"PERMISSION"
He walked among us many years,
And yet we failed to understand
That there was courage in his fears
And strength within his gentle hand:
We did not mean to be unkind,
But we were dull of heart and mind!
* * * * *
But when the drum-beat through the night
And men were called, with voice austere,
To die for England's sake--and right,
He was the first to answer, "Here!"
His courage, long submerged, arose,
When at her gates, knocked England's foes!
* * * * *
And so to-day, where the brave dead
Sleep sweetly amid Flemish bowers,
One grave, in thought, is garlanded
With prairie flowers!
And if the dead in realms of bliss
Can think on those they knew below,
He'll know we're sorry, and that this
Is our poor way of saying so!
The war has put a new face on our neighborhood life; it has searched
out and tried the hidden places of our souls, and strange, indeed,
have been its findings. By its severe testings some of those who we
thought were our strongest people have been abased, and some of the
weak ones have been exalted. There were some of our people who were
good citizens in the normal times of peace, but who could not stand
against the sterner test of war; and then again we have found the true
worth of some of those whom in our dull, short-sighted way we did not
know!
Stanley Goodman came to our neighborhood when he was a lad of sixteen.
The Church of England clergyman, who knew his people in England,
brought him to Mrs. Corbett, who kept the Black Creek Stopping House,
and asked her if she could give him a room and look after him. He told
her of the great wealth and social position of the family who were
willing to pay well for the boy's keep.
"If they are as well off as all that," said Mrs. Corbett, "why are
they sending the wee lad out here, away from all of them?"
The clergyman found it hard to explain. "It seems that this boy is not
quite like the other members of the family--not so bright, I take
it," he said; "and the father particularly is a bit disappointed in
him!"
"Do you mean," said Mrs. Corbett, "that they are ashamed of the poor
little fellow, and are sending him out here to get rid of him? Faith,
if that's the kind of heathen there is in England I don't know why
they send missionaries out here to preach to us. Bad and all as we
are, there is none of us that would do the like of that!"
"They will provide handsomely for him in every way, Mrs. Corbett, and
leave no wish ungratified," the minister said uneasily.
Mrs. Corbett was a difficult person in some ways.
"Oh, sure, they will give him everything but love and home, and
that'll be what the poor wee lad will hunger for! Money is a queer
thing for sure, when it will make a mother forget the child that she
brought into the world!"
"I think the mother--from what I can gather--wanted to keep the boy,
but the father is a very proud man, and this lad aggravated him some
way just to see him, and the mother yielded to his wishes, as a true
wife should, and for the sake of peace has withdrawn her objections."
"A poor soft fool, that's all she is, to let a domineering old
reprobate send her poor lad away, just because he did not like to see
him around, and him his own child! And even you, Mr. Tilton, who have
been out here living with civilized people for three years, have
enough of the old country way in you yet to say that a true wife
should consent to this to please the old tyrant! Faith, I don't blame
the Suffragettes for smashing windows, and if I wasn't so busy feeding
hungry men, I believe I would go over and give them a hand, only I
would be more careful what I was smashing and would not waste my time
on innocent windows!"
"But you will take him, won't you, Mrs. Corbett? I will feel quite
easy about him if you will!"
"I suppose I'll have to. I can't refuse when his own have deserted
him! I would be a poor member of the Army if I did not remember Our
Lord's promise to the poor children when their fathers and mothers
forsake them, and I will try to carry it out as well as I can."
Stanley was soon established in the big white-washed room in Mrs.
Corbett's boarding-house. He brought with him everything that any boy
could ever want, and his room, which he kept spotlessly clean, with
its beautiful rug, pictures, and books, was the admiration of the
neighborhood.
Stanley understood the situation and spoke of it quite frankly.
"My father thought it better for me to come away for a while, to see
if it would not toughen me up a bit. He has been rather disappointed
in me, I think. You see, I had an accident when I was a little fellow
and since then I have not been--quite right."
"Just think of that," Mrs. Corbett said afterwards in telling it to a
sympathetic group of "Stoppers." "It wouldn't be half so bad if the
poor boy didn't know that he is queer. I tried to reason it out of
him, but he said that he had heard the housekeeper and the parlor-maid
at home talking of it, and they said he was a bit looney. It wouldn't
be half so bad for him if he was not so near to being all right! If
ever I go wrong in the head I hope I'll be so crazy that I won't know
that I'm crazy. Craziness is like everything else--it's all right if
you have enough of it!"
"Stanley is not what any one would call crazy," said one of the
Stoppers; "the only thing I can see wrong with him is that you always
know what he is going to say, and he is too polite, and every one can
fool him! He certainly is a good worker, and there's another place he
shows that he is queer, for he doesn't need to work and still he does
it! He likes it, and thanked me to-day for letting him clean my team;
and as a special favor I'm going to let him hitch them up when I am
ready to go!"
Stanley busied himself about the house, and was never so happy as when
he was rendering some service to some one. But even in his happiest
moments there was always the wistful longing for home, and when he was
alone with Mrs. Corbett he freely spoke of his hopes and fears.
"It may not be so long before they begin to think that they would like
to see me; do you think that it is really true that absence makes the
heart grow fonder--even of people--like me? I keep thinking that maybe
they will send for me after a while and let me stay for a few days
anyway. My mother will want to see me, I am almost sure,--indeed, she
almost said as much,--and she said many times that she hoped that I
would be quite happy; and when I left she kissed me twice, and even
the governor shook hands with me and said, 'You will be all right out
there in Canada.' He was so nice with me, it made it jolly hard to
leave."
Another day, as he dried the dishes for her, assuring her that it was
a real joy for him to be let do this, he analyzed the situation
again:--
"My father's people are all very large and handsome," he said, "and
have a very commanding way with them; my father has always been
obeyed, and always got what he wanted. It was my chin which bothered
him the most. It is not much of a chin, I know; it retreats, doesn't
it? But I cannot help it. But I have always been a bitter
disappointment to him, and it really has been most uncomfortable for
mother--he seemed to blame her some way, too; and often and often I
found her looking at me so sadly and saying, 'Poor Stanley!' and all
my aunts, when they came to visit, called me that. It was--not
pleasant."
Every week his letter came from home, with books and magazines and
everything that a boy could wish for. His delight knew no bounds.
"They must think something of me," he said over and over again! At
first he wrote a letter to his mother every day, but a curt note came
from his father one day telling him that he must try to interest
himself in his surroundings and that it would be better if he wrote
only once a week! The weekly letter then became an event, and he
copied it over many times. Mrs. Corbett, busy with her work of feeding
the traveling public, often paused long enough in her work of peeling
the potatoes or rolling out pie-crust to wipe her hands hastily and
read the letter that he had written and pass judgment on it.
Feeling that all green Englishmen were their legitimate prey for
sport, the young bloods of the neighborhood, led by Pat Brennan, Mrs.
Corbett's nephew, began to tell Stanley strange and terrible stories
of Indians, and got him to send home for rifles and knives to defend
himself and the neighborhood from their traitorous raids, "which were
sure to be made on the settlements as soon as the cold weather came
and the Indians got hungry." He was warned that he must not speak to
Mrs. Corbett about this, for it is never wise to alarm the women. "We
will have trouble enough without having a lot of hysterical women on
our hands," said Pat.
After the weapons had come "The Exterminators" held a session behind
closed doors to see what was the best plan of attack, and decided that
they would not wait for the Indians to begin the trouble, but would
make war on them. They decided that they would beat the bushes for
Indians down in the river-bottom, while Stanley would sit at a certain
point of vantage in a clump of willows, and as the Indians ran past
him, he would pot them!
Stanley had consented to do this only after he had heard many tales of
Indian treachery and cruelty to the settlers and their families!
The plan was carried out and would no doubt have been successful, but
for the extreme scarcity of Indians in our valley.
All night long Stanley sat at his post, peering into the night, armed
to the teeth, shivering with the cold wind that blew through the
valley. His teeth chattered with fright sometimes, too, as the bushes
rustled behind him, and an inquisitive old cow who came nosing the
willows never knew how near death she had been. Meanwhile his
traitorous companions went home and slept soundly and sweetly in their
warm beds.
"And even after he found out that we were fooling him, he was not a
bit sore," said Pat. "He tried to laugh! That is what made me feel
cheap--he is too easy; it's too much like taking candy from a kid. And
he was mighty square about it, too, and he never told Aunt Maggie how
he got the cold, for he slipped into bed that morning and she didn't
know he was out."
Another time the boys set him to gathering the puff-balls that grew in
abundance in the hay meadow, assuring him that they were gopher-eggs
and if placed under a hen would hatch out young gophers.
Stanley was wild with enthusiasm when he heard this and hastened to
pack a box full to send home. "They _will_ be surprised," he said.
Fortunately, Mrs. Corbett found out about this before the box was
sent, and she had to tell him that the boys were only in fun.
When she told him that the boys had been just having sport there came
over his face such a look of sadness and pain, such a deeply hurt
look, that Mrs. Corbett went back to the barn and thrashed her sturdy
young nephew, all over again.
When the matter came up for discussion again, Stanley implored her not
to speak of it any more, and not to hold it against the boys. "It was
not their fault at all," he said; "it all comes about on account of my
being--not quite right. I am not quite like other boys, but when they
play with me I forget it and I believe what they say. There
is--something wrong with me,--and it makes people want--to have sport
with me; but it is not their fault at all."
"Well, they won't have sport with you when I am round," declared Mrs.
Corbett stoutly.
Years rolled by and Stanley still cherished the hope that some day
"permission" would come for him to go home. He grew very fast and
became rather a fine-looking young man. Once, emboldened by a
particularly kind letter from his mother, he made the request that he
should be allowed to go home for a few days. "If you will let me come
home even for one day, dearest mother," he wrote, "I will come right
back content, and father will not need to see me at all. I want to
stand once more before that beautiful Tissot picture of Christ holding
the wounded lamb in his arms, and I would like to see the hawthorn
hedge when it is in bloom as it will be soon, and above all, dear
mother, I want to see you. And I will come directly away."
He held this letter for many days, and was only emboldened to send it
by Mrs. Corbett's heartiest assurances that it was a splendid letter
and that his mother would like it!
"I do not want to give my mother trouble," he said. "She has already
had much trouble with me; but it might make her more content to see me
and to know that I am so well--and happy."
After the letter had been sent, Stanley counted the days anxiously,
and on the big map of Canada that hung on the kitchen wall he followed
its course until it reached Halifax, and then his mind went with it
tossing on the ocean.
"I may get my answer any day after Friday," he said. "Of course I do
not expect it right off--it will take some little time for mother to
speak to father, and, besides, he might not be at home; so I must not
be disappointed if it seems long to wait."
Friday passed and many weeks rolled by, and still Stanley was hopeful.
"They are considering," he said, "and that is so much better than if
they refused; and perhaps they are looking about a boat--I think that
must be what is keeping the letter back. I feel so glad and happy
about it, it seems that permission must be coming."
In a month a bulky parcel came to him by express. It contained a
framed picture of the Good Shepherd carrying the lost lamb in his
arms; a box of hawthorn blossoms, faded but still fragrant, and a book
which gave directions for playing solitaire in one hundred and
twenty-three ways!!
Mrs. Corbett hastened to his room when she heard the cry of pain that
escaped his lips. He stood in the middle of the floor with the book in
his hand. All the boyishness had gone out of his face, which now had
the spent look of one who has had a great fright or suffered great
pain. The book on solitaire had pierced through his cloudy brain with
the thought that his was a solitary part in life, and for a few
moments he went through the panicky grief of the faithful dog who
finds himself left on the shore while his false master sails gayly
away!
"I will be all right directly," he stammered, making a pitiful effort
to control his tears.
Mrs. Corbett politely appeared not to notice, and went hastily
downstairs, and although not accustomed to the use of the pen, yet she
took it in hand and wrote a letter to Stanley's father.
"It is a pity that your poor lad did not inherit some of your hardness
of heart, Mr. Goodman," the letter began, "for if he did he would not
be upstairs now breakin his and sobbin it out of him at your cruel
answer to his natural request that he might go home and see his
mother. But he has a heart of gold wherever he got it I don't know,
and it is just a curse to him to be so constant in his love for home,
when there is no love or welcome there for him. He is a lad that any
man might well be proud of him, that gentle and kind and honest and
truthful, not like most of the young doods that come out here drinkin
and carousin and raisin the divil. mebbe you would like him better if
he was and this is just to tell you that we like your boy here and we
dont think much of the way you are using him and I hope that you will
live to see the day that you will regret with tears more bitter than
he is sheddin now the way you have treated him, and with these few
lines I will close M corbett."
How this letter was received at Mayflower Lodge, Bucks, England, is
not known, for no answer was ever sent; and although the letters to
Stanley came regularly, his wish to go home was not mentioned in any
of them. Neither did he ever refer to it again.
"Say, Stan," said young Pat one day, suddenly smitten with a bright
thought, "why don't you go home anyway? You have lots of money--why
don't you walk in on 'em and give 'em a surprise?"
"It would not be playing the game, Pat; thank you all the same, old
chap," said Stanley heartily, "but I will not go home without
permission."
After that Stanley got more and more reticent about the people at
home. He seemed to realize that they had cut him off, but the homesick
look never left his eyes. His friends now were the children of the
neighborhood and the animals. Dogs, cats, horses, and children
followed him, and gave him freely of their affection. He worked happy
hours in Mrs. Corbett's garden, and "Stanley's flowers" were the
admiration of the neighborhood.
When he was not busy in the garden, he spent long hours beside the
river in a beautifully fashioned seat which he had made for himself,
beneath a large poplar tree. "It is the wind in the tree-tops that I
like," he said. "It whispers to me. I can't tell what it says, but it
says something. I like trees--they are like people some way--only more
patient and friendly."
The big elms and spruce of the river valley rustled and whispered
together, and the poplars shook their coin-like leaves as he lay
beneath their shade. The trees were trying to be kind to him, as the
gray olive trees in Gethsemane were kind to One Other when his own had
forgotten Him!
* * * * *
When the news of the war fell upon the Pembina Valley, it did not
greatly disturb the peacefulness of that secluded spot. The well-to-do
farmers who had held their grain over openly rejoiced at the prospect
of better prices, and the younger men, when asked to enlist, replied
by saying that the people who made the war had better do the fighting
because they had no ambition to go out and stop German bullets. The
general feeling was that it would soon be over.
At the first recruiting meeting Stanley volunteered his services by
walking down the aisle of the church at the first invitation. The
recruiting officer motioned to him to be seated, and that he would see
him after the meeting.
Stanley waited patiently until every person was gone, and then timidly
said, "And now, sir, will you please tell me what I am to do?"
The recruiting officer, a dapper little fellow, very pompous and
important, turned him down mercilessly. Stanley was dismayed. He
wandered idly out of the church and was about to start off on his
four-mile walk to the Stopping House when a sudden impulse seized him
and he followed the recruiting agent to the house where he was
staying.
He overtook him just as he was going into the house, and, seizing him
by the arm, cried, "Don't you see, sir, that you must take me? I am
strong and able--I tell you I am no coward--what have you against me,
I want to know?"
The recruiting officer hesitated. Confound it all! It is a hard thing
to tell a man that he is not exactly right in the head.
But he did not need to say it, for Stanley beat him to it. "I know
what's wrong," he said; "you think I'm not very bright--I am not,
either. But don't you see, war is an elemental sort of thing. I can do
what I'm told--and I can fight. What does it matter if my head is not
very clear on some things which are easy to you? And don't you see how
much I want to go? Life has not been so sweet that I should want to
hold on to it. The young men here do not want to go, for they are
having such a good time. But there is nothing ahead of me that holds
me back. Can't you see that, sir? Won't you pass me on, anyway, and
let me have my chance? Give me a trial; it's time enough to turn me
down when I fail at something. Won't you take me, sir?"
The recruiting officer sadly shook his head. Stanley watched him in an
agony of suspense. Here was his way out--his way of escape from this
body of death that had hung over him ever since he could remember. He
drew nearer to the recruiting officer,--"For God's sake, sir, take
me!" he cried.
Then the recruiting officer pulled himself together and grew firm and
commanding. "I won't take you," he said, "and that's all there is
about it. This is a job for grown-up men and men with all their wits
about them. You would faint at the sight of blood and cry when you saw
the first dead man."
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 eyeglass, passed 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. God 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
assent. 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 pass 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
constitution, 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 muffins like the muffins 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.