be many days before I was restored to my ordinary strength, and yet,
strange as it may seem, I awoke refreshed. Evidently there was enough
vitality in my system to enable me to recuperate quickly.
"There is bad news, sir," said Simpson, after I had dressed.
"Bad news! How? Where?" I asked.
"The Germans are driving us back everywhere, sir, driving the French
too. Do you think the Army would take me, sir, if I offered myself? I'd
like to have a smack at them."
"How old are you, Simpson?"
"Fifty-five, sir."
"It may be that they will be obliged to take you before the war is
over."
"I am ready now, sir, if they will have me."
During the afternoon I tried to forget the interview of the previous
night in some experiments with the hobby which had occupied my mind for
several weeks. I had become quite efficient in the management of my
little wireless apparatus, and I was greatly interested in the little
book of codes which the young fellow from M---- had given me.
When evening came I determined, in spite of what I had suffered on the
previous night, to find my way to the village schoolroom. As I have said
before, I wanted to feel the pulse of humanity, longed to know what was
doing in the world; and living here, in this out-of-the-way corner of
the world, it seemed my only chance of fulfilling my desire.
When I arrived, the little schoolroom was nearly full. There were but
few young men, not more than a score in all. The rest of the audience
was made up of women and older men. On the platform was the Squire, who
presided over the meeting, and near him were several of the leading
people of the district. Both the vicars of St. Issey and St. Eia were
there, together with one or two neighboring squires. Naturally, Josiah
Lethbridge was absent.
I took my seat in a corner of the room, as far out of sight as possible,
and tried to understand the little audience which had gathered together.
I suppose every county has its characteristics, and certainly a Cornish
audience is different from any I have seen. Years ago, I had been
informed, the people were exceedingly emotional, and easy to be moved.
That, however, was a thing of the past. There was no suggestion of
excitement or enthusiasm, and while each and all seemed to listen
carefully to what was being said, it was difficult to tell what their
feelings were. On the whole, I think I never saw a less responsive
audience, if one might judge from outward appearances.
A lady with quite a county reputation for singing was at the meeting,
and while there are few parts of the country where there is stronger
love for music than in Cornwall, she seemed to make little impression on
her audience. Yet perhaps I am wrong in saying this. They appreciated
the sweetness of her voice and the melody of her songs, but the
sentiment which those songs expressed went for nothing. I have heard
audiences spoken of as stolid. The audience at St. Issey was not stolid;
it was stony. The people were keenly alert, they understood all that was
being said, and in a way appreciated all the speeches; but they sat
coldly critical, and unmoved.
Squire Treherne made a model chairman. He came to them, he said, as a
friend and neighbor. He had known most of them all their lives, and he
felt it his duty to point out to them, at this time of national danger,
the needs of the times and the duties of the people. He spoke of what
Cornwall had done in the history of the nation; he reminded them of
stirring events in the life of the county, when Cornishmen had done
their part and more than their part.
Then he went on to describe the circumstances which had led to the war.
He described Germany's preparations, told the story of what had taken
place in the Balkan States, and related how Sir Edward Grey had done his
utmost to avert the war; but the time had come when war could not be
averted, and when England had to take her part in it. Her honor was at
stake, her safety was in peril, all that we loved was in danger, and
every man in the country was called upon to play his part. The Squire
did not give a brilliant speech, but it was full of good common sense,
full of patriotic fervor. The old man did not see how any Englishman
could stand aloof at a time like this.
Other speakers followed, who simply repeated what the Squire had said,
and presently came the appeal for young men to offer themselves to their
King and Country.
No one knows how I longed to be able to respond to that appeal. It
seemed to me that, commonplace as the speeches were, no man could, who
bore a British name, or had British blood in his veins, keep back. But I
could do nothing; I was a useless hulk doomed to die. I eagerly scanned
the faces of the young men who were near me, anxious to catch some
suggestion of response to the speakers' appeals, but no one seemed
moved. Each listened attentively to all the arguments that were adduced,
but no man made a sign. Never, as it seemed to me, had I seen a more
saddening sight, and presently, when the meeting was about to close, and
the audience prepared to depart, I yielded to an overwhelming impulse. I
knew it was madness on my part to do so, but I could not resist it.
After all, what did it matter whether I shortened my days or not? I
could not fight for my country, but perhaps I could persuade others to
do so.
As the chairman was on the point of asking the people to rise and sing
the national anthem, I got up and asked to be allowed to say a few
words. Of course, consent was immediately given, and I saw some of the
people, who were on the point of leaving, resume their seats, as I made
my way to the platform. Indeed, I could not help feeling that there was
a wave of more than ordinary interest passing over the audience, as they
saw me preparing to address them.
I had not the slightest idea of what I wished to say. Indeed, as I stood
up and faced the people, my mind was a perfect blank. I had simply
yielded to an overwhelming impulse, without having any definite message
to deliver.
Usually making speeches had been no difficulty to me. I had not been a
barrister for several years without having had some practice in the art.
Nevertheless, I felt a strange nervousness as I faced these simple
country-people. I had nothing to say, and there seemed no reason why I
should be there. I stood for a few seconds in silence, while the people
waited; then, looking in one corner of the hall, I saw Isabella
Lethbridge. She was looking at me intently, her eyes were shining
brightly, and her lips were parted, as if with eager anticipation.
Immediately my thoughts took shape, and words came easily. At that
moment, too, a wave of passion passed over me. I remembered what Hugh
Lethbridge had done; knew that even now he had left his wife, left his
home, left everything at the call of his country; and as I saw a score
of stalwart youths, sitting together in the back part of the room
utterly unmoved by all that had passed, a feeling of hot anger filled
me. I scarcely knew what I said. It did not seem to matter; but
something seemed to catch fire within me, and in a few moments I
realized that the audience had caught fire too. Cheer after cheer burst
forth. Only one thing do I remember saying, and that I thought
afterwards was in anything but good taste.
"I have come to you," I said, "as a dying man. One of the greatest
physicians in London has told me that my days are numbered, that I must
avoid all excitement, that I must take care that I do not over-exert
myself; that if I do, my life hangs on a thread; but I feel I cannot sit
still, although this meeting may kill me, while you are unresponsive."
This gave me a kind of text for the appeal I made. I knew I spoke in
hot, passionate words. I forgot everything in my desire to rouse the
people to a sense of duty. I saw that the faces of the people had become
set and stern, I noticed that their eyes were shining with a new light,
and I felt that influences were at work which had hitherto been absent.
This made me forget the madness of my action, made me careless of my own
life. Nothing at that moment seemed to matter but the cause for which I
was pleading.
"What are you going to do?" I cried. "Will you not respond to the call
of your King and of your Country? Will you not fight for liberty, truth,
and honor? As for me...." Then a great darkness came over me, and I
remembered no more.
When I awoke to consciousness, I was sitting in a little anteroom, at
the back of the platform, where around me stood the Vicar, the Squire,
and two or three others.
"Are you better?"
"I am quite all right," I replied. "What is the matter?"
"You were overcome, exhausted. I am afraid you ought not to have
spoken."
"Was it in vain, then?" I asked.
"Oh, no; half a dozen young fellows came out at the close of your
appeal. I do not think it was because of what you said so much, but the
fact that you were ill, and risked your life in trying to arouse them,
which made them feel ashamed. Are you sure you are better?"
"I am quite all right," I repeated. "I cannot understand how I came to
lose consciousness."
"I am going to run you up in my carriage," said the Squire; "I cannot
think of allowing you to walk."
"There is not the slightest need for that," I replied; and as if to
prove my words I walked across the room.
"Still, I am going to drive you home," said the Squire. "I am afraid I
ought not to have let you speak, even although you have done what we all
failed to do."
As I walked into the schoolroom, a group of people waited, evidently
anxious to hear about me, and an old man came up and gripped me by the
hand.
"I be glad you be better, maaster," he said. "'Twas good to 'ear ee for
sure; you made me think of John Guttridge, when he used to come down
'ere preachin'. Yes, maaster, you made some of them feel what cowards
they was; but we Cornish be curious people. Besides, maaster, we be'ant
used to this sort of thing, and spite of all you say, we ca'ant grip it
like."
"How is that?" I asked.
"For forty year we've bin tould the other thing, maaster. Tha's how it
is. For forty year we've bin tould that war was wrong; and now to be
tould it be our duty--well, you see, we ca'ant clunk it. It do'ant seem
right. It'll take a lot to git the thought fixed in our minds that the
Lord would have us do this. When you can do that, maaster, there won't
be no need for meetin's; the difficulty then will be to keep the boys
back."
Although I did not reply, I felt that the old man had got to the heart
of the thing. One could not eradicate the teachings of half a century in
a day.
Immediately afterwards, the old man's words were driven from my mind;
for coming towards me, with hand outstretched, was Isabella Lethbridge.
I saw a look in her eyes that I had never seen before.
"Are you mad, Mr. Erskine?" she asked.
"I expect so," I replied.
"Oh, but I did envy you!" and her voice quivered. "It must be glorious
to have the power to move people, even though----" Then she stopped, as
if she thought it unwise to utter the thought that had come into her
mind.
"Good-night;" and her voice was like a sob as she went out into the
darkness.
XV
HOW THE CHANGE BEGAN
"That was Lethbridge's daughter, wasn't it?" asked the Squire, as we
drove towards my little house.
"Yes," I replied.
"I am surprised that she should be there;" and I noticed that the
Squire's voice seemed tense and angry.
"Surprised! Why?"
He hesitated a second, then went on.
"I had a row with the man this morning. I--I could not help it."
"A row with Mr. Lethbridge?"
"Yes, he made me mad. I tried to act as generously as I could; but there
are limits."
I was silent, although, truth to tell, I wanted to know what had caused
the Squire's anger.
"I went to see him this morning," he went on presently. "You see, I
wanted the platform to be as representative as possible, and knowing
that Lethbridge is a large employer of labor, and therefore has a great
deal of influence among working men, I thought he might be of value to
us. I suppose I ought to have gone to see him before; but the meeting
was arranged in a hurry, and--and--anyhow, I didn't. But I went this
morning, and asked him to propose the chief resolution."
"And what did he say?"
"He refused pointblank, and added an insulting remark to his refusal."
"And then what?" I asked.
"I am afraid I lost my temper. You see, I did not understand his point
of view--how could I? Whatever he is, he was born in England, and I am
afraid I told him some home truths. I told him he was a disgrace to his
country, that he was unworthy to be called an Englishman, and that I
should refuse ever to enter his house again."
"Pretty drastic," I remarked.
"Drastic!" replied the old man. "How could I help being drastic? He
abused the Army, abused our statesmen, said we had been dragged into the
war by a bungling diplomacy, told me we were as guilty as the Germans
were, and that we had torn up more scraps of paper than the Germans had.
I asked him to prove his words, I challenged him to bring forward a
single instance where we had treated any country as the Germans had
treated Belgium."
"And he?" I asked.
"He couldn't answer me."
"Well, what was the upshot of it?"
"After a bit I got rather ashamed of myself for having lost my temper;
besides, I thought I might have misunderstood him, and I wanted his help
in the fund we are raising."
"And did he help you?"
I felt the old man's body quiver as he sat by my side in the carriage.
"Not a penny, sir, not a penny. He actually had the cheek to tell me
that he had lost a large sum through the war, and that he would be bled
to death with taxes. God bless my soul! What have we English people to
do talking about taxes at a time like this! Besides, he is a rich man.
If he lost a hundred thousand pounds to-morrow, he would hardly feel it.
He has been making money hand over fist for a quarter of a century, and
now, when the country is in peril, he complains about taxes; squeals
like a stoat caught in a gin! I have no patience!"
"And you got no further than that with him?"
"I got no further with him because I didn't stay. I have tried to be
neighborly with the man, although I hate his views. But when one's
country is at stake, when a man tries to hide his meanness and
niggardliness by whining about taxes!--well, you see, we had nothing
more to say to each other. He proved himself to be a bounder, a rank
outsider. I told him so, too. I said, 'Henceforth, Mr. Lethbridge, we
shall be strangers. I shall never enter your doors again, and naturally
you won't want to enter mine.' Then he turned round and asked me what I
had sacrificed for the country. I suppose he thought he was going to
make a point against me there, but he didn't get much satisfaction out
of it. I told him I had written to Headquarters and offered everything I
have. If they wanted my house for a hospital, they could have it; if
they wanted my land for a camping-ground, they could have it. At that he
sneered, and said I was perfectly safe in making such an offer. Think of
it, Erskine, think of it! What can you do with a man like that?"
"His only son has enlisted," I said.
"What, Hugh! You don't mean it?"
"Yes, I do. He has enlisted as a private, although I understand that
owing to his knowledge of modern languages, and his skill in mechanics,
besides being a very good shot, they are going to make a special case of
him. All the same, he enlisted as a private."
"God bless my soul! That's good."
"I am afraid that is why Mr. Lethbridge is so angry," I went on. "You
see, he is one of those men who hate war."
"Hates war! Well, what of that? We all do. We English are a peace-loving
people, and we detest war, we loathe it, shudder at it. Did I not lose
my only son in the Boer War? But in this case everything is at stake,
our plighted word, our honor! If we slunk out of it, we should be a
byword among the nations. Besides, think what these Germans mean to do.
If they are not crushed we shall have no country, no home. Have you read
what they are doing in Belgium? Have you read about Louvain, Malines,
Aerschot? It is devilish, man, devilish. They have violated every law,
human and divine. I never thought that any fiend from hell could do what
they are doing. And if they can do these things in Belgium, what will
they do in England, if they get here? What would become of our women and
children? No, no, it is a call of God, my boy, it is a call of God. You
put it straight to-night, hot and strong. I nearly lost my head when I
heard you."
"Anyhow, Hugh Lethbridge has joined the Army. And what has hurt his
father even more than that is that he has married that girl Mary
Treleaven."
"God bless my soul! You don't mean that!" and the old man lapsed into
silence. "I am glad he did it," he went on presently. "It serves his
father right. And--and Hugh is a fine lad."
"He _is_ a fine lad," I assented. "But you can understand how his father
feels about it."
"Yes, yes," said the Squire. "All the same, I am glad I gave him a piece
of my mind. I could not help it, Erskine. I am a peaceful man, and I
hate losing my temper, though, God knows, I am a bit given to it. But I
was surprised to see his daughter there to-night," he went on, "and she
was carried away by what you said too. Well, she has good blood on her
mother's side. The Vivians are good people, and the family has owned
land in the county for centuries. Ah, here we are. I hope you won't
suffer for what you have done to-night, my boy."
"I do not think I shall," I replied. "I dare say I was very foolish, but
I could not help it."
"I am proud of you!" and the old Squire gripped my hand heartily. "You
have got good English blood in you, you have got the old Cornish
feeling. By the way, I hope you will come over and see me sometimes. I
am a poor man, Erskine, and we shall all of us have to retrench, but you
will always find a welcome at my house."
Then he left me, and I found my way through the copse to my lonely
little house.
For the next few days I was almost prostrate. I was paying the penalty
for my foolishness. I knew I ought not to have gone to the meeting, and
yet, I was glad I had.
So ill did I become that Simpson, without obtaining my permission, sent
for the local doctor to come and see me. This doctor was a tall, gaunt
Scotsman, who had, as he informed me, come to Cornwall rather for the
purpose of building up his own health than for building up a practice. I
was vexed that Simpson had sent for him, but I could not remain angry
with the poor fellow, for I was so ill that he dare not be left alone
with me without having some one to advise him. Dr. Wise was one of the
most talkative men I ever met in my life, and after he had asked me a
few questions about my illness, he assured me that I had not long to
live, and that in all probability what I had done had curtailed the few
months which otherwise would have been left to me. I found out, however,
that his chief interest in me was not the malady from which I was
suffering, or how he might get me better, but to have me as a listener
to his views.
"The country is in a bad way," he said. "We have neither arms nor
munitions. Even now the Woolwich Arsenal is only working two days a
week."
"How do you know?" I asked.
"Oh, I got it from a man who knows a man who lives near Woolwich," he
replied. "I got a letter yesterday morning, telling me about it."
"Has your informant an entrée into Woolwich Arsenal?" I asked.
"Oh, I know it is true," he replied. "Our house-maid has a brother who
works there too, and he says the same thing. Oh, the country is in a bad
way."
"It must be," I replied.
"Yes, and then there is all this talk about the Russians coming over to
help us; do you know there is a plot in that, a deep-laid plot?" he
asked in serious tones.
"You don't mean it!" I said, for by this time the man had begun to amuse
me.
"Yes, I do," he replied. "I have heard on good authority that the
Russians mean to turn round on us. They are in league with the Germans,
and they are sending over half a million men to attack our Army at the
back. I am not at liberty to tell how I got my information, but it is
true. Then there is the Army food. Do you know, it is in a terrible
condition."
"How is that?"
"Our soldiers at the front haven't got enough to eat. I know it for a
fact. One of the men who went out with the Expeditionary Force wrote and
told me that if it were not for the food they took from the German
prisoners they would be starving."
"That is terrible," I replied.
"You would not believe it, would you?" he went on, "but the whole
country is governed wrongly, and they are allowing the Germans to
hoodwink us at every corner."
"If that is so," was my answer, "it seems strange that the Germans
should have been driven back from the Marne. How is it that when they
got so near to Paris they did not take it?"
"Ah, that is because they hated the English so. They had Paris in their
hands practically, and might have been there now if they had not hated
the English."
"That is very interesting," I said. "How did it come about?"
"Well, you see, the German generals had made all arrangements to march
into Paris, but they gave way to a fit of anger, and determined to crush
the English instead. It was a false move on their part, and but for that
we should have been done for."
"How lucky for us," I replied.
"Yes, but they are arranging to get to Calais by another road now. They
have everything fixed up for the invasion of England."
"What, the Germans have?"
"What they are going to do is this," and he spoke very solemnly. "First
of all they are going to take Calais; then they are going to bring their
big guns and bombard Dover. After that, they are going to lay mines in
two lines, allowing a lane for the German boats to land two hundred
thousand men in Dover. They are going to be flat-bottomed boats, and I
have it on good authority that the Kaiser is coming with them."
"What! that he is coming over in these flat-bottomed boats with two
hundred thousand men?" I asked.
"Yes, that is it. He is going to march on London with all these men, and
dictate terms of peace from there," he added.
"And can you inform me what the British Fleet is going to be doing all
this time?" I asked.
"We have no coal, man," was his answer. "Besides, think of the German
submarines. They will sink all our ships as fast as we can bring them
up."
How long he went on in this strain I hardly know, but that he believed
in all he said was evident, and that he took a delight in his mournful
prognostications was just as evident.
"Simpson," I said, "Dr. Wise has done me good. I feel better than I have
felt for days."
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir," said Simpson. "Has he given you any
medicine, sir?"
"Oh, no," I replied. "But he has done me a world of good; only, Simpson,
don't allow him to come again."
September passed slowly away, and although I gradually recovered from
the effects of the excitement through which I had passed, I did not go
far afield, and beyond going into the village, and roaming round the
cliffs, I took little or no exercise.
I discovered, as far as the people of St. Issey were concerned, that no
sooner had the first effects of the declaration of war passed away, than
they settled down to the old mode of living. Indeed, the war was not
real to them at all. It was something that was happening a long way off.
Only a few of them read the newspapers, and in spite of the bad news
which circulated, they had not the slightest doubt about the English
soon bringing the Germans to their knees. They found, too, that the war
did not affect them in the way they had expected. There was neither
scarcity of money nor food; work went on as usual, the harvest was
garnered, and there were no prospects of a famine, which they had
feared, coming to pass.
Indeed, as I think of those days, and as I reflect upon my own
experiences, I do not so much wonder at the general prevailing
sentiment. We are far out of the world down here in Cornwall--St. Issey
is some miles from a railway station--and removed as we are from the
clash and clamor of the world, it is difficult for us to realize what is
going on in the great centres of life. That the war existed we knew,
that a great struggle was going on hundreds of miles away was common
knowledge, but it did not come home to us.
The following incidents will give some idea of what I mean.
One day, while walking through the fields towards St. Issey, I passed a
cottage, by the door of which a woman of about forty years of age was
sitting.
"Look 'ere, maaster," she said. "I want to ax 'ee a question."
"Well," I asked. "What?"
"Well, 'tis like this," she said. "Me an' my 'usband 'ave come to
words."
"I am sorry for that," I said. "But that is not so bad as coming to
blows."