THE HONOURABLE MALCOLM DURWENT STARTS ON A JOURNEY.
I.
An early morning mist hung over the fields of Roselawn. From his nest in
the branches of a tree, a bird chirruped dubiously, as though to assure
himself even against his better judgment that the rain was only a threat.
The woods which bordered the meadows were blurred into a foreboding,
formless black, like a fringe of mourning, and the distant hills stood
sentinels at the sepulchre of nature.
Flowers, rearing their lovely necks for the first caress of the sun,
drooped disconsolately, their petals like the lips of a maid who has
waited in vain for the coming of her lover. Cattle in the fields moved
restlessly from one spot to another, finding the grass sour and
unpalatable. Through the damp-charged air the melancholy plaint of a
single cow sounded like the warning of rocks on a foggy coast.
In the air which was unstirred by a breath of wind the very buildings of
Roselawn seemed strangely motionless, with their roofs glistening in
their covering of moisture. And through an archway of trees the distant
spire of the church on the hill rose above the mist as a symbol held
aloft by some smoke-shrouded martyr of the past.
A hound with apologetic tail came stealthily from the house and made for
the cover of the stables. A horse rattled its headstall and pawed the
flooring with a restless hoof.
With a feeling of chill in the air, Selwyn rose at seven, and dressing
himself quickly, left the house for a walk before breakfast. His body
was fatigued from the long vigil of the mind which had kept at bay all
but a short hour of sleep, but he felt the necessity of exercise, as
though in the striding of limbs his torturing thoughts might lessen their
thumbscrew grip.
His feet grew heavy in the thick dew of the grass, as he plunged across
the fields to a path which led through the woods, where squirrels,
coquetting with the intruder, dared him to follow to the summit of the
oaks.
Heedless of the morning's melancholy, yet unconsciously soothed by its
calm solace, he went briskly forward, and his blood, sluggish from
inaction, leaped through his veins and coloured the shadowed pallor of
his face with a glow of warmth.
He had lost her.
That was the dominant note of his thoughts. What a jest the Fates had
prepared for him that the very moment when the incoherencies of his life
were crystallised by a great flash of truth--the very moment when he had
felt the overwhelming impulse to consecrate his life in a crusade against
Ignorance--that same instant should witness the snapping of the silk
threads of his love!
How scornful she had been--as if he were something unclean, too low a
thing for her to touch! This girl, whom he had pitied for her
loneliness--this woman who had ridiculed the life of England and declared
that it was stifling her--had said that the glory of war was in her
blood. She had called him a fool because he dared to say that carnage
was wrong. He had thought her an advanced thinker; she was a reactionary
of the most pronounced type.
A feeling of fury whipped his pulses. Confound her and her unbridled
tongue! What a fool he had been to woo her! One might as well try to
coax a wild horse into submission. She would have to be conquered; she
should be brought into subjugation by the stronger will of a man, for
only through surrender would she achieve her own happiness. At present
she resented equally the conquering of herself physically and mentally.
For her own sake she must be taught the perversion of her outlook on life.
And Austin Selwyn, the idealist, little thought that he was applying to
Elise Durwent the same philosophy as Prussia was applying to Europe.
But of one thing he was certain--much as he loved her (and at the thought
his heart grew heavy with longing), his words on war had not been the
idle declaimings of a sophist. There was a higher citizenship; the world
was wrong to allow this war; and ignorance was the foe of mankind.
He would not withdraw from that platform. Duty was not something from
which a man could step lightly aside. All his writings, all his
thoughts, all his half-worked-out philosophies had been but training for
this great moment. And now that it had come he would not prove renegade.
He would write with the language of inspiration. The agony of Man would
be his spur, so that neither fatigue nor indifference could impede his
labours. With the tears of the world he would pen such works that people
everywhere would see the beacon-light of truth, and by it steer their
troubled course.
Five miles he covered in little more than an hour, and with the returning
sense of strength his purpose grew in firmness.
The call of the Universal Mind had penetrated through the labyrinth of
life as the sound of the hunting-horn through leafy woods. There must be
millions, he knew, who were of that great unison, kept from _ensemble_ by
the absence of co-ordination, by the lack of self-expression. It might
not be for him to do more than help to light the torch, but, once lit, it
would burst into flame, and the man to carry it would then come forward,
as he had always done since ages immemorial when a world-crisis called
for a world-man.
A sudden weakness crept into his blood. He was nearing home, and in a
few minutes would see her again. If only he could have left the previous
night on some pretext--but now he would have to wait until the afternoon
at least. How strange it was to think of losing her! How wedded his
subconscious thoughts had been to living out the future with her as his
revelation of Heaven's poetry! Would he have the courage to maintain his
purpose, or, at the sight of her, would he throw himself at her feet,
and, admitting failure, plead for mercy to the vanquished?
No. A thousand times no. Anything but that.
Reaching the clearing in the woods, he paused as the ivy-covered towers
of Roselawn were presented to his gaze. With a characteristic working of
his shoulders he drew himself to his full height, and his jaws and lips
were set in implacable determination.
The mist still clung to the earth, but over the north-east tower of
Roselawn he could see the sun, monstrous and red, looming with its sullen
threat of heat.
II.
It was nearing the end of a breakfast that had been trying for every one.
Lord Durwent's usual kindly affability was overcast by a fresh worry--the
non-appearance of his son Malcolm. Four telegrams had been despatched to
Scotland, but no answer had come. Elise had been gay and talkative with
a forced vivacity; and Lady Durwent had been bordering on hysteria. Not
that the dear lady was of sufficient depth to be profoundly moved by the
world's tragedy, but her unsatisfied sense of the dramatic gave her a new
thrill every time she said, 'WE ARE AT WAR--THINK OF IT!' as if she were
afraid that without her reminder they might forget the fact.
Selwyn sat in almost complete silence, merely acknowledging Lady
Durwent's proclamations of a state of war by appropriate acquiescence,
but his eyes remained fixed on the table. He could not trust them to
look at Elise for fear they should prove traitor and sue for an ignoble
peace. As for her, she met the situation with a smile, using woman's
instinct of protection to assume a cloak behind which her real feelings
were concealed.
They had just risen from the table, when the sound of a motor-car was
heard in the courtyard, and Elise hurried to the window.
'It's Malcolm, dad,' she said.
More in hysteria than ever, Lady Durwent hurried from the room, followed
more slowly by her husband and her daughter, and greeting the Honourable
Malcolm at the door, smothered him in a melodramatic embrace.
'My dear, brave Malcolm,' she cried.
With as good grace as possible the young man submitted to the maternal
endearments, disengaging her arms as soon as he decently could.
'Where's the governor?' he asked. 'Ah, there you are.--Hello,
Elise!--I'm frightfully sorry, pater,' he went on, shaking hands with
Lord Durwent and patting his sister on the shoulder, 'about those
telegrams of yours, but we were on M'Gregor's yacht miles from nowhere,
and didn't even know the dear old war was on until a fishing-johnny told
us. Are my orders here?'
'Yes,' answered Lord Durwent; 'there are two telegrams for you. One came
last night, and one this morning. I will just go into the library and
fetch them.'
'But, Malcolm,' said Lady Durwent, 'let me introduce our guest, Mr.
Selwyn of New York.
The young Englishman smiled with rather an attractive air of
embarrassment. 'I'm frightfully sorry,' he said amiably, proffering his
hand, 'I didn't see you there. Have you had any kind of a time? It's
rather a bore being inland in the summer, don't you think?'
'I have enjoyed myself very much,' said the American, 'in spite of the
tragic end to my visit.'
'Eh,' said the Honourable Malcolm, startled by the seriousness of the
other's voice, 'what's that? Ah yes--you mean the war. Excuse me if I
look at these, won't you?--Thanks, pater.'
'WE ARE AT WAR----THINK OF IT!' cried Lady Durwent in a gust of emotion,
assuming the duties of a Greek chorus while her son examined the
telegrams brought by her husband.
'Well, well!' said the cavalry lieutenant, reading the first message,
which was signed by the adjutant of his regiment; 'dear old Agitato. How
he does love sending out those sweet little things: "Leave cancelled;
return at once"! Ah, my word! "Secret and Confidential"--good old War
Office. What a rag they'll have now running their pet little regiments
all over the world! Humph! By Jove! we're to move to-morrow. Good
work! Let me see, pater. What train can I catch to town? I must throw
a few things together'--he looked at his watch--'but I'll be in heaps of
time for the 11.50. The Agitato always has a late lunch and never drinks
less than three glasses of port, so I'll throw myself on his full stomach
and squeal for mercy for being late. I say, pater, do come up while I
toss a few unnecessaries into my case.--That's right, Brown; put my bag
in my room. And, Brown, you might put some vaseline on those golf-clubs.
I sha'n't be wanting them for some little time.--Come along,
pater.--Excuse me, Mr.--Mr.'----
'SELWYN,' cried Lady Durwent.
'Mr. Selwyn, I'll see you later, eh?'
'The old nobleman ascended the stairs with his son, and the agreeable
chatter of the younger man, with its references to 'topping sport' and
'absolutely ripping weather,' came to an end as they disappeared along
the western wing of the house. Lady Durwent, wiping her eyes, went into
the library, and Selwyn, who was not particularly enamoured of solitude
and its attending tyranny of thoughts, followed her.
Elise, who had stood in mute contemplation of her brother, neither
addressing a remark nor being addressed, hesitated momentarily, then went
into the drawing-room by herself and closed the door.
'Oh, Mr. Selwyn,' said Lady Durwent, breathing heavily, 'you have no idea
what a mother's feelings are at a time like this.'
'I can only sympathise most sincerely,' said the American gravely.
'He has been such a good boy,' she said vaguely, 'and so devoted to his
mother.'
'I can see that, Lady Durwent.'
'I shall never forget,' she went on, her own words creating a deliciously
dramatic trembling in her bosom, 'how he wept when his father insisted
upon his leaving home for school. It was all I could do to console the
child; and when he came home for the holidays he was just my shadow.'
At that satisfactory thought (though Selwyn was a little puzzled at the
picture of the diminutive Malcolm serving as a shadow for Lady Durwent's
bulk) she expanded into a smile, but immediately corrected the error with
a burst of unrestrained grief.
'THINK OF IT, MR. SELWYN,' she cried, reversing the formula--'WE ARE AT
WAR!'
He murmured assent. 'I am afraid, Lady Durwent,' he said, 'that I must
return to London this afternoon.'
'Oh, Mr. Selwyn!'
'Yes, I must. I have a great deal of work before me, and only the
cordiality of your welcome and the pleasure I have felt in being here
would have allowed me to stay so long. You have been wonderfully kind,
and perhaps the fact that I was here when war broke out will lend a
special significance to our friendship for the future.'
'Oh, I shall never forget you,' murmured his hostess, whose emotions were
so near the surface that almost any remark was sufficient to tap them.
'You have been the truest of friends, and Elise is so fond of you.'
'I am very fond of Elise,' blurted Selwyn, feeling his cheeks grow red.
'Her companionship and inspiration were something'----
'Ye-es.' An instinct of caution plugged the emotional channel. Lady
Durwent saw that she had been indiscreet. It was not in her plan of
things that her daughter should become enamoured of a commoner. Selwyn
was all very well for company, and no doubt his books were very good, but
Elise Durwent would have to marry in her own station of life.
'You feel that you must go this afternoon?' said the Ironmonger's
daughter dismally, but with an inflection that made it more a reminder
than a question.
'Yes, Lady Durwent,' he answered, with a cynical smile creeping into his
lips, which seemed thin and almost cruel. 'I shall catch the 3.50.'
'Then you must come again and see us sometime, Mr. Selwyn,' she said,
with that vagueness of date used by polite persons when they don't mean a
thing. Lady Durwent rose with great dignity. 'Will you excuse me, Mr.
Selwyn? I always meet my housekeeper at ten to discuss domestic matters.
Elise is somewhere around. Is it too damp for tennis?'
She paused at the door. She had to. It is one of the traditions of the
stage that a player must stop at the exit and utter one compelling,
terrific sentence.
'WE ARE AT WAR,' she cried--'TH'----
'Think of it!' he said maliciously, bowing and closing the door after her.
III.
Going to his room, Selwyn packed his own bags, dispensing with the
services of the valet, and with more than one sigh of regret glanced
about at the luxury which he was soon to quit. The great bed with its
snowy billows of comfort; the reading-lamp on the little table with the
motley collection of books borrowed from the library with the very best
intentions--books which had hardly been opened before sleep would
obliterate everything from his sight; that merry picture of the two
medieval enthusiasts playing chess, and those jolly Dickensian paintings
of huntsmen at luncheon with grinning waiters and ubiquitous dogs. What
a charm they all had! What a merry little spot England had been in those
good old days!
A ray of sunshine stole through the curtains as if it were not quite sure
of its welcome, and shyly rested against the farthest wall of the room.
With an exclamation of pleasure Selwyn threw open the window and looked
out upon the lawns.
The sun had won its battle, and the countryside was cleared of the
invading mist, which was ingloriously retreating to its own territory
behind the distant hills. There was a sparkle in the air, and the rich
colourings of the flowers vied with each other in Beauty's quarrel. The
birds flew from tree to tree, singing their paean of the sun's victory,
and a light summer breeze was scattering perfume over the earth.
As a sick man emerging from a fever, Selwyn let the refreshing vigour of
the morning lave his temples with its potency. Looking towards the
stables, he saw Mathews, the groom, come out of his domain to cast an
approving glance on Nature's performance. Selwyn decided that he would
go and say good-bye to the fellow. There was something both sturdy and
picturesque about him, and the American presumed that even the head-groom
of the Durwents would not be averse to a ten-shilling gratuity. He
therefore left his room, and reaching the lawn, strolled over to the
stables.
'Good-morning, Mr. Selwyn,' said the groom cheerily, touching his
forehead in a semi-nautical greeting.
'Good-day, Mathews. How are all your family this morning?'
'Meaning the hosses, sir, or opposite-like, my old mare and her colt?
Likewise and sim'lar, and no disrespeck meant, meaning my old woman and
little Wellington.'
'Well,' Selwyn smiled at the worthy man's ramifications, 'I did mean the
horses, but I am even more anxious to know how Mrs. Mathews is.'
'She's a-bloomin', Mr. Selwyn, she is. When I sees 'er t' other night
dancin' at the village, I says to myself, "Criky! If she hain't got a
action like a young filly!" Real proud I was of 'er, and 'er being no
two-year-old neither, but opposite-wise free of the rheumatiz, as is
getting into my withers like.'
'And how is--did you say his name was Wellington?'
'That's 'is 'andle, Mr. Selwyn, conseckens o' 'is being born with the
largest nose I ever sees on a hoffspring o' his age. He's only four year
and a little better, but--criky!--if 'e ain't the knowingest little colt
as ever I raised! When my old woman gives 'im 'is bath 'e goes "Hiss-ss,
hiss-ss," just like a proper groom rubbin' down a hoss. But 'e's a
hunfeeling wretch, 'e is, for when I goes 'ome arter feedin'-time o'
nights, and thinks I'll just smoke a quiet pipe, 'e ups and says,
"Lincoln Steeplechase, guv'nor, and I'm a-riding you." And there he has
everything around the room--'is little table and chairs and toy pianner,
and I've got to jump over 'em on my 'ands and knees with that there
wicious scoundrel a-sitting on my neck and yelling, "Come on, you d--d
old slow-coach! Wot did I give you them oats for?" Now I puts it to
you, Mr. Selwyn, if a himp as makes 'is fayther jump over a toy pianner
is the kind o' child as is like to be a comfort to a feller in 'is old
age.'
With which harrowing query the groom slapped his pipe on his heel and
blew violently through it to try to disguise his gratification at the
paternal reminiscence.
'I don't think I've seen all the horses,' said Selwyn. 'Can you spare a
few minutes to show them to me?'
'Wi' all the pleasure in life, sir. Come in, sir. I know it ain't
becomin' o' me for to boast,' said the groom as they entered the
building, 'but if there's a better stable o' hosses than them there, then
my name ain't Mathews, nor is my Christian names William John neither.
There ain't many in England as knows a hoss quicker 'an me, Mr. Selwyn,
though I says it that shouldn't ought to, but I knows a hoss just as soon
as I sets eyes on 'im. Milord, 'e's just a small bit better, though
likewise and sim'lar we usually thinks exac'ly the same. Only once we
disergreed on a hoss. I says it were wicious, and 'e said as 'ow it
weren't. So we bought it.'
'And who was right?'
'Well, sir, I sort of estermate as 'ow 'e was, for just arter we got 'im
Mas'r Dick, who ain't afraid o' any beast as walks on four legs, took 'im
out for a airing. Well, sir, that hoss--powerful brute 'e were, with a
eye like Sin--goes along like as if 'e 'adn't a evil thought in 'is 'ead;
but all on a sudden 'e comes to a ditch, and sort o' rolls Mas'r Dick
into it, and bungs 'is 'ead against a stone.'
'Then he was vicious, after all?'
'No, sir--that's the extr'ord'nary part of it. He comes right back to
the stables to me and pulls up short. I goes up and looks into that
there sinful eye. "You hulk o' misery," I says; "you willainous son of a
abandoned sire!" You know, sir, I always likes to make a hoss feel real
bad by telling him what's what, for they got intelligence. Mr. Selwyn, I
should say, by Criky! a 'uman being ain't in the same stall as a hoss for
intelligence.'
'I think you may be right,' said Selwyn decisively.
'May be? There ain't no doubt about it nowise.'
'And what happened to your horse?'
'Ah yes, sir. Well, sir, I gets on 'im, and pullin' 'is face around by
'is ear, I give 'im another look in 'is sinful eye. "Where's Mas'r
Dick?" I says. And--criky!--off 'e goes, lickerty-split, like as if we
was entered for the Derby, and, sure enough, 'e stops right at the ditch
where Mas'r Dick was a-lying all peaceful and muddy like a stiff un.
Well, sir, I gets off and lifts 'im up, and then mounts be'ind 'im, and
that there hoss 'e never moved until I tells 'im, and then 'e goes home
so smooth-like that a old lady could 'ave rid 'im and done 'er knitting
sim'lar. And arter that 'e were as gentle as a lamb, 'e were--and there
'e is right afore your eyes, Mr. Selwyn. He's a old hoss now, and ain't
much to look on, but every morning when I comes in 'e takes a look with
that there bad eye o' hisn and says, just like I says to 'im that day,
"Where's Mas'r Dick?" I sometimes feels so sorry for the old feller that
I swears something horrible just to cheer 'im up.'
With considerable interest, though with a certain doubt as to the strict
authenticity of the narrative, the American looked at the horse, which,
after a melancholy survey of the visitors, vented its grief in an attempt
to bite a large-sized slice from the neck of a neighbour.
'Nah, then, you ---- ---- ----,' remarked Mathews unfeelingly, catching
the old beast a resounding thump on the rump with a stick he carried.
'That'll learn you, you old hulk o' misery.'
'There's a beautiful mare, said the American, pausing at the stall of a
superb charger whose graceful limbs and shapely neck spoke of speed and
spirit.
'Ah! Now that there is a beauty and no mistake. She's got the spirit of
a young pup, but is as amiable and sweet-tempered as a angel. She's
Mister Malcolm's hunter, she is, and 'is favourite in the whole stables.
He never rides anything but 'er to hounds; leastways, 'e never did but
once, and then Nell--that's 'er name--Nell was took so sick with frettin'
that she kicked a groom as 'ad come to feed 'er clean across the floor
agin' that there far wall. Never I see a feller so put out as that there
groom--never. Well, sir, she wouldn't let no one come nigh 'er, and just
as we was thinkin' as 'ow we'd 'ave to forcible-feed 'er, in comes Mister
Malcolm. She 'ears 'im, but don't make no sign, and just as 'e comes up
close she lets fling 'er 'eels at 'is 'ead. But 'e was watchin' for it,
and just says "Nellie" kind o' sorrowful and reproachful, sim'lar to the
prodigal son returnin' to 'is aged fayther. Well, sir, the mare she just
gives in at the knees and rubbed 'er nose agin' 'im, and says just as
plain as Scripter that she was real sorry, and 'oped 'e 'd forget it as
one gen'l'man to a lady.'
With sundry anecdotes of a like nature, Mathews guided the visitor past
the long line of stalls, whose inhabitants kept their stately heads
turned to gratify the insatiable curiosity of the equine. To the weary
mind of the American there was an agreeable balm in the groom's fund of
anecdote, and even in the odoriferousness of the stable itself.
Reaching the end of that line, Mathews proposed that before they went any
farther they should go to an adjoining shed and inspect a litter of
little hounds that were blinking in amazement at their second day's view
of the world. From a near-by kennel there was the discordant yelping of
a dozen hounds, and between the two places a kitten was performing its
toilet with arrogant indifference to the canine threat.
They were just about to retrace their steps, when Selwyn felt Mathews's
hand on his arm.
'Sh-sh!' the groom whispered. 'There's Mister Malcolm a-come to say
good-bye to Nellie. I knew 'e would, sir. She'd ha' fretted 'er heart
out if 'e hadn't.'
IV.
Selwyn looked down the stable, and in the dull light he saw the Hussar
officer standing in the stall by the mare, crooning some endearing words,
while the beast, in her delight, rubbed her face against his clothes and
whinnied her plea to be taken for a gallop over the fields.
Not wanting to disturb him, or give the impression that he had been
watching, Selwyn softly withdrew by a door near the dogs, and after
giving Mathews a half-sovereign, made a circuit of the lawns and
approached the house as if he were coming from the woods. As he did so
young Durwent emerged from the stables, followed by a collie-dog that
jumped and frolicked about him as he walked. Noticing the American,
Malcolm crossed over to where he stood, proffering a cigarette.
'Have a gasper, Selwyn?' he asked.
'Thanks very much. I suppose it will be some time before the British
Army will get into action?'
'I don't know, I'm sure,' answered Durwent, holding a match for the
other, 'but three weeks at the outside ought to see us over there and
ready.'
'The Germans have a tremendous start.'
'Yes, haven't they? Damned plucky of Belgium to try to hold them up,
isn't it? Though, of course, you can't expect the Belgian johnnies to
keep them back more than a few days.'
'You think, then, that she will be conquered?'
'Ra-ther. That's a cert. But I don't think it will be for long.'
'You mean that the British will drive the Germans back?'
'Not all at once, but sooner or later. Of course, I'm an awful muff on
strategy--always was--but the general idea seems to be that we go over
now and stop the bounders, and then our dear old citizens gird up their
loins, train themselves as soldiers, and chase the Germans back to
Berlin.'
'But--isn't it an open secret that your regular army is very small? Can
you seriously expect to stop that huge force once it sweeps through
Belgium?'
The Englishman picked up a stone and sent it hurtling across the lawn for
the collie to chase.
'Ever play "Rugger"?' he asked.
'Rugby? Yes.'
'Then you've often seen a little chap bring a big one an awful cropper.'
'That is true, but the cases are hardly parallel.'
'Perhaps not,' said the other, rather relieved at not having to maintain
the analogy any further; 'but, then, the beauty of being a junior officer
is that one doesn't have to worry. I wouldn't be in old man French's
shoes for a million quid, but for us subaltern johnnies it looks as if
we'll have some great sport.'
As the two young men, almost of an age, stood on the rich carpet of the
lawn with their figures outlined against the open background of the
fields, they presented a strange contrast. The Englishman was dressed in
a rough, brown tweed, and though there was a looseness about his
shoulders that almost amounted to slouchiness, they gave a suggestion of
latent strength that could be instantly galvanised into great power.
When he moved, either to throw something for his dog or just to break the
monotony of standing, his movements were slow and deliberate, and he took
a long pace with a slight inclination towards the side, as is the habit
of cavalrymen and sailors. His eyes were a clear, unsubtle blue, and
though his skin was tanned from exposure to the elements, its texture was
unspoiled. His hair was light brown, and, while closely cropped, in
keeping with military tradition, was naturally of thick growth; in the
centre where it was parted there was more than a tendency towards curls.
From his lip a slight moustache was trained to point upwards at the ends,
and beneath the tan of his face could be seen the glow of health, token
of a decent mode of living and a life spent out of doors.
There was a frankness of countenance, a certain humour which one felt
would rarely rise above banter, and the whole bearing was manly and
attractive. But search the features as he would, Selwyn could not
discover any lurking traces of undiscovered personality. Malcolm's very
frankness seemed to rob him of possession of any hidden, unexpected vein
of individuality. He was essentially a type, and of as clear Anglo-Saxon
origin as if he were living in the days before his breed was modified by
inter-association with other tribes.
Selwyn recalled the words of Mathews: 'Milord, you're a thoroughbred, you
are.' This youth was of a race of thoroughbreds. Maternal heredity had
skipped him altogether; he was a Durwent of Durwents, and heir to all the
distinction and lack of distinction which marked the long line of that
family.
And opposite him was an American whose two generations of Republican
ancestry led to the paths of Dutch and Irish parentage. Selwyn had never
tried to discover the cause why his paternal ancestor had left the Green
Island, or his maternal ancestor the land of dikes and windmills; it was
sufficient that, out of resentment against conditions either avoidable or
unavoidable, each had resolved to endure the ordeal of making his way in
a land of strangers. Austin Selwyn bore the marks of that inheritance no
less clearly than Malcolm Durwent bore the marks of his. In his features
there was a certain repose, as became the part-son of a race that had
produced the art of Rembrandt, but there was a roving Celtic strain as
well that hid itself by turn in his eyes, in his lips, in his smile, in
the lines of his frown. In contrast to the clear Saxon steadiness of
Malcolm Durwent, his own face was constantly touched by lights and
shadows of his mind, lit by the incessant prompting of his thoughts that
demanded their answer to the riddle of life.
Although his build was fairly powerful, Selwyn's well-knit shoulders and
alert movements of body spoke of a physique that was always tuned to
pitch, but one missed the impression of limitless endurance which lay
behind the easy carelessness of Malcolm Durwent's pose.
'I want to ask you, Durwent,' said the American, 'more from the
stand-point of a writer than anything else, if these men of yours who are
going out to fight are actuated by a great sense of patriotism, or a
feeling that the liberty of the world depends on them or--well, in other
words, I am trying to discover what it is that makes you men face death
as if it were a game.'
'My dear chap,' said the Englishman, with a slightly embarrassed smile,
'there again we leave it to the fellows higher up. Naturally, if Britain
goes to war, it isn't up to her army to question it one way or another.
Of course, back in our heads we like to feel that she is in the
right--but, then, I don't think Britain would ever do the rotten thing;
do you?'
'N--no, I suppose not.'
'You see, a chap can't help looking at it a bit like a game, for there's
Belgium doing an absolutely sporting thing, and there isn't one of us
that isn't straining at the bit to get over and give them a hand.'
With a slight blush at this admission of fervour, the Englishman grasped
his collie-dog by the forepaws and rolled him on his back.
'But,' said Selwyn, unwilling to let the bone of discussion drop while
there was one shred of knowledge clinging to it, 'supposing that Britain
were in the wrong and you fellows knew it, yet you were ordered to
war--what then?'
His companion laughed and thrust his hands in his pockets.
'Oh, we'd fight anyway; and after we had knocked the other chap out we'd
tell him how sorry we were, then go back and hang the bounders who had
brought the thing on. But then, you see, you're riding the wrong horse,
because soldiering's my job, and I was always an awful muff when it came
to jawing on matters I don't know anything about. You had better get
hold of some of our politician johnnies; they've always got ideas on
things.'
V.
A little later the Honourable Malcolm Durwent left Roselawn in a
motor-car.
As it rounded the curve in the drive he turned and waved at the little
group who were standing in the courtyard, and then he was lost to sight.
And in the hearts of each of the three there was a poignant grief. Lord
Durwent's head was bowed with regret that at Britain's call he had been
able to give one only of his two sons. Dry-eyed, but with aching heart,
Elise stood with an overwhelming remorse that she had never really known
her elder brother. And Lady Durwent, free of all theatricalism, was dumb
with the mother's pain of losing her first-born.
And as the heir to Roselawn went to war, so did the sons of every old
family in the Island Kingdom. In something of the spirit of sport, yet
carrying beneath their cheeriness the high purpose of ageless chivalry,
the blue-eyed youth of Britain went out with a smile upon their lips to
play their little parts in the great jest of the gods.
Not with the cry of 'Liberty!' or 'Freedom!' but merely as heirs to
British traditions, they took the field. Of a race that acts more on
instinct than on reason, they were true to their vision of Britain, and
asking no better fate than to die in her service, they helped to stem the
Prussian flood while home after home, in its ivy-covered seclusion,
learned that the last son, like his brothers, had 'played the game' to a
finish.
Let the men who cry for the remodelling of Britain--and progress must
have an unimpeded channel--let them try to bring to their minds the
Britain that men saw in August 1914, when catastrophe yawned in her path.
That picture holds the secret for the Great Britain of the future.
VI.
It was almost the last day in August, when the little British Army was
fighting desperately against unthinkable odds, that a brigade of cavalry
made a brave but futile charge to try to break the German grip. The --th
Hussars was one of the regiments that took part, and only a remnant
returned.
Staring with fixed, unseeing eyes at the blue of the sky, which was not
unlike the colour of his eyes, the Honourable Malcolm Durwent lay on the
field of battle, with a bullet through his heart.