Germany
can not last. In these days, with the terrible engines of destruction
that science has produced, wars will be short and sharp. Germany will
get her medicine and I hope it will do her good.”
If Mr. Rushbrooke expected his somewhat flamboyant speech to awaken
enthusiastic approval, he must have been disappointed. His words were
received in grave silence. The fact of war was far too unfamiliar
and too overwhelming to make it easy for them to compass it in their
thoughts or to deal in any adequate way with its possible issues.
After some moments of silence the minister spoke. “I wish I could agree
with Mr. Rushbrooke,” he said. “But I cannot. My study of this question
has impressed me with the overwhelming might of Germany's military
power. The war may be short and sharp, and that is what Germany is
counting upon. But if it be short and sharp, the issue will be a German
victory. The French army is not fully prepared, I understand. Russia is
an untrained and unwieldy mass. There is, of course, the British navy,
and with all my heart I thank God that our fleet appears to be fit for
service. But with regard even to our navy we ought to remember that
it is as yet untried in modern warfare. I confess I cannot share Mr.
Rushbrooke's optimistic views as to the war. But whether he be right
or I, one thing stands out clear in my mind--that we should prepare
ourselves to do our duty. At whatever cost to our country or to
ourselves, as individuals, this duty is laid upon us. It is the first,
the immediate, the all-absorbing duty of every man, woman and child in
Canada to make war. God help us not to shrink.”
“How many in this company will be in Winnipeg this week, say to-morrow?”
inquired Mr. Murray. The hand of every business man in the company went
up. “Then suppose we call a meeting at my office immediately upon the
arrival of the train.” And to this they agreed.
The Rushbrooke bonfire was an annual event and ever the most notable
of all its kind during the holiday season at the Lake. This year the
preparations for the festive gathering had exceeded those of previous
years, and Mrs. Rushbrooke's expectations of a brilliantly successful
function were proportionately high. But she had not counted upon War.
And so it came that ever as the applause following song or story died
down, the Spectre drew near, and upon even the most light-hearted of
the company a strange quiet would fall, and they would find themselves
staring into the fire forgetful of all about them, thinking of
what might be. They would have broken up early but Mrs. Rushbrooke
strenuously resisted any such attempt. But the sense of the impending
horror chilled the gaiety of the evening and halted the rush of the fun
till the hostess gave up in despair and no longer opposed the departure
of her guests.
“Mr. McPherson,” she said, as that gentleman came to bid her good-night,
“I am quite cross with you. You made us all feel so blue and serious
that you quite spoiled our bonfire.”
“I wish it were only I that had spoiled it, Mrs. Rushbrooke,” said Mr.
McPherson gravely. “But even your graceful hospitality to-night, which
has never been excelled even by yourself at the Lake of the Woods, could
not make us forget, and God forgive us if we do forget.”
“Oh, Mr. McPherson,” persisted Mrs. Rushbrooke, in a voice that strove
to be gaily reproachful, “we must not become pessimistic. We must be
cheerful even if we are at war.”
“Thank you for that word,” said the minister solemnly. “It is a true
word and a right word, and it is a word we shall need to remember more
and more.”
“The man would drive me mad,” said Mrs. Rushbrooke to Mr. Murray as
they watched the boats away. “I am more than thankful that he is not my
clergyman.”
“Yes, indeed,” said her husband, who stood near her and shared her
feelings of disappointment. “It seems to me he takes things far too
seriously.”
“I wonder,” said Dr. Brown, who stood with Mr. Murray preparatory to
taking his departure. “I wonder if we know just how serious this thing
is. I frankly confess, Mr. Rushbrooke, that my mind has been in an
appalling condition of chaos this afternoon; and every hour the thing
grows more terrible as I think of it. But as you say, we must cheer up.”
“Surely we must,” replied Rushbrooke impatiently. “I am convinced this
war will soon be over. In three months the British navy together with
the armies of their allies will wind this thing up.”
Through a wonder world of moonlit waterways and dark, mysterious
channels, around peninsulas and between islands, across an open traverse
and down a little bay, they took their course until Jim had them safely
landed at their own dock again. The magic beauty of the white light upon
wooded island and gleaming lake held them in its spell for some minutes
after they had landed till Mrs. Murray came down from the bungalow to
meet them.
“Safe back again,” she cried with an all too evident effort to be
cheery. “How lovely the night is, and how peaceful! James,” she said in
a low voice, turning to her husband, “I wish you would go to Isabel. I
cannot get her to sleep. She says she must see you.”
“Why, what's up?”
“I think she has got a little fright,” said his wife. “She has been
sobbing pitifully.”
Mr. Murray found the little thing wide awake, her breath coming in the
deep sobs of exhaustion that follows tempestuous tears. “What's the
trouble, Sweetheart?”
“Oh, Daddy,” cried the child, flinging herself upon him and bursting
anew into an ecstasy of weeping, “she--said--you would--have--to--go.
But--you won't--will you--Daddy?”
“Why, Isabel, what do you mean, dear? Go where?”
“To the--war--Daddy--they said--you would--have--to go--to the war.”
“Who said?”
“Mabel. But--you--won't, will you, Daddy?”
“Mabel is a silly little goose,” said Mr. Murray angrily. “No, never
fear, my Sweetheart, they won't expect me to go. I am far too old, you
know. Now, then, off you go to sleep. Do you know, the moon is shining
so bright outside that the little birds can't sleep. I just heard a
little bird as we were coming home cheeping away just like, you. I
believe she could not go to sleep.”
But the child could not forget that terrible word which had rooted
itself in her heart. “But you will not go; promise me, Daddy, you will
not go.”
“Why, Sweetheart, listen to me.”
“But promise me, Daddy, promise me.” The little thing clung to him in a
paroxysm of grief and terror.
“Listen, Isabel dear,” said her father quietly. “You know I always tell
you the truth. Now listen to me. I promise you I won't go until you send
me yourself. Will that do?”
“Yes, Daddy,” she said, and drew a long breath. “Now I am so tired,
Daddy.” Even as she spoke the little form relaxed in his arms and in a
moment she was fast asleep.
As her father held her there the Spectre drew near again, but for the
moment his courage failed him and he dared not look.