"Mother," said Bob, on his return home, "I shall be leaving St. Ia
to-morrow morning."
"What! going away, Eh?" said Mrs. Nancarrow, looking at him
searchingly. For days she had been hoping that he would see it his
duty to offer himself to his country, and yet all the time dreading the
thought of parting from him.
"Where are you going?"
"To Oxford," he replied.
"Then you are not going to enlist?"
He shook his head. "I am going to Oxford," he repeated.
"Bob, my dear, we have not seemed to understand each other just lately.
I am afraid I spoke unkindly to you the other day, and as a consequence
there has been a lack of trust. Won't you tell me all about it?"
"There is nothing to tell, mother; I simply cannot do what you expect
me to, that is all. You see I believe in what my father taught me,"
and he looked towards the fireplace, over which hung Dr. Nancarrow's
picture. "Perhaps it is in my blood, perhaps---- I don't know;
anyhow, I think my hand would shrivel up if I tried to sign my name as
a soldier."
"But you have a mother, Bob, a mother whose name was Trelawney, and the
Trelawneys have never failed in time of need. Are you going to be the
first to fail, Bob? Oh, please don't think I do not dread the thought
of your going to the front, and perhaps being killed; but I cannot bear
the thought that my boy should shirk his duty to his country. Tell me,
Bob, why do you want to play the coward?"
"Play the coward! Great God, mother! don't you understand me? I
simply long to go. It seems to me as though everything in life worth
having depends on my doing what you and others want me to do. But how
can I! I hate talking about it, it sounds so pharisaical, but my
father wanted me to be a Christian, and you know what Christianity
meant to him. As I have said again and again, it comes to this--either
war is wrong and hellish, or Christianity is a fable. Both cannot be
right. And if I went as a soldier I should have to renounce my
Christianity--at least that is how it seems, to me. If I went to a
recruiting station I should have to go there over Calvary; that is the
whole trouble."
Mrs. Nancarrow sighed.
"Think, mother," went on Bob, and again he looked towards his father's
picture. "Do you believe he would have me go?"
"Why are you going to Oxford?" she asked.
"I want to see my father's old friend Renthall."
"And get strengthened in your Quaker opinions, I suppose?"
"I have heard nothing about them lately, at all events," said Bob, and
his voice became almost bitter. "It would seem as though we had
accepted a new Gospel which has taken the place of the New Testament.
Big guns are believed in rather than the Cross. But there is no use
talking any more. Good night."
The following morning Bob made his way to the little station at St. Ia
in order to catch an early train for London. When he arrived there he
saw that it was the scene of unusual excitement. A great crowd of
people had gathered, many of whom evidently had no intention of
travelling by train. A few minutes later he saw the reason for this.
Admiral Tresize's motor-car was driving up, containing not only the
Admiral himself, but Captain Trevanion and Nancy. No sooner did the
people see them, than there was a wild shout. Evidently the Captain,
since the meeting, had become a kind of hero, and the fact that he was
starting for the front added fresh lustre to his name.
"We'll see you back again by Christmas," some one shouted. "The
Germans will be licked by that time, and you will be a Colonel at
least. Oh, we don't fear for you--you will be all right."
"It was a fine speech you gave, Trevanion," said another. "By George,
that idea of giving a white feather to all the shirkers was just fine.
I hear that the basket is nearly empty."
"I am afraid I cannot claim the credit for that," laughed the Captain.
"Who suggested it, then?"
"Oh, it was Miss Tresize here. She thinks it such a disgrace for any
man to shirk at such a time as this, that she thought they should be
shamed to some sense of decency and pluck."
"Three cheers for Miss Tresize!" shouted some one, and a minute later,
Nancy, half-angry and half-pleased, was blushing at the shouts of her
friends.
Bob felt himself to be a complete outsider. He too was going by that
train, but no one thought of cheering him--indeed, no one spoke to him.
He was what the people called a shirker. He would have given anything
he possessed to have gone up to Trevanion, and said, "I'll go with
you," but he could not. If he did, he would have to uproot the Faith
of a lifetime.
The Captain moved towards the carriage which was close to his own,
Nancy accompanying him. Bob knew that the girl saw him, but he might
not have existed as far as she was concerned. She spoke gaily, and her
face was wreathed with smiles, but the smiles were not for him, they
were for the man who was going to fight for his country.
The Admiral and the Captain also saw him, but neither spoke. They
seemed to regard him as one who henceforth could not be one of
themselves.
"A man must pay his price, I suppose," reflected Bob. "If he does not
shout with the crowd, he is despised by it. I knew that when I made up
my mind, but I never thought it would be so hard. She thinks I am a
coward--the cowardice would lie in doing what she wants me to do."
"Well, good-bye, Captain: a fine time to you; come back safe to us.
You shall have a great homecoming," shouted the Admiral. "There,
another cheer, lads; he is going to fight for his country," and amidst
wild shouting Trevanion entered the carriage, while only looks of
derision and scornful glances were directed towards Bob.
Arrived in London, Bob caught the first train for Oxford, and before it
was dark entered that classic city. But it was not the Oxford he knew;
an indescribable change had come over everything. When he had left it,
the streets were full of undergraduates, who with merry jest and
laughter had thronged the public places. The colleges then were all on
the point of breaking up, and the students, wearing their short, absurd
little gowns, made Oxford what it ordinarily is in term time. Now the
streets were comparatively empty, many of the colleges had been taken
by the Government in order to be made ready to receive wounded
soldiers. There were no shouts of jubilation, for the news in the
papers that day saddened the hearts of the people. The German army was
steadily driving back the Allied forces towards Paris. Whispers were
heard about the French Government's being shifted to Bordeaux. It
seemed as though Germany were going to repeat the victories of
forty-four years before, when the great _débâcle_ of the French nation
startled Europe. Business was at a standstill. How could the city be
gay when the English soldiers were being driven back with enormous
losses?
"They called it a strategical retreat," Bob heard some one say as he
stood outside the door of The Mitre. "I do not believe in strategical
retreats--it is not like the English to run away."
"Ah! but General French is only carrying out his plans," said another.
"Well then, they're mighty poor plans," was the response.
It seemed to Bob as though a cloud of gloom hung over this old
university town.
His luggage having been taken to the hotel, he found his way into the
dining-room, and the waiter, whom he had known for years, came up to
him and spoke familiarly.
"Bad times, Mr. Nancarrow," he said. "Oxford won't be a university
town now, it'll be a barracks town. I suppose you have come up for
training. Yes, hosts of the young gentlemen have. We shall send out
one of the finest Companies in the British Army, from Oxford. It's
grand, sir, it's grand, the way you young gentlemen come up at this
time. After all, your learning is no good at a time like this; it do
not save the country, sir. We want fighting chaps."
Bob sat down at a little table and picked up the menu.
"Yes, sir," went on the waiter. "It is splendid, the way the young
gentlemen are coming up, and I say a man isn't a man if he stays at
home at a time like this. I wish I was ten years younger, I'd be off
like a bird."
"It's the same everywhere," reflected Bob, "wherever I go I seem to
have poisoned arrows shot at me. I don't care what this fellow thinks
about me, and yet I am ashamed to tell him that I have not come up for
training, at all."
"By the way," he said to the waiter in order to stop his garrulous
talk, which was becoming painful to him, "will you ring up Dr.
Renthall, and ask him if he can see me in about an hour's time?"
A little later Bob was out in the streets again, on his way to Dr.
Renthall's house. It was a relief to him to feel that here, at least,
was one man who would understand his position. After the experiences
of the last two or three weeks the Professor's study would be indeed a
haven of rest.
Bob was not kept waiting at the door. The Professor's old serving-man
knew him well, and showed him into the study without any delay whatever.
"I am glad to see you, Nancarrow," said the Professor. "Oxford has
been a strange city to me these last few weeks; even here, in my den, I
cannot get away from the strife and turmoil. Tell me what you have
been doing, and how you have been getting on."
"I have been like one in an enemy's country," was the young fellow's
reply, and then he briefly told him what had taken place.
"The thing that troubles me," said the Professor, "is the utter failure
of Christianity. All our old ideas seem to have gone by the board.
Even many of my Quaker friends have got the war spirit and are no
longer sane. It is true we have placards all over the town calling us
to prayer, but as far as Christianity is concerned it seems as dead as
Queen Anne."
"Then what is your attitude?" asked Bob.
A few minutes later the Professor was explaining the beliefs which he
had for long held so strongly, and Bob listened greedily. He spoke not
only of the horror of war, but of its unrighteousness and of its
futility.
"We talk about the country going into war for the sake of honour," he
said warmly. "But has there ever been a war in which we have not made
the same plea, and how much honour has there been in it all? What
honour was there in the Boer War? What honour has there been in half
the wars we have made? In the main it has all been a miserable game of
grab. How much was the Founder of Christianity considered when we
bombarded Alexandria? How much of the Sermon on the Mount was
considered when we went to war with those Boer farmers?"
"Yes, yes, I know," replied Bob. "But isn't this war different? I am
not thinking now of the righteousness or unrighteousness of many of the
wars of the past; the thing which troubles me is just this: Is it ever
right to go to war? Can a nation, according to Christian principles,
draw the sword? Mind you, I have gone into this business as carefully
as I have been able. I have read everything that I can get hold of
which bears on it, and I cannot close my eyes to the fact that as far
as justice and righteousness go we are in the right. I have but little
doubt that the Kaiser is playing his own game; he wants some of the
French Colonies, he also wants to extend his power in Asia Minor. In
order to do this he has for years been perfecting his army and
strengthening his navy. But here is the question: Can a nation like
England, according to Christian principles, engage in a bloody war in
order to crush any one or anything?"
"Impossible!" cried the Professor.
"Then, according to you," went on Bob, "the Kaiser should be allowed to
work his will without protest? He should be allowed to crush France,
to violate his promises to Belgium, and to carry out his purposes,
whatever they may be, without resistance on our part."
"I do not say that," replied the Professor. "I only say that war is
never a remedy, and that by trusting in the sword we only add wrong to
wrong, and thus keep back the day of universal brotherhood. Think what
this war has done, even although it has scarcely begun. It has
destroyed the good work of centuries. A few months ago, we in England
had only kind feelings towards the Germans. We regarded them as
friends. We spoke of them as a great Protestant people. To-day, the
bitterness and hatred of all England is roused against them. On every
hand the Germans are being distrusted and abused. Think what this
means? It has put back the clock of Christianity, it has aroused
hatred instead of love, and the whole country is being carried off its
feet by militarism. Even from the pulpit has gone forth the cry of
battle. Militarism has overwhelmed Calvary, and Christ and all that He
stood for have been swept away amidst the clash of arms."
"Yes," was Bob's reply. "But that does not seem to me to solve the
present difficulty. My point is this: What ought one to do at the
present time? Of course, it is easy to say that this war ought never
to have begun. Easy to believe, too, that all wars mean hell let loose
upon earth. We can urge that those old treaties ought never to have
been signed, that alliances ought never to have been formed. But that
does not help us forward. We have to face the situation as it is. We
did sign the treaty and promise our support. There is an _Entente
Cordiale_ between us and France. On the other hand, there is very
little doubt that Germany means to crush France. She means also to
dominate the life of the world. War has been declared, Germany has
marched across Luxemburg, through Belgium, into France. England, in
response to the plea of Belgium, is fulfilling her promise, and scores
of thousands of our soldiers are fighting on the side of the French.
The cry is for more men. On every hand one is appealed to to join the
Army. Now then, what ought one who is trying to be a Christian, to do?"
"There is only one thing to do, it seems to me," was Professor
Renthall's reply. "That is for him to follow the leadings of his
conscience and leave results to God. When Jesus Christ called His
disciples, He made them no alluring promises; in accepting His call,
they simply followed Him regardless of consequences. That, it seems to
me, is the position to-day. We have nothing to do with this wild war
spirit. There are a few men in England, thank God, who protest against
war, and it is for them to be true to the light that is within them, no
matter what the result may be. Of course, we are told that if we do
not crush Germany our liberties will be destroyed and our Empire taken
from us. What have we to do with that? We believe in an over-ruling
Providence. Believing that, and knowing that Christ is the Prince of
Peace, we must absolutely refuse to meet force with force, bloodshed
with bloodshed."
Bob stayed a long time with the Professor, and when he left he was more
than ever convinced that he had done right. A Christian could not
participate in this war, and still be true to his Christianity.
In spite of this, however, there was something at the back of his mind
which told him that the Professor was not right. He could not tell
what it was; nevertheless, it was there.
It was eleven o'clock when he left Dr. Renthall's house, and then,
instead of going back to his hotel, he wandered away in the opposite
direction towards the country.
Heedless of time, and forgetful of everything in the maze of his own
thoughts, he went farther than he had intended, and presently, when he
heard the sound of a clock striking midnight, he realised that he was
staying at an hotel, and ought to have been back long since.
No sooner had he turned, however, than he was startled by a cry of fear
and pain. It was the cry of a woman's voice too, and, acting upon the
impulse of the moment, he rushed to the spot whence the sound came.
Near by was a little village, every house of which was in darkness. At
first he could see nothing, then he heard the sound of struggling
coming from a lonely lane close by the village.
"Give it me, I say, or I'll murder you."
It was a man's voice, raucous and brutal.
"No, no, you may kill me if you like, but I won't," a woman's voice
replied.
Bob saw the man lift his hand to strike her, but before it fell he had
rushed upon him, and hurled him aside.
"Who are you, and what do yer want?" cried the fellow, interlarding his
question with foul epithets.
"No matter who I am, or what I want," replied Bob. "Leave that woman
alone."
The man eyed Bob for a moment, stealthily, and then without warning
rushed upon him.
A minute later the two men were struggling wildly. The man was
strongly but clumsily built, and lacked the agility and muscular force
of the young athlete. But Bob's victory did not come easily. Again
and again the fellow renewed his attack, while the woman stood by with
a look of terror in her eyes.
"Save me," she cried, again and again, "or he will kill me."
At length, by a well-planted blow, Bob sent his opponent staggering to
the ground. The man was stunned for a second, but only for a second.
He raised himself to his feet slowly.
"All right, guv'ner, you have beaten me," he said. "It wasn't my
fault; if she weren't so b---- obstinate, there would have been no
trouble."
Then evidently hearing some one near by, he shouted aloud: "I say,
Bill, come here;" and Bob realised that a new danger was at hand.
"Wait a minute, guv'ner," said the fellow, "I just want to ask your
advice." But Bob was too alert to be caught in this way. Believing
that there must be a police station in the village, he, too, shouted
aloud.
"Help!--help!"
A minute later he found his position doubly dangerous. The one man he,
after a severe struggle, had been able to overcome, but he knew that he
would be no match for the two, and that the woman would be at their
mercy.
"Get away while you can," he said to her; but the woman did not appear
to heed him--she seemed spellbound by what was taking place.
Both men rushed on him madly, and only by a trick which he had learned
as a boy did he save himself. Tripping one of them up, he was able at
the same time to parry the other's blow, and keep him at bay.
His position, however, was desperate, for the second man had again
risen to his feet, and prepared for another attack.
Then suddenly it was all over, the heavy thud of a policeman's
truncheon was heard, and a few minutes later, with Bob's help, the two
men were led away to the police station.
"Lucky for you I was near by, sir," said the constable.
"Lucky for the poor woman too," was Bob's rejoinder.
"I've had my eye on these two blackguards for a day or two," replied
the policeman. "They are a bad lot, and I do not think the woman is
much better than they are. Tell me exactly what happened, sir?"
The policeman nodded his head sagely when Bob had finished his story.
"Yes, sir," he said, "you have done a good night's work. I am afraid I
shall have to take your name and address, because you will be called
upon as witness against them. You have helped me to put my hand upon a
nice little plot, and if these fellows don't get six months, I am very
much mistaken."
When Bob got back to his hotel that night, and was able to think calmly
of what had taken place, he was considerably perturbed.
Of course the incident in itself was sordid enough. The woman was
supposed to be the wife of one of these men, and Bob by his
intervention had hindered what might have been a brutal tragedy.
But that wasn't all. The thing was a commentary on his conversation
with Dr. Renthall.
Two days later Bob appeared at the police court against these men, and
heard with satisfaction the Magistrates sentence them both to severe
punishment.
There is no need for me to tell the whole story here, a story of
cruelty and theft. The fellows received less than their due in the
sentence that was pronounced, and Bob felt that he had freed society,
for some time at all events, of two dangerous characters.
The local papers made quite a feature of the case and spoke with great
warmth of Bob's courage, and the benefit he had rendered the community.
"I say, Nancarrow," said Dr. Renthall, when next they met, "they are
making quite a hero of you. I must congratulate you."
"On what?" asked Bob.
"On the part you played in that affair."
"I am all at sea," was the young man's rejoinder. "It seems to me that
according to Christian principles I should have done nothing. If I had
literally interpreted the dictum: 'If a man strike thee on thy right
cheek, turn to him the other also,' I should have allowed the fellow to
work his will without opposition. But you see, I could not stand by
and see that fellow ill-treat the woman. That was why, before I knew
what I was about, I was fighting for life. Do you think I did right?"
"I see what you are driving at," replied the Professor, "and I admit
you were in a difficult position."
"You said the other night," said Bob, "that force was no remedy.
Perhaps it is not a remedy, but it seems to me necessary. After all,
if you come to think about it, the well-being of the community rests
upon force. But for force that brute would perhaps have killed the
woman. But for force the two fellows would have killed me, but it so
happened that the police came up and saved me, and a policeman
represents force, both moral and physical. No, force may not be a
remedy, but without it, while society is as it is, everything would be
chaos and mad confusion."
"You are thinking about the war, I suppose," said Dr. Renthall.
"One can scarcely think about anything else," replied Bob. "I am all
at sea, Professor--simply all at sea. Oh! I confess it frankly--I
admit that I acted on impulse the other night. My one thought was to
master that fellow, and if I had been driven to extremes, I should have
stopped at nothing, to keep him from harming the woman. For the moment
there was no thought of love, no thought of brotherly feeling in my
heart, I simply yielded to the impulse of my nature. The man
threatened to kill his wife, and if I had not defended her I should
have been unworthy to be called a man. How does that square with
Christianity? Was I wrong?"
"I think you were right," said the Professor slowly. "Yes, I am sure
you were."
"Then, if I were right," replied Bob, "and Germany is acting in the
same spirit as that fellow was acting, is not England right in going to
war? We promised to defend the Belgians, and Germany with brutal
arrogance swept into their country."
"Yes," replied Renthall; "but would it not have been better for Belgium
to have acted on the spirit of non-resistance? If they had, Liége
would never have been bombarded. All the atrocities at Louvain would
never have been heard of."
"You mean, then," said Bob, "that they should have allowed a bully like
Germany to have swept through their country, without resistance, in
order that they might crush France? Don't you see? If it were right
for me to defend the woman against a brute; if I were right in knocking
down that fellow; if the police were right in taking them both to the
police station; if the Magistrates were right in sending them to
prison; was not England right in attacking Germany? Nay, was she not
acting in a Christian spirit in saying: 'This bully shall be crushed.'"
"Have you read the papers to-day?" asked the Professor.
"Yes."
"Did you come across that account of the correspondent who described
what he had seen on the stricken field? Did you get at the inwardness
of it all? You are a fellow with imagination, Nancarrow; didn't you
feel a ghastly terror of war?"
"Yes," replied Bob, "but that does not clear up the question.
Meanwhile, Germany is marching towards Paris and Lord Kitchener is
calling for more men. What ought I to do?"
"Read your New Testament," said the Professor, "remember the words of
our Lord just before He was crucified, 'My Kingdom is not of this
world, else would My servants fight.'"
"Yes," cried Bob, "but----"
"I really cannot stay any longer now," interrupted the Professor, and
he slipped away, leaving Bob alone.