Mr. Dean Wakeham was always glad to have a decent excuse to run up to the Lakeside Farm. His duties at the Manor Mine were not so pressing that he could not on occasion take leave of absence, but to impose himself upon the Lakeside household as frequently as he desired made it necessary for him to utilise all possible excuses. In the letter which he held in his hand and which he had just read he fancied he had found a perfectly good excuse for a call. The letter was from his sister Rowena and was dated May 15th, 1914. It was upon his sister's letters that he depended for information regarding the family life generally and about herself in particular. His mother's letters were intimate and personal, reflecting, however, various phases of her ailments, her anxieties for each member of the family, but especially for her only son now so far from her in that wild and uncivilised country, but ever overflowing with tender affection. Dean always put down his mother's letters with a smile of gentle pity on his face. “Poor, dear Mater,” he would say. “She is at rest about me only when she has me safely tucked up in my little bed.” His father's letters kept him in touch with the office and, by an illuminating phrase or two, with the questions of Big Business. But when he had finished Rowena's letters he always felt as if he had been paying a visit to his home. Through her letters his sister had the rare gift of transmitting atmosphere. There were certain passages in his letter just received which he felt he should at the earliest moment share with the Lakeside Farm people, in other words, with Nora.
His car conveyed him with all speed to Lakeside Farm in good time for the evening meal. To the assembled family Dean proceeded to read passages which he considered of interest to them. “'Well, your Canadian has really settled down into his place in the office and into his own rooms. It was all we could do to hold him with us for a month, he is so fearfully independent. Are all Canadians like that? The Mater would have been glad to have had him remain a month longer. But would he stay? He has a way with him. He has struck up a terrific friendship with Hugo Raeder. You remember the Yale man who has come to Benedick, Frame and Company, father's financial people? Quite a presentable young man he is of the best Yale type, which is saying something. Larry and he have tied up to each other in quite a touching way. In the office, too, Larry has found his place. He captured old Scread the very first day by working out some calculations that had been allowed to accumulate, using some method of his own which quite paralysed the old chap. Oh, he has a way with him, that Canadian boy! Father, too, has fallen for him. To hear him talk you would imagine that he fully intended handing over ere long the business to Larry's care. The Mater has adopted him as well, but with reservations. Of course, what is troubling her is her dread of a Canadian invasion of her household, especially—'um um—” At this point Mr. Dean Wakeham read a portion of the letter to himself with slightly heightened colour. “'While as for Elfie, he has captured her, baggage and bones. The little monkey apparently lives only for him. While as for Larry, you would think that the office and the family were the merest side issues in comparison with the kid. All the same it is very beautiful to see them together. At times you would think they were the same age and both children. At other times she regards him with worshipful eyes and drinks in his words as if he were some superior being and she his equal in age and experience. She has taken possession of him, and never hesitates to carry him off to her own quarters, apparently to his delight. Oh, he has a way with him, that Canadian boy! The latest is that he has invited Elfie to stay a month with him in Alberta when he gets his first holiday. He has raved to her over Polly. Elfie, I believe, has accepted his invitation regardless of the wishes of either family. The poor little soul is really better, I believe, for his companionship. She is not so fretful and she actually takes her medicine without a fight and goes to bed at decent hours upon the merest hint of his Lordship's desire in the matter. In short, he has the family quite prostrate before him. I alone have been able to stand upright and maintain my own individuality.'”
“I am really awfully glad about the kid,” said Dean. “After all she really has rather a hard time. She is so delicate and needs extra care and attention, and that, I am afraid, has spoiled her a bit.”
“Why shouldn't the little girl spend a few weeks with us here this summer, Mr. Wakeham?” said Mrs. Gwynne. “Will you not say to your mother that we should take good care of her?”
“Oh, Mrs. Gwynne, that is awfully good of you, but I am a little afraid you would find her quite a handful. As I have said, she is a spoiled little monkey and not easy to do with. She would give you all a lot of trouble,” added Dean, looking at Nora.
“Trouble? Not at all,” said Nora. “She could do just as she likes here. We would give her Polly and let her roam. And on the farm she would find a number of things to interest her.”
“It would be an awfully good thing for her, I know,” said Dean, vainly trying to suppress the eagerness in his tone, “and if you are really sure that it would not be too much of a burden I might write.”
“No burden at all, Mr. Wakeham,” said Mrs. Gwynne. “If you will write and ask Mrs. Wakeham, and bring her with you when you return, we shall do what we can to make her visit a happy one, and indeed, it may do the dear child a great deal of good.”
Thus it came about that the little city child, delicate, fretted, spoiled, was installed in the household at Lakeside Farm for a visit which lengthened out far beyond its original limits. The days spent upon the farm were full of bliss to her, the only drawback to the perfect happiness of the little girl being the separation from her beloved fidus Achates, with whom she maintained an epistolary activity extraordinarily intimate and vivid. Upon this correspondence the Wakeham family came chiefly to depend for enlightenment as to the young lady's activities and state of health, and it came to be recognised as part of Larry's duty throughout the summer to carry a weekly bulletin regarding Elfie's health and manners to the Lake Shore summer home, where the Wakehams sought relief from the prostrating heat of the great city. These week ends at the Lake Shore home were to Larry his sole and altogether delightful relief from the relentless drive of business that even throughout the hottest summer weather knew neither let nor pause.
It became custom that every Saturday forenoon Rowena's big car would call at the Rookery Building and carry off her father, if he chanced to be in town, and Larry to the Lake Shore home. An hour's swift run over the perfect macadam of the Lake Shore road that wound through park and boulevard, past splendid summer residences of Chicago financial magnates, through quiet little villages and by country farms, always with gleams of Michigan's blue-grey waters, and always with Michigan's exhilarating breezes in their faces, would bring them to the cool depths of Birchwood's shades and silences, where for a time the hustle and heat and roar of the big city would be as completely forgotten as if a thousand miles away. It was early on a breathless afternoon late in July when from pavement and wall the quivering air smote the face as if blown from an opened furnace that Rowena drove her car down La Salle Street and pulled up at the Rookery Building resolved to carry off with her as a special treat “her men” for an evening at Birchwood.
“Come along, Larry, it is too hot to live in town today,” she said as she passed through the outer office where the young man had his desk. “I am just going in to get father, so don't keep me waiting.”
“Miss Wakeham, why will you add to the burdens of the day by breezing thus in upon us and making us discontented with our lot. I cannot possibly accept your invitation this afternoon.”
“What? Not to-day, with the thermometer at ninety-four? Nonsense!” said the young lady brusquely. “You look fit to drop.”
“It is quite useless,” said Larry with a sigh. “You see we have a man in all the way from Colorado to get plans of a mine which is in process of reconstruction. These plans will take hours to finish. The work is pressing, in short must be done to-day.”
“Now, look here, young man. All work in this office is pressing but none so pressing that it cannot pause at my command.”
“But this man is due to leave to-morrow.”
“Oh, I decline to talk about it; it is much too hot. Just close up your desk,” said the young lady, as she swept on to her father's office.
In a short time she returned, bearing that gentleman in triumph with her. “Not ready?” she said. “Really you are most exasperating, Larry.”
“You may as well throw up your hands, Larry. You'd better knock off for the day,” said Mr. Wakeham. “It is really too hot to do anything else than surrender.”
“You see, it is like this, sir,” said Larry. “It is that Colorado mine reconstruction business. Their manager, Dimock, is here. He must leave, he says, tomorrow morning. Mr. Scread thinks he should get these off as soon as possible. So it is necessary that I stick to it till we get it done.”
“How long will it take?” said Mr. Wakeham.
“I expect to finish to-night some time. I have already had a couple of hours with Dimock to-day. He has left me the data.”
“Well, I am very sorry, indeed,” said Mr. Wakeham. “It is a great pity you cannot come with us, and you look rather fagged. Dimock could not delay, eh?”
“He says he has an appointment at Kansas City which he must keep.”
“Oh, it is perfect rubbish,” exclaimed Rowena impatiently, “and we have a party on to-night. Your friend, Mr. Hugh Raeder, is to be out, and Professor Schaefer and a friend of his, and some perfectly charming girls.”
“But why tell me these things now, Miss Wakeham,” said Larry, “when you know it is impossible for me to come?”
“You won't come?”
“I can't come.”
“Come along then, father,” she said, and with a stiff little bow she left Larry at his desk.
Before the car moved off Larry came hurrying out.
“Here is Elfie's letter,” he said. “Perhaps Mrs. Wakeham would like to see it.” Miss Wakeham was busy at the wheel and gave no sign of having heard or seen. So her father reached over and took the letter from him.
“Do you know,” said Larry gravely, “I do not think it is quite so hot as it was. I almost fancy I feel a chill.”
“A chill?” said Mr. Wakeham anxiously. “What do you mean?”
Miss Wakeham bit her lip, broke into a smile and then into a laugh. “Oh, he's a clever thing, he is,” she said. “I hope you may have a real good roast this afternoon.”
“I hope you will call next Saturday,” said Larry earnestly. “It is sure to be hot.”
“You don't deserve it or anything else that is good.”
“Except your pity. Think what I am missing.”
“Get in out of the heat,” she cried as the car slipped away.
For some blocks Miss Wakeham was busy getting her car through the crush of the traffic, but as she swung into the Park Road she remarked, “That young man takes himself too seriously. You would think the business belonged to him.”
“I wish to God I had more men in my office,” said her father, “who thought the same thing. Do you know, young lady, why it is that so many greyheads are holding clerk's jobs? Because clerks do not feel that the business is their own. The careless among them are working for five o'clock, and the keen among them are out for number one. Do you know if that boy keeps on thinking that the business is his he will own a big slice of it or something better before he quits. I confess I was greatly pleased that you failed to move him.”
“All the same, he is awfully stubborn,” said his daughter.
“You can't bully him as you do your old dad, eh?”
“I had counted on him for our dinner party to-night. I particularly want to have him meet Professor Schaefer, and now we will have a girl too many. It just throws things out.”
They rolled on in silence for some time through the park when suddenly her father said, “He may be finished by six o'clock, and Michael could run in for him.”
At six o'clock Miss Wakeham called Larry on the 'phone. “Are you still at it?” she enquired. “And when will you be finished?”
“An hour, I think, will see me through,” he replied.
“Then,” said Miss Wakeham, “a little before seven o'clock the car will be waiting at your office door.”
“Hooray!” cried Larry. “You are an angel. I will be through.”
At a quarter of seven Larry was standing on the pavement, which was still radiating heat, and so absorbed in watching for the Wakehams' big car that he failed to notice a little Mercer approaching till it drew up at his side.
“What, you, Miss Rowena?” he cried. “Your own self? How very lovely of you, and through all this heat!”
“Me,” replied the girl, “only me. I thought it might still be hot and a little cool breeze would be acceptable. But jump in.”
“Cool breeze, I should say so!” exclaimed Larry. “A lovely, cool, sweet spring breeze over crocuses and violets! But, I say, I must go to my room for my clothes.”
“No evening clothes to-night,” exclaimed Rowena.
“Ah, but I have a new, lovely, cool suit that I have been hoping to display at Birchwood. These old things would hardly do at your dinner table.”
“We'll go around for it. Do get in. Do you know, I left my party to come for you, partly because I was rather nasty this afternoon?”
“You were indeed,” said Larry. “You almost broke my heart, but this wipes all out; my heart is singing again. That awfully jolly letter of Elfie's this week made me quite homesick for the open and for the breezes of the Alberta foothills.”
“Tell me what she said,” said Rowena, not because she wanted so much to hear Elfie's news but because she loved to hear him talk, and upon no subject could Larry wax so eloquent as upon the foothill country of Alberta. Long after they had secured Larry's new suit and gone on their way through park and boulevard, Larry continued to expatiate upon the glories of Alberta hills and valleys, upon its cool breezes, its flowing rivers and limpid lakes, and always the western rampart of the eternal snow-clad peaks.
“And how is the mine doing?” inquired Rowena, for Larry had fallen silent.
“The mine? Oh, there's trouble there, I am afraid. Switzer—you have heard of Switzer?”
“Oh, yes, I know all about him and his tragic disappointment. He's the manager, isn't he?”
“The manager? No, he's the secretary, but in this case it means the same thing, for he runs the mine. Well, Switzer wants to sell his stock. He and his father hold about twenty-five thousand dollars between them. He means to resign. And to make matters worse, the manager left last week. They are both pulling out, and it makes it all the worse, for they had just gone in for rather important extensions. I am anxious a bit. You see they are rather hard up for money, and father raised all he could on his ranch and on his mining stock.”
“How much is involved?” inquired Rowena.
“Oh, not so much money as you people count it, but for us it is all we have. He raised some fifty thousand dollars. While the mine goes on and pays it is safe enough, but if the mine quits then it is all up with us. There is no reason for anxiety at present as far as the mine is concerned, however. It is doing splendidly and promises better every day. But Switzer's going will embarrass them terribly. He was a perfect marvel for work and he could handle the miners as no one else could. Most of them, you know, are his own people.”
“I see you are worrying,” said Rowena, glancing at his face, which she thought unusually pale.
“Not a bit. At least, not very much. Jack is a levelheaded chap—Jack Romayne, I mean—my brother-in-law. By the way, I had a wire to say that young Jack had safely arrived.”
“Young Jack? Oh, I understand. Then you are Uncle Larry.”
“I am. How ancient I feel! And what a lot of responsibility it lays upon me!”
“I hope your sister is quite well.”
“Everything fine, so I am informed. But what was I saying? Oh, yes, Jack is a level-headed chap and his brother-in-law, Waring-Gaunt, who is treasurer of the company, is very solid. So I think there's no doubt but that they will be able to make all necessary arrangements.”
“Well, don't worry to-night,” said Rowena. “I want you to have a good time. I am particularly anxious that you should meet and like Professor Schaefer.”
“A German, eh?” said Larry.
“Yes—that is, a German-American. He is a metallurgist, quite wonderful, I believe. He does a lot of work for father, and you will doubtless have a good deal to do with him yourself. And he spoke so highly of Canada and of Canadians that I felt sure you would be glad to meet him. He is really a very charming man, musical and all that, but chiefly he is a man of high intelligence and quite at the top of his profession. He asked to bring a friend of his with him, a Mr. Meyer, whom I do not know at all; but he is sure to be interesting if he is a friend of Professor Schaefer's. We have some nice girls, too, so we hope to have an interesting evening.”
The company was sufficiently varied to forbid monotony, and sufficiently intellectual to be stimulating, and there was always the background of Big Business. Larry was conscious that he was moving amid large ideas and far-reaching interests, and that though he himself was a small element, he was playing a part not altogether insignificant, with a promise of bigger things in the future. Professor Schaefer became easily the centre of interest in the party. He turned out to be a man of the world. He knew great cities and great men. He was a connoisseur in art and something more than an amateur in music. His piano playing, indeed, was far beyond that of the amateur. But above everything he was a man of his work. He knew metals and their qualities as perhaps few men in America, and he was enthusiastic in his devotion to his profession. After dinner, with apologies to the ladies, he discoursed from full and accurate knowledge of the problems to be met within his daily work and their solutions. He was frequently highly technical, but to everything he touched he lent a charm that captivated his audience. To Larry he was especially gracious. He was interested in Canada. He apparently had a minute knowledge of its mineral history, its great deposits in metals, in coal, and oil, which he declared to be among the richest in the world. The mining operations, however, carried out in Canada, he dismissed as being unworthy of consideration. He deplored the lack of scientific knowledge and the absence of organisation.
“We should do that better in our country. Ah, if only our Government would take hold of these deposits,” he exclaimed, “the whole world should hear of them.” The nickel mining industry alone in the Sudbury district he considered worthy of respect. Here he became enthusiastic. “If only my country had such a magnificent bit of ore!” he cried. “But such bungling, such childish trifling with one of the greatest, if not the very greatest, mining industries in the world! To think that the Government of Canada actually allows the refining of that ore to be done outside of its own country! Folly, folly, criminal folly! But it is all the same in this country, too. The mining work in America is unscientific, slovenly, unorganised, wasteful. I am sorry to say,” he continued, turning suddenly upon Larry, “in your western coal fields you waste more in the smoke of your coke ovens than you make out of your coal mines. Ah, if only those wonderful, wonderful coal fields were under the organised and scientific direction of my country! Then you would see—ah, what would you not see!”
“Your country?” said Hugo Raeder, smiling. “I understood you were an American, Professor Schaefer.”
“An American? Surely! I have been eighteen years in this country.”
“You are a citizen, I presume?” said Mr. Wakeham.
“A citizen? Yes. I neglected that matter till recently; but I love my Fatherland.”
“Speaking of citizenship, I have always wanted to know about the Delbruck Law, Professor Schaefer, in regard to citizenship,” said Larry.
The professor hesitated, “The Delbruck Law?”
“Yes,” said Larry. “How does it affect, for instance, your American citizenship?”
“Not at all, I should say. Not in the very least,” replied Professor Schaefer curtly and as if dismissing the subject.
“I am not so sure of that, Professor Schaefer,” said Hugo Raeder. “I was in Germany when that law was passed. It aroused a great deal of interest. I have not looked into it myself, but on the face of it I should say it possesses certain rather objectionable features.”
“Not at all, not at all, I assure you,” exclaimed Professor Schaefer. “It is simply a concession to the intense, but very natural affection for the Fatherland in every German heart, while at the same time it facilitates citizenship in a foreign country. For instance, there are millions of Germans living in America who like myself shrank from taking the oath which breaks the bond with the Fatherland. We love America, we are Americans, we live in America, we work in America; but naturally our hearts turn to Germany, and we cannot forget our childhood's home. That is good, that is worthy, that is noble—hence the Delbruck Law.”
“But what does it provide exactly?” enquired Mr. Wakeham. “I confess I never heard of it.”
“It permits a German to become an American citizen, and at the same time allows him to retain his connection, his heart connection, with the Fatherland. It is a beautiful law.”
“A beautiful law,” echoed his friend, Mr. Meyer.
“Just what is the connection?” insisted Hugo Raeder.
“Dear friend, let me explain to you. It permits him to retain his place, his relations with his own old country people. You can surely see the advantage of that. For instance: When I return to Germany I find myself in full possession of all my accustomed privileges. I am no stranger. Ah, it is beautiful! And you see further how it establishes a new bond between the two countries. Every German-American will become a bond of unity between these two great nations, the two great coming nations of the world.”
“Beautiful, beautiful, glorious!” echoed Meyer.
“But I do not understand,” said Larry. “Are you still a citizen of Germany?”
“I am an American citizen, and proud of it,” exclaimed Professor Schaefer, dramatically.
“Ach, so, geviss,” said Meyer. “Sure! an American citizen!”
“But you are also a citizen of Germany?” enquired Hugo Raeder.
“If I return to Germany I resume the rights of my German citizenship, of course.”
“Beautiful, beautiful!” exclaimed Meyer.
“Look here, Schaefer. Be frank about this. Which are you to-day, a citizen of Germany or of America?”
“Both, I tell you,” exclaimed Schaefer proudly. “That is the beauty of the arrangement.”
“Ah, a beautiful arrangement!” said Meyer.
“What? You are a citizen of another country while you claim American citizenship?” said Raeder. “You can no more be a citizen of two countries at the same time than the husband of two wives at the same time.”
“Well, why not?” laughed Schaefer. “An American wife for America, and a German wife for Germany. You will excuse me,” he added, bowing toward Mrs. Wakeham.
“Don't be disgusting,” said Hugo Raeder. “Apart from the legal difficulty the chief difficulty about that scheme would be that whatever the German wife might have to say to such an arrangement, no American wife would tolerate it for an instant.”
“I was merely joking, of course,” said Schaefer.
“But, Professor Schaefer, suppose war should come between Germany and America,” said Larry.
“War between Germany and America—the thing is preposterous nonsense, not to be considered among the possibilities!”
“But as a mere hypothesis for the sake of argument, what would your position be?” persisted Larry.
Professor Schaefer was visibly annoyed. “I say the hypothesis is nonsense and unthinkable,” he cried.
“Come on, Schaefer, you can't escape it like that, you know,” said Hugo Raeder. “By that law of yours, where would your allegiance be should war arise? I am asking what actually would be your standing. Would you be a German citizen or an American citizen?”
“The possibility does not exist,” said Professor Schaefer.
“Quite impossible,” exclaimed Meyer.
“Well, what of other countries then?” said Hugo, pursuing the subject with a wicked delight. His sturdy Americanism resented this bigamous citizenship. “What of France or Britain?”
“Ah,” said Professor Schaefer with a sharpening of his tone. “That is quite easy.”
“You would be a German, eh?” said Raeder.
“You ask me,” exclaimed Professor Schaefer, “you ask me as between Germany and France, or between Germany and Britain? I reply,” he exclaimed with a dramatic flourish of his hand, “I am a worshipper of the life-giving sun, not of the dead moon; I follow the dawn, not the dying day.”
But this was too much for Larry. “Without discussing which is the sun and which is the moon, about which we might naturally differ, Professor Schaefer, I want to be quite clear upon one point. Do I understand you to say that if you were, say a naturalised citizen of Canada, having sworn allegiance to our Government, enjoying the full rights and privileges of our citizenship, you at the same time would be free to consider yourself a citizen of Germany, and in case of war with Britain, you would feel in duty bound to support Germany? And is it that which the Delbruck Law is deliberately drawn, to permit you to do?”
“Well put, Larry!” exclaimed Hugo Raeder, to whom the German's attitude was detestable.
Professor Schaefer's lips curled in an unpleasant smile. “Canada, Canadian citizenship! My dear young man, pardon! Allow me to ask you a question. If Britain were at war with Germany, do you think it at all likely that Canada would allow herself to become involved in a European war? Canada is a proud, young, virile nation. Would she be likely to link her fortunes with those of a decadent power? Excuse me a moment,” checking Larry's impetuous reply with his hand. “Believe me, we know something about these things. We make it our business to know. You acknowledge that we know something about your mines; let me assure you that there is nothing about your country that we do not know. Nothing. Nothing. We know the feeling in Canada. Where would Canada be in such a war? Not with Germany, I would not say that. But would she stand with England?”
Larry sprang to his feet. “Where would Canada be? Let me tell you, Professor Schaefer,” shaking his finger in the professor's face. “To her last man and her last dollar Canada would be with the Empire.”
“Hear, hear!” shouted Hugo Raeder.
The professor looked incredulous. “And yet,” he said with a sneer, “one-half of your people voted for Reciprocity with the United States.”
“Reciprocity! And yet you say you know Canada,” exclaimed Larry in a tone of disgust. “Do you know, sir, what defeated Reciprocity with this country? Not hostility to the United States; there is nothing but the kindliest feeling among Canadians for Americans. But I will tell you what defeated Reciprocity. It was what we might call the ultra loyal spirit of the Canadian people toward the Empire. The Canadians were Empire mad. The bare suggestion of the possibility of any peril to the Empire bond made them throw out Sir Wilfrid Laurier and the Liberal Party. That, of course, with other subordinate causes.”
“I fancy our Mr. Taft helped a bit,” said Hugo Raeder.
“Undoubtedly Mr. Taft's unfortunate remarks were worked to the limit by the Conservative Party. But all I say is that any suggestion, I will not say of disloyalty, but even of indifference, to the Empire of Canada is simply nonsense.”
At this point a servant brought in a telegram and handed it to Mr. Wakeham. “Excuse me, my dear,” he said to his wife, opened the wire, read it, and passed it to Hugo Raeder. “From your chief, Hugo.”
“Much in that, do you think, sir?” inquired Hugo, passing the telegram back to him.
“Oh, a little flurry in the market possibly,” said Mr. Wakeham. “What do you think about that, Schaefer?” Mr. Wakeham continued, handing him the wire.
Professor Schaefer glanced at the telegram. “My God!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet. “It is come, it is come at last!” He spoke hurriedly in German to his friend, Meyer, and handed him the telegram.
Meyer read it. “God in heaven!” he cried. “It is here!” In intense excitement he poured forth a torrent of interrogations in German, receiving animated replies from Professor Schaefer. Then grasping the professor's hand in both of his, he shook it with wild enthusiasm.
“At last!” he cried. “At last! Thank God, our day has come!”
Completely ignoring the rest of the company, the two Germans carried on a rapid and passionate conversation in their own tongue with excited gesticulations, which the professor concluded by turning to his hostess and saying, “Mrs. Wakeham, you will excuse us. Mr. Wakeham, you can send us to town at once?”
By this time the whole company were upon their feet gazing with amazement upon the two excited Germans.
“But what is it?” cried Mrs. Wakeham. “What has happened? Is there anything wrong? What is it, Professor Schaefer? What is your wire about, Garrison?”
“Oh, nothing at all, my dear, to get excited about. My financial agent wires me that the Press will announce to-morrow that Austria has presented an ultimatum to Servia demanding an answer within forty-eight hours.”
“Oh, is that all,” she said in a tone of vast relief. “What a start you all gave me. An ultimatum to Servia? What is it all about?”
“Why, you remember, my dear, the murder of the Archduke Ferdinand about three weeks ago?”
“Oh, yes, I remember. I had quite forgotten it. Poor thing, how terrible it was! Didn't they get the murderer? It seems to me they caught him.”
“You will excuse us, Mrs. Wakeham,” said Professor Schaefer, approaching her. “We deeply regret leaving this pleasant party and your hospitable home, but it is imperative that we go.”
“But, my dear Professor Schaefer, to-night?” exclaimed Mrs. Wakeham.
“Why, Schaefer, what's the rush? Are you caught in the market?” said Wakeham with a little laugh. “You cannot do anything to-night at any rate, you know. We will have you in early to-morrow morning.”
“No, no, to-night, now, immediately!” shouted Meyer in uncontrollable excitement.
“But why all the excitement, Schaefer?” said Hugo Raeder, smiling at him. “Austria has presented an ultimatum to Servia—what about it?”
“What about it? Oh, you Americans; you are so provincial. Did you read the ultimatum? Do you know what it means? It means war!”
“War!” cried Meyer. “War at last! Thank God! Tonight must we in New York become.”
Shaking hands hurriedly with Mrs. Wakeham, and with a curt bow to the rest of the company, Meyer hurriedly left the room, followed by Professor Schaefer and Mr. Wakeham.
“Aren't they funny!” said Rowena. “They get so excited about nothing.”
“Well, it is hardly nothing,” said Hugo Raeder. “Any European war is full of all sorts of possibilities. You cannot throw matches about in a powder magazine without some degree of danger.”
“May I read the ultimatum?” said Larry to Mrs. Wakeham, who held the telegram in her hand.
“Pretty stiff ultimatum,” said Hugo Raeder. “Read it out, Larry.”
“Servia will have to eat dirt,” said Larry when he had finished. “Listen to this: She must 'accept the collaboration in Servia of representatives of the Austro-Hungarian Government for the consideration of the subversive movements directed against the Territorial integrity of the Monarchy.' 'Accept collaboration' of the representatives of the Austro-hungarian Government in this purely internal business, mind you. And listen to this: 'Delegates of the Austro-Hungarian Government will take part in the investigation relating thereto.' Austrian lawyers and probably judges investigating Servian subjects in Servia? Why, the thing is impossible.”
“It is quite evident,” said Hugo Raeder, “that Austria means war.”
“Poor little Servia, she will soon be eaten up,” said Rowena. “She must be bankrupt from her last war.”
“But why all this excitement on the part of our German friends?” inquired Mrs. Wakeham. “What has Germany to do with Austria and Servia?”
At this point Professor Schaefer and his friend re-entered the room ready for their departure.
“I was just inquiring,” said Mrs. Wakeham, “how this ultimatum of Austria's to Servia can affect Germany particularly.”
“Affect Germany?” cried Professor Schaefer.
“Yes,” said Hugo Raeder, “what has Germany to do with the scrap unless she wants to butt in?”
“Ha! ha! My dear man, have you read no history of the last twenty years? But you Americans know nothing about history, nothing about anything except your own big, overgrown country.”
“I thought you were an American citizen, Schaefer?” inquired Hugo.
“An American,” exclaimed Schaefer, “an American, ah, yes, certainly; but in Europe and in European politics, a German, always a German.”
“But why should Germany butt in?” continued Hugo.
“Butt in, Germany butt in? Things cannot be settled in Europe without Germany. Besides, there is Russia longing for the opportunity to attack.”
“To attack Germany?”
“To attack Austria first, Germany's ally and friend, and then Germany. The trouble is you Americans do not live in the world. You are living on your own continent here removed from the big world, ignorant of all world movements, the most provincial people in all the world. Else you would not ask me such foolish questions. This ultimatum means war. First, Austria against Servia; Russia will help Servia; France will help Russia; Germany will help Austria. There you have the beginning of a great European war. How far this conflagration will spread, only God knows.”
The car being announced, the Germans made a hurried exit, in their overpowering excitement omitting the courtesy of farewells to household and guests.
“They seem to be terribly excited, those Germans,” said Miss Rowena.
“They are,” said Hugo; “I am glad I am not a German. To a German war is so much the biggest thing in life.”
“It is really too bad,” said Mrs. Wakeham; “we shall not have the pleasure of Professor Schaefer's music. He plays quite exquisitely. You would all have greatly enjoyed it. Rowena, you might play something. Well, for my part,” continued Mrs. Wakeham, settling herself placidly in her comfortable chair, “I am glad I am an American. Those European countries, it seems to me, are always in some trouble or other.”
“I am glad I am a Canadian,” said Larry. “We are much too busy to think of anything so foolish and useless as war.”
“Come, Jane, we have just time to take a look at the lake from the top of the hill before we get ready for church,” said Ethel Murray. “It will be worth seeing to-day.”
“Me too, me too,” shrieked two wee girls in bare legs and sandals, clutching Jane about the legs.
“All right, Isabel; all right, Helen. I'll take you with me,” said Jane. “But you must let me go, you know.”
They all raced around the house and began to climb the sheer, rocky hill that rose straight up from the rear.
“Here, Jim, help me with these kiddies,” said Jane to a lank lad of fifteen, whom she ran into at the corner of the house just where the climb began.
Jim swung the younger, little Helen, upon his shoulder and together they raced to the top, scrambling, slipping, falling, but finally arriving there, breathless and triumphant. Before them lay a bit of Canada's loveliest lake, the Lake of the Woods, so-called from its myriad, heavily wooded islands, that make of its vast expanse a maze of channels, rivers and waterways. Calm, without a ripple, lay the glassy, sunlit surface, each island, rock and tree meeting its reflected image at the water line, the sky above flecked with floating clouds, making with the mirrored sky below one perfect whole.
“Oh, Ethel, I had forgotten just how beautiful this is,” breathed Jane, while the rest stood silent looking down upon the mirrored rocks and islands, trees and sky.
Even the two little girls stood perfectly still, for they had been taught to take the first views from the top in silence.
“Look at the Big Rock,” said Helen. “They are two rocks kissing each other.”
“Oh, you little sweetheart,” said Jane, kissing her. “That is just what they are doing. It is not often that you get it so perfectly still as this, is it, Jim?”
“Not so very often. Sometimes just at sunrise you get it this way.”
“At sunrise! Do you very often see it then?”
“Yes, he gets up to catch fishes,” said wee Helen.
“Do you?”
Jim nodded. “Are you game to come along to-morrow morning?”
“At what hour?”
“Five o'clock.”
“Don't do it, Jane,” said Ethel. “It tires you for the day.”
“I will come, Jim; I would love to come,” said Jane.
For some time they stood gazing down upon the scene below them. Then turning to the children abruptly, Ethel said, “Now, then, children, you run down and get ready; that is, if you are going to church. Take them down, Jim.”
“All right, Ethel,” said Jim. “See there, Jane,” he continued, “that neck of land across the traverse—that's where the old Hudson Bay trail used to run that goes from the Big Lakes to Winnipeg. It's the old war trail of the Crees too. Wouldn't you like to have seen them in the old days?”
“I would run and hide,” said Isabel, “so they could not see me.”
“I would not be afraid,” said Helen, straightening up to her full height of six years. “I would shoot them dead.”
“Poor things,” said Jane, in a pitiful voice. “And then their little babies at home would cry and cry.”
Helen looked distressed. “I would not shoot the ones that had babies.”
“But then,” said Jane, “the poor wives would sit on the ground and wail and wail, like the Indians we heard the other night. Oh, it sounded very sad.”
“I would not shoot the ones with wives or babies or anything,” said Helen, determined to escape from her painful dilemma.
“Oh, only the boys and young men?” said Jane. “And then the poor old mothers would cry and cry and tear their hair for the boys who would never come back.”
Helen stood in perplexed silence. Then she said shyly, “I wouldn't shoot any of them unless they tried to shoot me or Mother or Daddy.”
“Or me,” said Jane, throwing her arms around the little girl.
“Yes,” said Helen, “or you, or anybody in our house.”
“That seems a perfectly safe place to leave it, Helen,” said Ethel. “I think even the most pronounced pacifist would accept that as a justification of war. I fancy that is why poor little Servia is fighting big bullying Austria to-day. But run down now; hurry, hurry; the launch will be ready in a few minutes, and if you are not ready you know Daddy won't wait.”
But they were ready and with the round dozen, which with the visitors constituted the Murray household at their island home, they filled the launch, Jim at the wheel. It was a glorious Sunday morning and the whole world breathed peace. Through the mazes of the channels among the wooded islands the launch made its way, across open traverse, down long waterways like rivers between high, wooded banks, through cuts and gaps, where the waters boiled and foamed, they ran, for the most part drinking in silently the exquisite and varied beauty of lake and sky and woods. Silent they were but for the quiet talk and cheery laughter of the younger portion of the company, until they neared the little town, when the silence that hung over the lake and woods was invaded by other launches outbound and in. The Kenora docks were crowded with rowboats, sailboats, canoes and launches of all sorts and sizes, so that it took some steering skill on Jim's part to land them at the dock without bumping either themselves or any one else.
“Oh, look!” exclaimed Isabel, whose sharp eyes were darting everywhere. “There's the Rushbrooke's lovely new launch. Isn't it beautiful!”
“Huh!” shouted Helen. “It is not half as pretty as ours.”
“Oh, hush, Helen,” said the scandalised Isabel. “It is lovely, isnt it, Jane? And there is Lloyd Rushbrooke. I think he's lovely, too. And who is that with him, Jane—that pretty girl? Oh, isn't she pretty?”
“That's Helen Brookes,” said Jane in a low voice.
“Oh, isn't she lovely!” exclaimed Isabel.
“Lovely bunch, Isabel,” said Jim with a grin.
“I don't care, they are,” insisted Isabel. “And there is Mr. McPherson, Jane,” she added, her sharp eyes catching sight of their Winnipeg minister through the crowd. “He's coming this way. What are the people all waiting for, Jane?”
The Reverend Andrew McPherson was a tall, slight, dark man, straight but for the student's stoop of his shoulders, and with a strikingly Highland Scotch cast of countenance, high cheek bones, keen blue eyes set deep below a wide forehead, long jaw that clamped firm lips together. He came straight to where Mr. Murray and Dr. Brown were standing.
“I have just received from a friend in Winnipeg the most terrible news,” he said in a low voice. “Germany has declared war on Russia and France.”
“War! War! Germany!” exclaimed the men in awed, hushed voices, a startled look upon their grave faces.
“What is it, James?” said Mrs. Murray.
Mr. Murray repeated the news to her.
“Germany at war?” she said. “I thought it was Austria and Servia. Isn't it?”
“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Murray hastily, as if anxious to cover up his wife's display of ignorance of the European situation. “Austria has been at war with Servia for some days, but now Germany has declared war apparently upon France and Russia.”
“But what has Germany to do with it, or Russia either, or France?”
They moved off together from the docks toward the church, discussing the ominous news.
“Oh, look, Jane,” said Isabel once more. “There's Ramsay Dunn. Isn't he looking funny?”
“Pickled, I guess,” said Jim, with a glance at the young man who with puffed and sodden face was gazing with dull and stupid eyes across the lake. On catching sight of the approaching party Ramsay Dunn turned his back sharply upon them and became intensely absorbed in the launch at his side. But Jane would not have it thus.
“Ask him to come over this afternoon,” she said to Ethel. “His mother would like it.”
“Good morning, Ramsay,” said Ethel as they passed him.
Ramsay turned sharply, stood stiff and straight, then saluted with an elaborate bow. “Good morning, Ethel. Why, good morning, Jane. You down here? Delighted to see you.”
“Ramsay, could you come over this afternoon to our island?” said Ethel. “Jane is going back this week.”
“Sure thing, Ethel. Nothing but scarlet fever, small-pox, or other contectious or infagious, confagious or intexious—eh, disease will prevent me. The afternoon or the evening?” he added with what he meant to be a most ingratiating smile. “The late afternoon or the early evening?”
The little girls, who had been staring at him with wide, wondering eyes, began to giggle.
“I'll be there,” continued Ramsay. “I'll be there, I'll be there, when the early evening cometh, I'll be there.” He bowed deeply to the young ladies and winked solemnly at Isabel, who by this time was finding it quite impossible to control her giggles.
“Isn't he awfully funny?” she said as they moved off. “I think he is awfully funny.”
“Funny!” said Ethel. “Disgusting, I think.”
“Oh, Ethel, isn't it terribly sad?” said Jane. “Poor Mrs. Dunn, she feels so awfully about it. They say he is going on these days in a perfectly dreadful way.”
The little brick church was comfortably filled with the townsfolk and with such of the summer visitors as had not “left their religion behind them in Winnipeg,” as Jane said. The preacher was a little man whose speech betrayed his birth, and the theology and delivery of whose sermon bore the unmistakable marks of his Edinburgh training. He discoursed in somewhat formal but in finished style upon the blessings of rest, with obvious application to the special circumstances of the greater part of his audience who had come to this most beautiful of all Canada's beautiful spots seeking these blessings. To further emphasise the value of their privileges, he contrasted with their lot the condition of unhappy Servia now suffering from the horrors of war and threatened with extinction by its tyrannical neighbour, Austria. The war could end only in one way. In spite of her gallant and heroic fight Servia was doomed to defeat. But a day of reckoning would surely come, for this was not the first time that Austria had exercised its superior power in an act of unrighteous tyranny over smaller states. The God of righteousness was still ruling in his world, and righteousness would be done.
At the close of the service, while they were singing the final hymn, Mr. McPherson, after a whispered colloquy with Mr. Murray, made his way to the pulpit, where he held an earnest conversation with the minister. Instead of pronouncing the benediction and dismissing the congregation when the final “Amen” had been sung, the minister invited the people to resume their seats, when Mr. McPherson rose and said,
“Friends, we have just learned that a great and terrible evil has fallen upon the world. Five days ago the world was shocked by the announcement that Austria had declared war upon Servia. Through these days the powers of Europe, or at least some of them, and chief among them Great Britain, have been labouring to localise the war and to prevent its extension. To-day the sad, the terrible announcement is made that Germany has declared war upon both Russia and France. What an hour may bring forth, we know not. But not in our day, or in our fathers' day, have we faced so great a peril as we face to-day. For we cannot forget that our Empire is held by close and vital ties to the Republic of France in the entente cordiale. Let us beseech Almighty God to grant a speedy end to war and especially to guide the King's counsellors that they may lead this Empire in the way that is wise and right and honourable.”
In the brief prayer that followed there fell upon the people an overpowering sense of the futility of man's wisdom, and of the need of the might and wisdom that are not man's but God's.
Two days later Mr. Murray and the children accompanied Dr. Brown and Jane to Kenora on their way back to the city. As they were proceeding to the railway station they were arrested by a group that stood in front of the bulletin board upon which since the war began the local newspaper was wont to affix the latest despatches. The group was standing in awed silence staring at the bulletin board before them. Dr. Brown pushed his way through, read the despatch, looked around upon the faces beside him, read the words once more, came back to where his party were standing and stood silent.
“What is it?” inquired Mr. Murray.
“War,” said Dr. Brown in a husky whisper. Then clearing his throat, “War—Britain and Germany.”
War! For the first time in the memory of living man that word was spoken in a voice that stopped dead still the Empire in the daily routine of its life. War! That word whispered in the secret silent chamber of the man whose chief glory had been his title as Supreme War Lord of Europe, swift as the lightning's flash circled the globe, arresting multitudes of men busy with their peaceful tasks, piercing the hearts of countless women with a new and nameless terror, paralysing the activities of nations engaged in the arts of peace, transforming into bitter enemies those living in the bonds of brotherhood, and loosing upon the world the fiends of hell.
Mr. Murray turned to his boy. “Jim,” he said, “I must go to Winnipeg. Take the children home and tell their mother. I shall wire you to-morrow when to meet me.” Awed, solemnised and in silence they took their ways.
Arrived at the railway station, Mr. Murray changed his mind. He was a man clear in thought and swift in action. His first thought had been of his business as being immediately affected by this new and mighty fact of war. Then he thought of other and wider interests.
“Let us go back, Dr. Brown,” he said. “A large number of our business men are at the Lake. I suppose half of our Board of Trade are down here. We can reach them more easily here than any place else, and it is important that we should immediately get them together. Excuse me while I wire to my architect. I must stop that block of mine.”
They returned together to the launch. On their way back to their island they called to see Mr. McPherson. “You were right,” was Mr. Murray's greeting to him. “It has come; Britain has declared war.”
Mr. McPherson stood gazing at him in solemn silence. “War,” he said at length. “We are really in.”
“Yes, you were right, Mr. McPherson,” said Dr. Brown. “I could not believe it; I cannot believe it yet. Why we should have gone into this particular quarrel, for the life of me I cannot understand.”
“I was afraid from the very first,” said McPherson, “and when once Russia and France were in I knew that Britain could not honourably escape.”
As they were talking together a launch went swiftly by. “That's the Rushbrooke's launch,” said Jim.
Mr. Murray rushed out upon the pier and, waving his hand, brought it to a halt and finally to the dock. “Have you heard the news?” he said to the lady who sat near the stern. “Britain has declared war.”
“Oh,” replied Mrs. Rushbrooke, “why on earth has she done that? It is perfectly terrible.”
“Terrible, indeed,” said Mr. McPherson. “But we must face it. It changes everything in life—business, society, home, everything will immediately feel the effect of this thing.”
“Oh, Mr. McPherson,” exclaimed Mrs. Rushbrooke, “I can hardly see how it will quite change everything for us here in Canada. For instance,” she added with a gay laugh, “I do not see that it will change our bonfire tonight. By the way, I see you are not gone, Dr. Brown. You and Jane will surely come over; and, Mr. Murray, you will bring your young people and Mrs. Murray; and, Mr. McPherson, I hope you will be able to come. It is going to be a charming evening and you will see a great many of your friends. I think a bonfire on one of the islands makes a very pretty sight.”
“I am not sure whether I can take the time, Mrs. Rushbrooke,” said Mr. Murray. “I had thought of seeing a number of our business men who are down here at the Lake.”
“Oh, can't you leave business even while you are here? You really ought to forget business during your holidays, Mr. Murray.”
“I mean in relation to the war,” said Mr. Murray.
“Good gracious, what can they possibly do about the war down here? But if you want to see them they will all be with us to-night. So you had better come along. But we shall have to hurry, Lloyd; I have a lot of things to do and a lot of people to feed. We have got to live, haven't we?” she added as the launch got under way.
“Got to live,” said Mr. McPherson after they had gone. “Ah, even that necessity has been changed. The necessity for living, which I am afraid most of us have considered to be of first importance, has suddenly given place to another necessity.”
“And that?” said Mr. Murray.
“The necessity not to live, but to do our duty. Life has become all at once a very simple thing.”
“Well, we have got to keep going in the meantime at any rate,” said Mr. Murray.
“Going, yes; but going where?” said Mr. McPherson. “All roads now, for us, lead to one spot.”
“And that spot?” said Mr. Murray.
“The battlefield.”
“Why, Mr. McPherson, we must not lose our heads; we must keep sane and reasonable. Eh, Doctor?”
“I confess that this thing has completely stunned me,” said Dr. Brown. “You see I could not believe, I would not believe that war was possible in our day. I would not believe you, Mr. McPherson. I thought you had gone mad on this German scare. But you were right. My God, I can't get my bearings yet; we are really at war!”
“God grant that Canada may see its duty clearly,” said Mr. McPherson. “God make us strong to bear His will.”
They hurried back to their island, each busy with his thoughts, seeking to readjust life to this new and horrible environment.
Mrs. Murray met them at the dock. “You are back, Dr. Brown,” she cried. “Did you forget something? We are glad to see you at any rate.” Then noticing the men's faces, she said, “What is the matter, James? Is there anything wrong?”
“We bring terrible news, Mother,” he said. “We are at war.”
Mrs. Murray's' mind, like her husband's, moved swiftly. She was a life partner in the fullest sense. In business as in the home she shared his plans and purposes. “What about the block, James?” she asked.
“I wired Eastwood,” he replied, “to stop that.”
“What is it, Mother?” inquired Isabel, who stood upon the dock clinging to her mother's dress, and who saw in the grave, faces about her signs of disaster.
“Hush, dear,” said her mother. “Nothing that you can understand.” She would keep from her children this horror as long as she could.
At lunch in the midst of the most animated conversation the talk would die out, and all would be busy fitting their lives to war. Like waves ever deepening in volume and increasing in force, the appalling thought of war beat upon their minds. After lunch they sat together in the screened veranda talking quietly together of the issues, the consequences to them and to their community, to their country, and to the world at large, of this thing that had befallen them. They made the amazing discovery that they were almost entirely ignorant of everything that had to do with war, even the relative military strength of the belligerent nations. One thing like a solid back wall of rock gave them a sense of security—the British Navy was still supreme.
“Let's see, did they cut down the Navy estimates during the last Parliament? I know they were always talking of reduction,” inquired Mr. Murray.
“I am afraid I know nothing about it,” said Dr. Brown. “Last week I would have told you 'I hope so'; to-day I profoundly hope not. Jane, you ought to know about this. Jane is the war champion in our family,” he added with a smile.
“No, there has been no reduction; Winston Churchill has carried on his programme. He wanted to halt the building programme, you remember, but the Germans would not agree. So I think the Navy is quite up to the mark. But, of course,” she added, “the German Navy is very strong too.”
“Ah, I believe you are right, Jane,” said Dr. Brown. “How completely we were all hoodwinked. I cannot believe that we are actually at war. Our friend Romayne was right. By the way, what about Romayne, Jane?”
“Who is he?” inquired Mr. Murray.
“Romayne?” said Dr. Brown. “Oh, he's a great friend of ours in the West. He married a sister of young Gwynne, you know. He was an attache of the British Embassy in Berlin, and was, as we thought, quite mad on the subject of preparation for war. He and Jane hit it off tremendously last autumn when we were visiting the Gwynnes. Was he not an officer in the Guards or something, Jane?”
“Yes,” replied Jane, fear leaping into her eyes. “Oh, Papa, do you think he will have to go? Surely he would not.”
“What? Go back to England?” said Dr. Brown. “I hardly think so. I do not know, but perhaps he may.”
“Oh, Papa!” exclaimed Jane, the quick tears in her eyes. “Think of his wife and little baby!”
“My God!” exclaimed Dr. Brown. “It is war that is upon us.”
A fresh wave of horror deeper than any before swept their souls. “Surely he won't need to go,” he said after a pause.
“But his regiment will be going,” said Jane, whose face had become very pale and whose eyes were wide with horror. “His regiment will be going and,” she added, “he will go too.” The tears were quietly running down her face. She knew Jack Romayne and she had the courage to accept the truth which as yet her father put from his mind.
Dumb they sat, unschooled in language fitted to deal with the tides of emotion that surged round this new and overwhelming fact of war. Where next would this dread thing strike?
“Canada will doubtless send some troops,” said Dr. Brown. “We sent to South Africa, let me see, was it five thousand?”
“More, I think, Papa,” said Jane.
“We will send twice or three times that number this time,” said Mr. Murray.
And again silence fell upon them. They were each busy with the question who would go. Swiftly their minds ran over the homes of their friends and acquaintances.
“Well, Doctor,” said Mr. Murray, with a great effort at a laugh, “you can't send your boy at any rate.”
“No,” said Dr. Brown. “But if my girl had been a boy, I fear I could not hold her. Eh, Jane?” But Jane only smiled a very doubtful smile in answer.
“We may all have to go, Doctor,” said Mr. Murray. “If the war lasts long enough.”
“Nonsense, James,” said his wife with a quick glance at her two little girls. Her boy was fifteen. Thank God, she would not have to face the question of his duty in regard to war. “They would not be taking old men like you, James,” she added.
Mr. Murray laughed at her. “Well, hardly, I suppose, my dear,” he replied. “I rather guess we won't be allowed to share the glory this time, Doctor.”
Dr. Brown sat silent for a few moments, then said quietly, “The young fellows, of course, will get the first chance.”
“Oh, let's not talk about it,” said Ethel. “Come, Jane, let's go exploring.”
Jane rose.
“And me, too,” cried Isabel.
“And me,” cried Helen.
Ethel hesitated. “Let them come, Ethel,” said Jane. “We shall go slowly.”
An exploration of the island was always a thing of unmixed and varied delight. There were something over twenty-five acres of wooded hills running up to bare rocks, ravines deep in shrub and ferns, and lower levels thick with underbrush and heavy timber. Every step of the way new treasures disclosed themselves, ferns and grasses, shrubs and vines, and everywhere the wood flowers, shy and sweet. Everywhere, too, on fallen logs, on the grey rocks, and on the lower ground where the aromatic balsams and pines stood silent and thick, were mosses, mosses of all hues and depths. In the sunlit open spaces gorgeous butterflies and gleaming dragon flies fluttered and darted, bees hummed, and birds sang and twittered. There the children's voices were mingled in cheery shouts and laughter with the other happy sounds that filled the glades. But when they came to the dark pines, solemn and silent except when the wind moved in their tasselled tops with mysterious, mournful whispering, the children hushed their voices and walked softly upon the deep moss.
“It is like being in church,” said Helen, her little soul exquisitely sensitive to the mystic, fragrant silences and glooms that haunted the pine grove.
On a sloping hillside under the pines they lay upon the mossy bed, the children listening for the things that lived in these shadowy depths.
“They are all looking at us,” said Isabel in a voice of awed mystery. “Lots and lots of eyes are just looking, looking, and looking.”
“Why, Isabel, you give me the creeps,” laughed Jane. “Whisht! They'll hear you,” said Isabel, darting swift glances among the trees.
“The dear things,” said Jane. “They would love to play with you if they only knew how.” This was quite a new idea to the children. Hitherto the shy things had been more associated with fear than with play. “They would love to play tag with you,” continued Jane, “round these trees, if you could only coax them out. They are so shy.”
Stealthily the children began to move among the bushes, alert for the watching eyes and the shy faces of the wild things that made their homes in these dark dwellings. The girls sat silent, looking out through the interlacing boughs upon the gleam of the lake below. They dearly loved this spot. It was a favourite haunt with them, the very spot for confidence, and many a happy hour had they spent together here. To-day they sat without speech; there was nothing that they cared to talk about. It was only yesterday in this same place they had talked over all things under the sun. They had exchanged with each other their stores of kindly gossip about all their friends and their friends' friends. Only yesterday it was that Ethel for the twentieth time had gone over with Jane all the intricately perplexing and delightful details in regard to her coming-out party next winter. All the boys and girls were to be invited, and Jane was to help with the serving. It was only yesterday that in a moment of quite unusual frankness Ethel had read snatches of a letter which had come from Macleod, who was out in a mission field in Saskatchewan. How they had laughed together, all in a kindly way, over the solemn, formal phrases of the young Scotch Canadian missionary, Ethel making sport of his solemnity and Jane warmly defending him. How they had talked over the boys' affairs, as girls will talk, and of their various loves and how they fared, and of the cruelties practised upon them. And last of all Ethel had talked of Larry, Jane listening warily the while and offering an occasional bit of information to keep the talk going. And all of this only yesterday; not ten years ago, or a year ago, but yesterday! And to-day not a word seemed possible. The world had changed over night. How different from that unshaded, sunny world of yesterday! How sunny it was but yesterday! Life now was a thing of different values. Ah, that was it. The values were all altered. Things big yesterday had shrunk almost to the point of disappearance to-day. Things that yesterday seemed remote and vague, to-day filled their horizon, for some of them dark enough. Determined to ignore that gaunt Spectre standing there, in the shadow silent and grim, they would begin to talk on themes good yesterday for an hour's engrossing conversation, but before they were aware they had forgotten the subject of their talk and found themselves sitting together dumb and looking out upon the gleam of the waters, thinking, thinking and ever thinking, while nearer and ever more terrible moved the Spectre of War. It was like the falling of night upon their world. From the landscape things familiar and dear were blotted out, and in their place moved upon them strange shapes unreal and horrible.
At length they gave it up, called the children and went back to the others. At the dock they found a launch filled with visitors bringing news—great news and glorious. A big naval battle had been fought in the North Sea! Ten British battleships had been sunk, but the whole German fleet had been destroyed! For the first time war took on some colour. Crimson and purple and gold began to shoot through the sombre black and grey. A completely new set of emotions filled their hearts, a new sense of exultation, a new pride in that great British Navy which hitherto had been a mere word in a history book, or in a song. The children who, after their manner, were quickest to catch and to carry on to their utmost limits the emotions of the moment, were jubilantly triumphant. Some of them were carrying little Union Jacks in their hands. For the first time in their lives that flag became a thing of pride and power, a thing to shout for. It stood for something invisible but very real. Even their elders were not insensible to that something. Hitherto they had taken that flag for granted. They had hung it out of their windows on Empire Day or on Dominion Day as a patriotic symbol, but few of them would have confessed, except in a half-shamed, apologetic way, to any thrill at the flapping of that bit of bunting. They had shrunk from a display of patriotic emotion. They were not like their American cousins, who were ever ready to rave over Old Glory. That sort of emotional display was un-Canadian, un-British. But to-day somehow the flag had changed. The flag had changed because it fluttered in a new world, a new light fell upon it, the light of battle. It was a war flag to-day. Men were fighting under it, were fighting for all it represented, were dying under its folds, and proudly and gladly.
“And all the men will go to fight, your father and my father, and all the big boys,” Ethel heard a little friend confide to Isabel.
“Hush, Mabel,” said Ethel sharply. “Don't be silly.”
But the word had been spoken and as a seed it fell upon fertile soil. The launch went off with the children waving their flags and cheering. And again upon those left upon the dock the shadow settled heavier than before. That was the way with that shadow. It was always heavier, thicker, more ominous after each interlude of relief.
It was the same at the bonfire in the evening at the Rushbrookes'. The island was a fairy picture of mingling lights and shadows. As the flaming west grew grey, the pale silver of the moon, riding high and serene, fell upon the crowding, gaily decked launches that thronged the docks and moored to the shore; upon the dark balsams and silver birches hung with parti-coloured gaudy Chinese lanterns; upon the groups of girls, fair and sweet in their white summer camping frocks, and young men in flannels, their bare necks and arms showing brown and strong; upon little clusters of their fathers and mothers gravely talking together. From the veranda above, mingling with the laughing, chattering voices, the alluring strains of the orchestra invited to waltz, or fox trot. As the flame died from the western sky and the shadows crept down from the trees, the bonfire was set alight. As the flame leaped high the soft strains of the orchestra died away. Then suddenly, clear, full and strong, a chord sounded forth, another, and then another. A hush fell upon the chattering, laughing crowd. Then as they caught the strain men lolling upon the ground sprang to their feet; lads stood at attention.
“Send him victorious,”
some one sang timidly, giving words to the music. In one instant a hundred throats were wide open singing the words:
“Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us,
God save our King.”
Again the chords sounded and at once the verse from the first was sung again.
“God save our gracious King,
Long live our noble King,
God save our King,
Send him victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us,
God save our King.”
As the last note died Ramsay Dunn leaped upon a huge boulder, threw up his hand and began,
“In days of yore, from Britain's shore.”
A yell greeted him, sudden, fierce, triumphant, drowned his voice, then ceased! And again from a hundred throats of men and women, boys and girls, the words rang out,
“There may it wave, our boast and pride,
And joined in love together,
The thistle, shamrock, rose entwine,
The Maple Leaf forever.”
Again and again and once again they followed Ramsay in the quick, shrill Canadian cheer that was to be heard in after days in places widely different and far remote from that gay, moonlit, lantern-decked, boat-thronged, water-lapped island in that far northern Canadian lake. Following the cheers there came stillness. Men looked sheepishly at each other as if caught in some silly prank. Then once more the Spectre drew near. But this time they declined not to look, but with steady, grave, appraising eyes they faced The Thing, resolute to know the worst, and in quiet undertones they talked together of War.
The bonfire roared gloriously up through the dark night, throwing far gleams out upon the moonlit waters in front and upon the dark woods behind. The people gathered about the fire and disposed themselves in groups upon the sloping, grassy sward under the trees, upon the shelving rocks and upon the sandy shore.
But Mr. Murray had business on hand. In company with Dr. Brown and the minister, Mr. McPherson, he sought his host. “Would it be possible, Mr. Rushbrooke,” he said, “to gather a number of business men here together?”
“What for?” inquired Rushbrooke.
“Well, I may be all wrong,” said Mr. Murray apologetically, “but I have the feeling that we ought without delay to discuss what preliminary steps should be taken to meet with the critical conditions brought on by the war.”
“But, Mr. Murray,” cried Mrs. Rushbrooke, who was standing by her husband's side, “they are all so happy it would seem a great pity to introduce this horrible thing at such a time.”
“Do you really think it necessary, Murray?” said Mr. Rushbrooke, who was an older man than Mr. Murray, and who was unwilling to accede to him any position of dominance in the business world of Winnipeg. “There's really nothing we can do. It seems to me that we must keep our heads and as far as possible prevent undue excitement and guard against panic.”
“Perhaps you are right, Mr. Rushbrooke. The thought in my mind was that we ought to get a meeting together in Winnipeg soon. But everybody is away. A great many are here at the Lake; it seemed a good opportunity to make some preliminary arrangement.”
“My dear Mr. Murray,” said Mrs. Rushbrooke, “I cannot help feeling that you take this too seriously, besides there can hardly be need for such precipitate action. Of course, we are at war, and Canada will do her part, but to introduce such a horrible theme in a company of young people seems to me to be somehow out of place.”
“Very well, Mrs. Rushbrooke, if you say so. I have no desire to intrude,” said Mr. Murray.
“But, Mr. Rushbrooke, the thing has to be faced,” interposed Mr. McPherson. “We cannot shut our eyes to the fact of war, and this is the supreme fact in our national life to-day. Everything else is secondary.”
“Oh, I do not agree with you, Mr. McPherson,” said Mrs. Rushbrooke, taking the word out of her husband's mouth. “Of course war is terrible and all that, but men must do their work. The Doctor here must continue to look after his sick, Mr. Murray has his business, you must care for your congregation.”
“I do not know about that, Mrs. Rushbrooke,” said the minister. “I do not know about that at all.”
“Why, Mr. McPherson, you surprise me! Must not my husband attend to his business, must not the Doctor look after his patients?”
A number of men had gathered about during the course of the conversation. “No,” said Mr. McPherson, his voice ringing out in decided tones. “There is only one 'must' for us now, and that is War. For the Empire, for every man, woman, and child in Canada, the first thing, and by comparison the only thing, is War.”
That dread word rang out sharp, insistent, penetrating through the quiet hum of voices rising from the groups about the fire. By this time a very considerable number of men present had joined themselves to the group about the speakers.
“Well, Mr. Murray,” said Mr. Rushbrooke, with a laugh, “it seems to me that we cannot help it very well. If you wish to discourse upon the war, you have your audience and you have my permission.”
“It is not my intention to discourse upon the war, Mr. Rushbrooke, but with your permission I will just tell our friends here how my mind has worked since learning this terrible news this morning. My first impulse was to take the first train to Winnipeg, for I know that it will be necessary for me to readjust my business to the new conditions created by war. My second thought was that there were others like me; that, in fact, the whole business public of Winnipeg would be similarly affected. I felt the need of counsel so that I should make no mistake that would imperil the interests of others. I accepted Mrs. Rushbrooke's invitation to come to-night in the hope of meeting with a number of the business men of Winnipeg. The more I think of it the more terrible this thing becomes. The ordinary conditions of business are gone. We shall all need to readjust ourselves in every department of life. It seems to me that we must stand together and meet this calamity as best we can, wisely, fairly and fearlessly. The main point to be considered is, should we not have a general meeting of the business men of Winnipeg, and if so, when?”
Mr. Murray's words were received in deep silence, and for a time no one made reply. Then Mr. Rushbrooke made answer.
“We all feel the importance of what Mr. Murray has said. Personally, though, I am of the opinion that we should avoid all unnecessary excitement and everything approaching panic. The war will doubtless be a short one. Germany, after long preparation, has decided to challenge Great Britain's power. Still, Britain is ready for her. She has accepted the challenge; and though her army is not great, she is yet not unprepared. Between the enemy and Britain's shores there lies that mighty, invisible and invincible line of defence, the British navy. With the French armies on the one side and the Russian on the other, Germany can not last. In these days, with the terrible engines of destruction that science has produced, wars will be short and sharp. Germany will get her medicine and I hope it will do her good.”
If Mr. Rushbrooke expected his somewhat flamboyant speech to awaken enthusiastic approval, he must have been disappointed. His words were received in grave silence. The fact of war was far too unfamiliar and too overwhelming to make it easy for them to compass it in their thoughts or to deal in any adequate way with its possible issues.
After some moments of silence the minister spoke. “I wish I could agree with Mr. Rushbrooke,” he said. “But I cannot. My study of this question has impressed me with the overwhelming might of Germany's military power. The war may be short and sharp, and that is what Germany is counting upon. But if it be short and sharp, the issue will be a German victory. The French army is not fully prepared, I understand. Russia is an untrained and unwieldy mass. There is, of course, the British navy, and with all my heart I thank God that our fleet appears to be fit for service. But with regard even to our navy we ought to remember that it is as yet untried in modern warfare. I confess I cannot share Mr. Rushbrooke's optimistic views as to the war. But whether he be right or I, one thing stands out clear in my mind—that we should prepare ourselves to do our duty. At whatever cost to our country or to ourselves, as individuals, this duty is laid upon us. It is the first, the immediate, the all-absorbing duty of every man, woman and child in Canada to make war. God help us not to shrink.”
“How many in this company will be in Winnipeg this week, say to-morrow?” inquired Mr. Murray. The hand of every business man in the company went up. “Then suppose we call a meeting at my office immediately upon the arrival of the train.” And to this they agreed.
The Rushbrooke bonfire was an annual event and ever the most notable of all its kind during the holiday season at the Lake. This year the preparations for the festive gathering had exceeded those of previous years, and Mrs. Rushbrooke's expectations of a brilliantly successful function were proportionately high. But she had not counted upon War. And so it came that ever as the applause following song or story died down, the Spectre drew near, and upon even the most light-hearted of the company a strange quiet would fall, and they would find themselves staring into the fire forgetful of all about them, thinking of what might be. They would have broken up early but Mrs. Rushbrooke strenuously resisted any such attempt. But the sense of the impending horror chilled the gaiety of the evening and halted the rush of the fun till the hostess gave up in despair and no longer opposed the departure of her guests.
“Mr. McPherson,” she said, as that gentleman came to bid her good-night, “I am quite cross with you. You made us all feel so blue and serious that you quite spoiled our bonfire.”
“I wish it were only I that had spoiled it, Mrs. Rushbrooke,” said Mr. McPherson gravely. “But even your graceful hospitality to-night, which has never been excelled even by yourself at the Lake of the Woods, could not make us forget, and God forgive us if we do forget.”
“Oh, Mr. McPherson,” persisted Mrs. Rushbrooke, in a voice that strove to be gaily reproachful, “we must not become pessimistic. We must be cheerful even if we are at war.”
“Thank you for that word,” said the minister solemnly. “It is a true word and a right word, and it is a word we shall need to remember more and more.”
“The man would drive me mad,” said Mrs. Rushbrooke to Mr. Murray as they watched the boats away. “I am more than thankful that he is not my clergyman.”
“Yes, indeed,” said her husband, who stood near her and shared her feelings of disappointment. “It seems to me he takes things far too seriously.”
“I wonder,” said Dr. Brown, who stood with Mr. Murray preparatory to taking his departure. “I wonder if we know just how serious this thing is. I frankly confess, Mr. Rushbrooke, that my mind has been in an appalling condition of chaos this afternoon; and every hour the thing grows more terrible as I think of it. But as you say, we must cheer up.”
“Surely we must,” replied Rushbrooke impatiently. “I am convinced this war will soon be over. In three months the British navy together with the armies of their allies will wind this thing up.”
Through a wonder world of moonlit waterways and dark, mysterious channels, around peninsulas and between islands, across an open traverse and down a little bay, they took their course until Jim had them safely landed at their own dock again. The magic beauty of the white light upon wooded island and gleaming lake held them in its spell for some minutes after they had landed till Mrs. Murray came down from the bungalow to meet them.
“Safe back again,” she cried with an all too evident effort to be cheery. “How lovely the night is, and how peaceful! James,” she said in a low voice, turning to her husband, “I wish you would go to Isabel. I cannot get her to sleep. She says she must see you.”
“Why, what's up?”
“I think she has got a little fright,” said his wife. “She has been sobbing pitifully.”
Mr. Murray found the little thing wide awake, her breath coming in the deep sobs of exhaustion that follows tempestuous tears. “What's the trouble, Sweetheart?”
“Oh, Daddy,” cried the child, flinging herself upon him and bursting anew into an ecstasy of weeping, “she—said—you would—have—to—go. But—you won't—will you—Daddy?”
“Why, Isabel, what do you mean, dear? Go where?”
“To the—war—Daddy—they said—you would—have—to go—to the war.”
“Who said?”
“Mabel. But—you—won't, will you, Daddy?”
“Mabel is a silly little goose,” said Mr. Murray angrily. “No, never fear, my Sweetheart, they won't expect me to go. I am far too old, you know. Now, then, off you go to sleep. Do you know, the moon is shining so bright outside that the little birds can't sleep. I just heard a little bird as we were coming home cheeping away just like, you. I believe she could not go to sleep.”
But the child could not forget that terrible word which had rooted itself in her heart. “But you will not go; promise me, Daddy, you will not go.”
“Why, Sweetheart, listen to me.”
“But promise me, Daddy, promise me.” The little thing clung to him in a paroxysm of grief and terror.
“Listen, Isabel dear,” said her father quietly. “You know I always tell you the truth. Now listen to me. I promise you I won't go until you send me yourself. Will that do?”
“Yes, Daddy,” she said, and drew a long breath. “Now I am so tired, Daddy.” Even as she spoke the little form relaxed in his arms and in a moment she was fast asleep.
As her father held her there the Spectre drew near again, but for the moment his courage failed him and he dared not look.
In the midst of her busy summer work in field and factory, on lake and river, in mine and forest, on an August day of 1914, Canada was stricken to the heart. Out of a blue summer sky a bolt as of death smote her, dazed and dumb, gasping to God her horror and amaze. Without word of warning, without thought of preparation, without sense of desert, War, brutal, bloody, devilish War, was thrust into her life by that power whose business in the world, whose confidence and glory, was war.
For some days, stunned by the unexpectedness of the blow, as much as by its weight, Canada stood striving to regain her poise. Then with little outcry, and with less complaint, she gathered herself for her spring. A week, and then another, she stood breathless and following with eyes astrain the figure of her ally, little Belgium, gallant and heroic, which had moved out upon the world arena, the first to offer battle to the armour-weighted, monstrous war lord of Europe, on his way to sate his soul long thirsty for blood—men's if he could, women's and little children's by preference, being less costly. And as she stood and strained her eyes across the sea by this and other sights moved to her soul's depths, she made choice, not by compulsion but of her own free will, of war, and having made her choice, she set herself to the business of getting ready. From Pacific to Atlantic, from Vancouver to Halifax, reverberated the beat of the drum calling for men willing to go out and stand with the Empire's sons in their fight for life and faith and freedom. Twenty-five thousand Canada asked for. In less than a month a hundred thousand men were battering at the recruiting offices demanding enlistment in the First Canadian Expeditionary Force. From all parts of Canada this demand was heard, but nowhere with louder insistence than in that part which lies beyond the Great Lakes. In Winnipeg, the Gateway City of the West, every regiment of militia at once volunteered in its full strength for active service. Every class in the community, every department of activity, gave an immediate response to the country's call. The Board of Trade; the Canadian Club, that free forum of national public opinion; the great courts of the various religious bodies; the great fraternal societies and whatsoever organisation had a voice, all pledged unqualified, unlimited, unhesitating support to the Government in its resolve to make war.
Early in the first week of war wild rumours flew of victory and disaster, but the heart of Winnipeg as of the nation was chiefly involved in the tragic and glorious struggle of little Belgium. And when two weeks had gone and Belgium, bruised, crushed, but unconquered, lay trampled in the bloody dust beneath the brutal boots of the advancing German hordes, Canada with the rest of the world had come to measure more adequately the nature and the immensity of the work in hand. By her two weeks of glorious conflict Belgium had uncovered to the world's astonished gaze two portentous and significant facts: one, stark and horrible, that the German military power knew neither ruth nor right; the other, gloriously conspicuous, that Germany's much-vaunted men-of-war were not invincible.
On the first Sunday of the war the churches of Winnipeg were full to the doors. Men, whose attendance was more or less desultory and to a certain extent dependent upon the weather, were conscious of an impulse to go to church. War had shaken the foundations of their world, and men were thinking their deepest thoughts and facing realities too often neglected or minimised. “I have been thinking of God these days,” said a man to Mr. Murray as they walked home from business on Saturday, and there were many like him in Canada in those first days of August. Without being able definitely to define it there was in the hearts of men a sense of need of some clear word of guiding, and in this crisis of Canadian history the churches of Canada were not found wanting. The same Spirit that in ancient days sent forth the Hebrew Isaiah with a message of warning and counsel for the people of his day and which in the great crises of nations has found utterance through the lips of men of humble and believing hearts once more became a source of guidance and of courage.
The message varied with the character and training of the messenger. In the church of which Reverend Andrew McPherson was the minister the people were called to repentance and faith and courage.
“Listen to the Word of God,” cried the minister, “spoken indeed to men of another race and another time, but spoken as truly for the men of this day and of this nation. 'Thus saith Jehovah, thy Redeemer, the Holy One of Israel; I am Jehovah thy God, which teacheth thee to profit, which leadeth thee by the way that thou shouldst go. Oh, that thou wouldst hearken to my commandments! then would thy peace be as a river, and thy righteousness as the waves of the sea. . . . There is no peace, saith Jehovah, to the wicked.' Echoing down through the centuries, these great words have verified themselves in every age and may in our day verify themselves anew. Peace and righteousness are necessarily and eternally bound together.” He refused to discuss with them to-day the causes of this calamity that had fallen upon them and upon the world. But in the name of that same Almighty, Holy God, he summoned the people to repentance and to righteousness, for without righteousness there could be no peace.
In the Cathedral there rang out over the assembled people the Call to Sacrifice. “He that saveth his life shall lose it; and he that loseth his life for My sake shall find it.” The instinct to save life was fundamental and universal. There were times when man must resist that instinct and choose to surrender life. Such was the present time. Dear as life was, there were things infinitely more precious to mankind, and these things were in peril. For the preserving of these things to the world our Empire had resolved upon war, and throughout the Empire the call had sounded forth for men willing to sacrifice their lives. To this call Canada would make response, and only thus could Canada save her life. For faith, for righteousness, for humanity, our Empire had accepted war. And now, as ever, the pathway to immortality for men and for nations was the pathway of sacrifice.
In St. Mary's the priest, an Irishman of warm heart and of fiery fighting spirit, summoned the faithful to faith and duty. To faith in the God of their fathers who through his church had ever led his people along the stern pathway of duty. The duty of the hour was that of united and whole-hearted devotion to the cause of Freedom, for which Great Britain had girded on her sword. The heart of the Empire had been thrilled by the noble words of the leader of the Irish Party in the House of Commons at Home, in which he pledged the Irish people to the cause of the world's Freedom. In this great struggle all loyal Sons of Canada of all races and creeds would be found united in the defence of this sacred cause.
The newspaper press published full reports of many of the sermons preached. These sermons all struck the same note—repentance, sacrifice, service. On Monday morning men walked with surer tread because the light was falling clearer upon the path they must take.
In the evening, when Jane and her friend, Ethel Murray, were on their way downtown, they heard the beat of a drum. Was it fancy, or was there in that beat something they had never heard in a drum beat before, something more insistent, more compelling? They hurried to Portage Avenue and there saw Winnipeg's famous historic regiment, the Ninetieth Rifles, march with quick, brisk step to the drum beat of their bugle band.
“Look,” cried Ethel, “there's Pat Scallons, and Ted Tuttle, and Fred Sharp, too. I did not know that he belonged to the Ninetieth.” And as they passed, rank on rank, Ethel continued to name the friends whom she recognised.
But Jane stood uttering no word. The sight of these lads stepping to the drum beat so proudly had sent a chill to her heart and tears to her eyes. “Oh, Ethel,” she cried, touching her friend's arm, “isn't it terrible?”
“Why, what's the matter?” cried Ethel, glancing at her. “Think of what they are marching to!”
“Oh, I can't bear it,” said Jane.
But Ethel was more engaged with the appearance of the battalion, from the ranks of which she continued to pick out the faces of her friends. “Look,” she cried, “that surely is not Kellerman! It is! It is! Look, Jane, there's that little Jew. Is it possible?”
“Kellerman?” cried Jane. “No, it can't be he. There are no Jews in the Ninetieth.”
“But it is,” cried Ethel. “It is Kellerman. Let us go up to Broadway and we shall meet them again.”
They turned up a cross street and were in time to secure a position from which they could get a good look at the faces of the lads as they passed. The battalion was marching at attention, and so rigid was the discipline that not a face was turned toward the two young ladies standing at the street corner. A glance of the eye and a smile they received from their friends as they passed, but no man turned his head.
“There he is,” said Jane. “It is Kellerman—in the second row, see?”
“Sure enough, it is Kellerman,” said Ethel. “Well, what has come to Winnipeg?”
“War,” said Jane solemnly. “And a good many more of the boys will be going too, if they are any good.”
As Kellerman came stepping along he caught sight of the girls standing there, but no sign of recognition did he make. He was too anxious to be considered a soldier for that. Steadiness was one of the primary principles knocked into the minds of recruits by the Sergeant Major.
The girls moved along after the column had passed at a sufficient distance to escape the rabble. At the drill hall they found the street blocked by a crowd of men, women and children.
“What is all this, I wonder?” said Ethel. “Let us wait here awhile. Perhaps we may come across some one we know.”
It was a strange crowd that gathered about the entrance to the drill hall, not the usual assemblage of noisy, idly curious folk of the lighter weight that are wont to follow a marching battalion or gather to the sound of a band. It was composed of substantial and solid people, serious in face and quiet in demeanour. They were there on business, a business of the gravest character. As the girls stood waiting they heard far down Broadway the throbbing of drums.
“Listen, Ethel,” cried Jane. “The Pipes!”
“The Pipes!” echoed Ethel in great excitement. “The Kilties!”
Above the roll and rattle of the drums they caught those high, heart-thrilling sounds which for nearly two hundred years have been heard on every famous British battlefield, and which have ever led Scotland's sons down the path of blood and death to imperishable glory.
A young Ninetieth officer, intent on seeing that the way was kept clear for the soldiers, came striding out of the armoury.
“Oh, there's Frank Smart,” said Ethel. “I wish he would see us.”
As if in answer to her wish, Smart turned about and saw them in the crowd. Immediately he came to them.
“I didn't know you were a soldier, Frank,” said Jane, greeting him with a radiant smile.
“I had almost forgotten it myself,” said Frank. “But I was at church yesterday and I went home and looked up my uniform and here I am.”
“You are not going across, Frank, are you?” said Ethel.
“If I can. There is very strong competition between both officers and men. I have been paying little attention to soldiering for a year or so; I have been much too busy. But now things are different. If I can make it, I guess I will go.”
“Oh, Frank, YOU don't need to go, said Ethel. I mean there are heaps of men all over Canada wanting to go. Why should YOU go?”
“The question a fellow must ask himself is rather why should he stay,” replied the young officer. “Don't you think so, Jane?”
“Yes,” said Jane, drawing in her breath sharply but smiling at him.
“Do you want to go in?” asked Frank.
“Oh, do let's go in,” said Ethel.
But Jane shrank back. “I don't like to go through all those men,” she said, “though I should like greatly to see Kellerman,” she added. “I wonder if I could see him.”
“Kellerman?”
“Yes, he's Jane's special, you know,” said Ethel. “They ran close together for the German prize, you remember. You don't know him? A little Jew chap.”
“No, I don't know him,” said Smart. “But you can certainly see him if you wish. Just come with me; I will get you in. But first I have got to see that this way is kept clear for the Highlanders.”
“Oh, let's wait to see them come up,” said Ethel.
“Well, then, stand here,” said Frank. “There may be a crush, but if you don't mind that we will follow right after them. Here they come. Great lads, aren't they?”
“And they have their big feather bonnets on, too,” said Ethel.
Down the street the Highlanders came in column of fours, the pipe band leading.
“Aren't they gorgeous?” said Smart with generous praise for a rival battalion. “Chesty-looking devils, eh?” he added as they drew near. “You would think that Pipe Major owned at least half of Winnipeg.”
“And the big drummer the other half,” added Ethel. “Look at his sticks. He's got a classy twirl, hasn't he?”
Gorgeous they were, their white spats flashing in time with their step, their kilts swaying free over their tartan hose and naked knees, their white tunics gleaming through the dusk of the evening, and over all the tossing plumes of their great feather bonnets nodding rhythmically with their swinging stride.
“Mighty glad we have not to fight those boys,” said Frank as the column swung past into the armoury.
The crowd which on other occasions would have broken into enthusiastic cheers to-night stood in silence while the Highlanders in all their gorgeous splendour went past. That grave silence was characteristic of the Winnipeg crowds those first days of war. Later they found voice.
“Now we can go in. Come right along,” said Smart. “Stand clear there, boys. You can't go in unless you have an order.”
“We ar-r-e wantin' tae join,” said a Scotch voice.
“You are, eh? Come along then. Fall into line there.” The men immediately dropped into line. “Ah, you have been there before, I see,” said Smart.
“Aye, ye'er-r-r right ther-r-re, sir-r-r,” answered the voice.
“You will be for the Kilties, boys?” said Frank.
“Aye. What else?” asked the same man in surprise.
“There is only one regiment for the Scotchman apparently,” said Frank, leading the way to the door. “Just hold these men here until I see what's doing, will you?” he said to the sentry as he passed in. “Now, then, young ladies, step to your right and await me in that corner. I must see what's to be done with these recruits. Then I shall find Kellerman for you.”
But he had no need to look for Kellerman, for before he returned the little Jew had caught sight of the young ladies and had made his way to them.
“Why, how splendid you look, Mr. Kellerman,” said Ethel. “I did not know you were in the Ninetieth.”
“I wasn't until Friday.”
“Do you mean to say you joined up to go away?” inquired Ethel.
“That's what,” said Kellerman.
“But you are—I mean—I do not see—” Ethel stopped in confusion.
“What you mean, Miss Murray, is that you are surprised at a Jew joining a military organisation,” said Kellerman with a quiet dignity quite new to him. Formerly his normal condition was one of half defiant, half cringing nervousness in the presence of ladies. To-night he carried himself with an easy self-possession, and it was due to more than the uniform.
“I am afraid you are right. It is horrid of me and I am awfully sorry,” said Ethel, impulsively offering him her hand.
“Why did you join, Mr. Kellerman?” said Jane in her quiet voice.
“Why, I hardly know if I can tell you. I will, though,” he added with a sudden impulse, “if you care to hear.”
“Oh, do tell us,” said Ethel. But Kellerman looked at Jane.
“If you care to tell, Mr. Kellerman,” she said.
The little Jew stood silent a few minutes, leaning upon his rifle and looking down upon the ground. Then in a low, soft voice he began: “I was born in Poland—German Poland. The first thing I remember is seeing my mother kneeling, weeping and wringing her hands beside my father's dead body outside the door of our little house in our village. He was a student, a scholar, and a patriot.” Kellerman's voice took on a deeper and firmer tone. “He stood for the Polish language in the schools. There was a riot in our village. A German officer struck my father down and killed him on the ground. My mother wiped the blood off his white face—I can see that white face now—with her apron. She kept that apron; she has it yet. We got somehow to London soon after that. The English people were good to us. The German people are tyrants. They have no use for free peoples.” The little Jew's words snapped through his teeth. “When war came a week ago I could not sleep for two nights. On Friday I joined the Ninetieth. That night I slept ten hours.” As he finished his story the lad stood staring straight before him into the moving crowd. He had forgotten the girls who with horror-stricken faces had been listening to him. He was still seeing that white face smeared with blood.
“And your mother?” said Jane gently as she laid her hand upon his arm.
The boy started. “My mother? Oh, my mother, she went with me to the recruiting office and saw me take the oath. She is satisfied now.”
For some moments the girls stood silent, unable to find their voices. Then Jane said, her eyes glowing with a deep inner light, “Mr. Kellerman, I am proud of you.”
“Thank you, Miss Brown; it does me good to hear you say that. But you have always been good to me.”
“And I want you to come and see me before you go,” said Jane as she gave him her hand. “Now will you take us out through the crowd? We must get along.”
“Certainly, Miss Brown. Just come with me.” With a fine, soldierly tread the young Jew led them through the crowd and put them on their way. He did not shake hands with them as he said good-bye, but gave them instead a military salute, of which he was apparently distinctly proud.
“Tell me, Jane,” said Ethel, as they set off down the street, “am I awake? Is that little Kellerman, the greasy little Jew whom we used to think such a beast?”
“Isn't he splendid?” said Jane. “Poor little Kellerman! You know, Ethel, he had not one girl friend in college? I am sorry now we were not better to him.”
The streets were full of people walking hurriedly or gathered here and there in groups, all with grave, solemn faces. In front of The Times office a huge concourse stood before the bulletin boards reading the latest despatches. These were ominous enough: “The Germans Still Battering Liege Forts—Kaiser's Army Nearing Brussels—Four Millions of Men Marching on France—Russia Hastening Her Mobilisation—Kitchener Calls for One Hundred Thousand Men—Canada Will Send Expeditionary Force of Twenty-five Thousand Men—Camp at Valcartier Nearly Ready—Parliament Assembles Thursday.” Men read the bulletins and talked quietly to each other. They had not yet reached clearness in their thinking as to how this dread thing had fallen upon their country so far from the storm centre, so remote in all vital relations. There was no cheering—the cheering days came later—no ebullient emotion, but the tightening of lip and jaw in their stern, set faces was a sufficient index of the tensity of feeling. Canadians were thinking things out, thinking keenly and swiftly, for in the atmosphere and actuality of war mental processes are carried on at high pressure.
As the girls stood at the corner of Portage Avenue and Main waiting for a crossing, an auto held up in the traffic drew close to their side.
“Hello, Ethel! Won't you get in?” said a voice at their ear.
“Hello, Lloyd! Hello, Helen!” cried Ethel. “We will, most certainly. Are you joying, or what?”
“Both,” said Lloyd Rushbrooke, who was at the wheel. “Helen wanted to see the soldiers. She is interested in the Ninetieth but he wasn't there and I am just taking her about.”
“We saw the Ninetieth and the Kilties too,” said Ethel. “Oh, they are fine! Oh, Helen, whom do you think we saw in the Ninetieth? You will never guess—Heinrich Kellerman.”
“Good Lord! That greasy little Sheeney?” exclaimed Rushbrooke.
“Look out, Lloyd. He's Jane's friend,” said Ethel.
Lloyd laughed uproariously at the joke. “And you say the little Yid was in the Ninetieth? Well, what is the Ninetieth coming to?”
“Lloyd, you mustn't say a word against Mr. Kellerman,” said Jane. “I think he is a real man.”
“Oh, come, Jane. That little Hebrew Shyster? Why, he does not wash more than once a year!”
“I don't care if he never washes at all. I won't have you speak of him that way,” said Jane. “I mean it. He is a friend of mine.”
“And of mine, too,” said Ethel, “since to-night. Why, he gave me thrills up in the armoury as he told us why he joined up.”
“One ten per, eh?” said Lloyd.
“Shall I tell him?” said Ethel.
“No, you will not,” said Jane decidedly. “Lloyd would not understand.”
“Oh, I say, Jane, don't spike a fellow like that. I am just joking.”
“I won't have you joke in that way about Mr. Kellerman, at least, not to me.” Few of her college mates had ever seen Jane angry. They all considered her the personification of even-tempered serenity.
“If you take it that way, of course I apologise,” said Lloyd.
“Now listen to me, Lloyd,” said Jane. “I am going to tell you why he joined up.” And in tones thrilling with the intensity of her emotion and finally breaking, she recounted Kellerman's story. “And that is why he is going to the war, and I am proud of him,” she added.
“Splendid!” cried Helen Brookes. “You are in the Ninetieth, too, Lloyd, aren't you?”
“Yes,” said Lloyd. “At least, I was. I have not gone much lately. I have not had time for the military stuff, so I canned it.”
“And we saw Pat Scallons and Ted Tuttle in the Ninetieth, too, and Ramsay Dunn—oh, he did look fine in his uniform—and Frank Smart—he is going if he can,” said Ethel. “I wonder what his mother will do. He is the only son, you know.”
“Well, if you ask me, I think that is rot. It is not right for Smart. There are lots of fellows who can go,” said Lloyd in quite an angry tone. “Why, they say they have nearly got the twenty-five thousand already.”
“My, I would like to be in the first twenty-five thousand if I were a man,” said Ethel. “There is something fine in that. Wouldn't you, Jane?”
“I am not a man,” said Jane shortly.
“Why the first twenty-five thousand?” said Lloyd. “Oh, that is just sentimental rot. If a man was really needed, he would go; but if not, why should he? There's no use getting rattled over this thing. Besides, somebody's got to keep things going here. I think that is a fine British motto that they have adopted in England, 'Business as usual.'”
“'Business as usual!'” exclaimed Jane in a tone of unutterable contempt. “I think I must be going home, Lloyd,” she added. “Can you take me?”
“What's the rush, Jane? It is early yet. Let's take a turn out to the Park.”
But Jane insisted on going home. Never before in all her life had she found herself in a mood in which she could with difficulty control her speech. She could not understand how it was that Lloyd Rushbrooke, whom she had always greatly liked, should have become at once distasteful to her. She could hardly bear the look upon his handsome face. His clever, quick-witted fun, which she had formerly enjoyed, now grated horribly. Of all the college boys in her particular set, none was more popular, none better liked, than Lloyd Rushbrooke. Now she was mainly conscious of a desire to escape from his company. This feeling distressed her. She wanted to be alone that she might think it out. That was Jane's way. She always knew her own mind, could always account for her emotions, because she was intellectually honest and had sufficient fortitude to look facts in the face. At the door she did not ask even her friend, Ethel, to come in with her. Nor did she make excuse for omitting this courtesy. That, too, was Jane's way. She was honest with her friends as with herself. She employed none of the little fibbing subterfuges which polite manners approve and which are employed to escape awkward situations, but which, of course, deceive no one. She was simple, sincere, direct in her mental and moral processes, and possessed a courage of the finest quality. Under ordinary circumstances she would have cleared up her thinking and worked her soul through the mist and stress of the rough weather by talking it over with her father or by writing a letter to Larry. But during the days of the past terrible week she had discovered that her father, too, was tempest-tossed to an even greater degree than she was herself; and somehow she had no heart to write to Larry. Indeed, she knew not what to say. Her whole world was in confusion.
And in Winnipeg there were many like her. In every home, while faces carried bold fronts, there was heart searching of the ultimate depths and there was purging of souls. In every office, in every shop, men went about their work resolute to keep minds sane, faces calm, and voices steady, but haunted by a secret something which they refused to call fear—which was not fear—but which as yet they were unwilling to acknowledge and which they were unable to name. With every bulletin from across the sea the uncertainty deepened. Every hour they waited for news of a great victory for the fleet. The second day of the war a rumour of such a victory had come across the wires and had raised hopes for a day which next day were dashed to despair. One ray of light, thin but marvellously bright, came from Belgium. For these six breathless days that gallant little people had barred the way against the onrushing multitudes of Germany's military hosts. The story of the defence of Liege was to the Allies like a big drink of wine to a fainting man. But Belgium could not last. And what of France? What France would do no man could say. It was exceedingly doubtful whether there was in the French soul that enduring quality, whether in the army or in the nation, that would be steadfast in the face of disaster. The British navy was fit, thank God! But as to the army, months must elapse before a British army of any size could be on the fighting line.
Another agonising week passed and still there was no sure word of hope from the Front. In Canada one strong, heartening note had been sounded. The Canadian Parliament had met and with splendid unhesitating unanimity had approved all the steps the Government had taken, had voted large sums for the prosecution of the war, and had pledged Canada to the Empire to the limit of her power. That fearless challenge flung out into the cloud wrapped field of war was like a clear bugle call in the night. It rallied and steadied the young nation, touched her pride, and breathed serene resolve into the Canadian heart. Canadians of all classes drew a long, deep breath of relief as they heard of the action of their Parliament. Doubts, uncertainties vanished like morning mists blown by the prairie breeze. They knew not as yet the magnitude of the task that lay before them, but they knew that whatever it might be, they would not go back from it.
At the end of the second week the last fort in Liege had fallen; Brussels, too, was gone; Antwerp threatened. Belgium was lost. From Belgian villages and towns were beginning to come those tales of unbelievable atrocities that were to shock the world into horrified amazement. These tales read in the Canadian papers clutched men's throats and gripped men's hearts as with cruel fingers of steel. Canadians were beginning to see red. The blood of Belgium's murdered victims was indeed to prove throughout Canada and throughout the world the seed of mighty armies.
At the end of the second week Jane could refrain no longer. She wrote to Larry.
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