By arrangement made the previous evening Jane was awake before the family was astir and in Nora's hands preparing for a morning ride with Larry, who was to give her her first lesson in equitation.
“Your habit will be too big for me, Nora, I am afraid,” she said.
“Habit!” cried Nora. “My pants, you mean. You can pull them up, you know. There they are.”
“Pants!” gasped Jane. “Pants! Nora, pants! Do you mean to say you wear these things where all the men will see you?” Even in the seclusion of her bedroom Jane's face at the thought went a fiery red. Nora laughed at her scornfully. “Oh, but I can't possibly go out in these before Larry. I won't ride at all. Haven't you a skirt, a regular riding habit?”
But Nora derided her scruples. “Why, Jane, we all wear them here.”
“Does Kathleen?”
“Of course she does, and Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, and everybody.”
“Oh, she might, but I am sure your mother would not.”
Nora shouted joyfully. “Well, that is true, she never has, but then she has never ridden out here. Put them on, hurry up, your legs are straight enough, your knees don't knock.”
“Oh, Nora, they are just terrible,” said Jane, almost in tears. “I know I will just squat down if Larry looks at me.”
“Why should he look at you? Don't you ever let on but that you have worn them often, and he will never think of looking at you.”
In face of many protests Jane was at length arrayed in her riding apparel.
“Why, you look perfectly stunning,” said Nora. “You have got just the shape for them. Pull them up a little. There, that is better. Now step out and let me see you.”
Jane walked across the room and Nora rocked in laughter. “Oh, Nora, I will just take them off. You are as mean as you can be. I will pull them off.”
“Not a bit,” said Nora, still laughing, “only stretch your legs a bit when you walk. Don't mince along. Stride like a man. These men have had all the fun in the matter of clothes. I tell you it was one of the proudest moments of my life when I saw my own legs walking. Now step out and swing your arms. There, you are fine, a fine little chap, Jane, round as a barrel, and neat as a ballet dancer, although I never saw one except in magazines.”
Trim and neat Jane looked, the riding suit showing off the beautiful lines of her round, shapely figure. Shrinking, blushing, and horribly conscious of her pants, Jane followed Nora from her bedroom. A swift glance she threw around the room. To her joy it was empty but for Mrs. Gwynne, who was ready with a big glass of rich milk and a slice of home-made bread and delicious butter.
“Good morning, my dear,” said Mrs. Gwynne, kissing her. “You will need something before you ride. You will have breakfast after your return.”
Jane went close to her and stood beside her, still blushing. “Oh, thank you,” she cried, “I am really hungry already. I hope I won't get killed. I never was on a horse before, you know.”
“Oh, never fear, Lawrence is very careful. If it were Nora now I would not be so sure about you, but Lawrence is quite safe.”
At this point Larry came in. “Well, Jane, all ready? Good for you. I like a girl that is always on time.”
“How do you like her pants, Larry?” said Nora, wickedly.
“Perfectly splendiferous,” cried Larry.
“Oh, you mean thing, Nora,” cried Jane, dropping hurriedly into a chair with scarlet face and indignant eyes.
“Come along, Jane, old chap, don't mind her. Those pants never looked so well before, I assure you. We are going to have a great time. I guarantee that in a few minutes you will be entirely oblivious of such trivial things as mere pants.”
They all passed out into the front yard to see Jane mount and take her first lesson.
“This is Polly,” said Larry. “She has taught us all to ride, and though she has lost her shape a bit, she has still 'pep' enough to decline to take a dare.”
“What do I do?” said Jane, gazing fearfully at the fat and shapeless Polly.
“There is just one rule in learning to ride,” said Larry, “step on and stick there. Polly will look after the rest.”
“Step on—it is easy to say, but—”
“This way,” said Nora. She seized hold of the horn of the saddle, put her foot into the stirrup and sprang upon Polly's back. “Oh, there's where the pants come in,” she added as her dress caught on to the rear of the saddle. “Now up you go. Make up your mind you are going to DO it, not going to TRY.”
A look of serious determination came into Jane's face, a look that her friends would have recognised as the precursor of a resolute and determined attempt to achieve the thing in hand. She seized the horn of the saddle, put her foot into the stirrup and “stepped on.”
The riding lesson was an unqualified success, though for some reason, known only to herself, Polly signalised the event by promptly running away immediately her head was turned homeward, and coming back down the lane at a thundering gallop.
“Hello!” cried Nora, running out to meet them. “Why, Jane, you have been fooling us all along. You needn't tell me this is your first ride.”
“My very first,” said Jane, “but I hope not my last.”
“But, my dear,” said Mrs. Gwynne, who had also come out to see the return, “you are doing famously.”
“Am I?” cried Jane, her face aglow and her eyes shining. “I think it is splendid. Shall we ride again to-day, Larry?”
“Right away after breakfast and all day long if you like. You are a born horsewoman, Jane.”
“Weren't you afraid when Polly ran off with you like that?” inquired Nora.
“Afraid? I didn't know there was any danger. Was there any?” inquired Jane.
“Not a bit,” said Nora, “so long as you kept your head.”
“But there really was no danger, was there, Larry?” insisted Jane.
“None at all, Jane,” said Nora, “I assure you. Larry got rattled when he saw you tear off in that wild fashion, but I knew you would be all right. Come in; breakfast is ready.”
“And so am I,” said Jane. “I haven't been so hungry I don't know when.”
“Why, she's not plain-looking after all,” said Nora to her mother as Jane strode manlike off to her room.
“Plain-looking?” exclaimed her mother. “I never thought her plain-looking. She has that beauty that shines from within, a beauty that never fades, but grows with every passing year.”
A council of war was called by Nora immediately after breakfast, at which plans were discussed for the best employment of the three precious days during which the visitors were to be at the ranch. There were so many things to be done that unless some system were adopted valuable time would be wasted.
“It appears to me, Miss Nora,” said Dr. Brown after a somewhat prolonged discussion, “that to accomplish all the things that you have suggested, and they all seem not only delightful but necessary, we shall require at least a month of diligent application.”
“At the very least,” cried Nora.
“So what are we going to do?” said the doctor.
It was finally decided that the Browns should extend their stay at Lakeside House for a week, after which the doctor should proceed to the coast and be met on his return at Banff by Jane, with Nora as her guest.
“Then that's all settled,” said Larry. “Now what's for to-day?”
As if in answer to that question a honk of a motor car was heard outside. Nora rushed to the door, saying, “That's Mrs. Waring-Gaunt.” But she returned hastily with heightened colour.
“Larry,” she said, “it's that Mr. Wakeham.”
“Wakeham,” cried Larry. “What's got him up so early, I wonder?” with a swift look at Jane.
“I wonder,” said Nora, giving Jane a little dig.
“I thought I would just run up and see if you had all got home safely last night,” they heard his great voice booming outside to Larry.
“My, but he is anxious,” said Nora.
“But who is he, Nora?” inquired her mother.
“A friend of Jane's, and apparently terribly concerned about her welfare.”
“Stop, Nora,” said Jane, flushing a fiery red. “Don't be silly. He is a young man whom we met on the train, Mrs. Gwynne, a friend of some of our Winnipeg friends.”
“We shall be very glad to have him stay with us, my dear,” said Mrs. Gwynne. “Go and bring him in.”
“Go on, Jane,” said Nora.
“Now, Nora, stop it,” said Jane. “I will get really cross with you. Hush, there he is.”
The young man seemed to fill up the door with his bulk. “Mr. Wakeham,” said Larry, as the young fellow stood looking around on the group with a frank, expansive smile upon his handsome face. As his eye fell upon a little lady the young man seemed to come to attention. Insensibly he appeared to assume an attitude of greater respect as he bowed low over her hand.
“I hope you will pardon my coming here so early in the morning,” he said with an embarrassed air. “I have the honour of knowing your guests.”
“Any friend of our guests is very welcome here, Mr. Wakeham,” said Mrs. Gwynne, smiling at him with gentle dignity.
“Good morning, Mr. Wakeham,” said Jane, coming forward with outstretched hand. “You are very early in your calls. You could not have slept very much.”
“No, indeed,” replied Mr. Wakeham, “and that is one reason why I waked so early. My bed was not so terribly attractive.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Nora in a disappointed tone, as she shook hands with him, “we thought you were anxious to see us.”
“Quite right,” said the young man, holding her hand and looking boldly into her eyes. “I have come to see you.”
Before his look Nora's saucy eyes fell and for some unaccountable reason her usually ready speech forsook her. Mr. Wakeham fell into easy conversation with Mr. Gwynne and Dr. Brown concerning mining matters, in which he was especially interested. He had spent an hour about the Manor Mine and there he had heard a good deal about Mr. Gwynne's mine and was anxious to see that if there were no objections. He wondered if he might drive Mr. Gwynne—and indeed, he had a large car and would be glad to fill it up with a party if any one cared to come. He looked at Mrs. Gwynne as he spoke.
“Yes, Mother, you go. It is such a lovely day,” said Nora enthusiastically, “and Jane can go with you.”
“Jane is going riding,” said Larry firmly.
“I am going to Mrs. Waring-Gaunt's,” said Jane. “I arranged with her last night.”
While they were settling Mrs. Gwynne's protests, and covered by the noise of conversation, Mr. Wakeham managed to get close to Nora. “I want you to come,” he said in a low voice. “That's what I came for.”
Startled and confused by this extraordinary announcement, Nora could think of no answer.
“I think you were to show me the mine,” he added. Then while Nora gasped at him, he said aloud, “My car is a seven passenger, so we can take quite a party.”
“Why not Kathleen?” suggested Jane.
“Yes, indeed, Kathleen might like to go,” said Mrs. Gwynne.
“Then let's all go,” cried Nora.
“Thank you awfully,” murmured Mr. Wakeham. “We shall only be two or three hours at most,” continued Nora. “We shall be back in time for lunch.”
“For that matter,” said Mr. Gwynne, “we can lunch at the mine.”
“Splendid,” cried Nora. “Come along. We'll run up with you to the Waring-Gaunts' for Kathleen,” she added to Mr. Wakeham.
At the Waring-Gaunts' they had some difficulty persuading Kathleen to join the party, but under the united influence of Jack and his sister, she agreed to go.
“Now then,” said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, “you have your full party, Mr. Wakeham—Mr. and Mrs. Gwynne, Dr. Brown, and the three girls.”
“What about me?” said Larry dolefully.
“I shall stay with you,” cried Nora, evading Mr. Wakeham's eyes.
“No, Nora,” said Jane in a voice of quiet decision. “Last night Mrs. Waring-Gaunt and I arranged that I should visit her to-day.”
There was a loud chorus of protests, each one making an alternative suggestion during which Jane went to Mrs. Waring-Gaunt's side and said quietly, “I want to stay with you to-day.”
“All right, dear,” said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. “Stay you shall.” And, then to the company announced, “We have it all arranged. Jane and I are to have a visit together. The rest of you go off.”
“And what about me, Jane?” again said Larry.
“You are going with the others,” said Jane calmly, “and in the afternoon we are to have our ride.”
“And this is Jane,” said Jack Romayne as Mrs. Waring-Gaunt ushered the girl into his room. “If half of what I have heard is true then I am a lucky man to-day. Kathleen has been telling me about you.”
Jane's smile expressed her delight. “I think I could say the same of you, Mr. Romayne.”
“What? Has Kathleen been talking about me?”
“No, I have not seen Kathleen since I came, but there are others, you know.”
“Are there?” asked Jack. “I hadn't noticed. But I know all about you.”
It was a hasty introduction for Jane. Kathleen was easily a subject for a day's conversation. How long she discoursed upon Kathleen neither of them knew. But when Mrs. Waring-Gaunt had finished up her morning household duties Jane was still busy dilating upon Kathleen's charms and graces and expatiating upon her triumphs and achievements during her stay in Winnipeg the previous winter.
“Still upon Kathleen?” inquired Mrs. Waring-Gaunt.
“Oh, I am learning a great deal and enjoying myself immensely,” said Jack.
“You must be careful, Jane. Don't tell Jack everything about Kathleen. There are certain things we keep to ourselves, you know. I don't tell Tom everything.”
Jane opened her eyes. “I have not told Jane yet, Sybil,” said Jack quietly. “She doesn't know, though perhaps she has guessed how dear to me Kathleen is.”
“Had you not heard?” inquired Mrs. Waring-Gaunt.
“No, I only came last night, you see.” Then turning to Jack, she added, “And is—is Kathleen going to marry you?” Her astonishment was evident in her voice and eyes.
“I hope so,” said Jack, “and you are no more astonished than I am myself. I only found it out night before last.”
It was characteristic of Jane that she sat gazing at him in silence; her tongue had not learned the trick of easy compliment. She was trying to take in the full meaning of this surprising announcement.
“Well?” said Jack after he had waited for some moments.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said hurriedly. “I congratulate you. I think you are a very lucky man.”
“I am, indeed,” said Jack with emphasis. “And Kathleen? You are not so sure about her luck?”
“Well, I don't know you yet,” said Jane gravely, “and Kathleen is a very lovely girl, the very loveliest girl I know.”
“You are quite right,” said Jack in a tone as grave as her own. “I am not good enough for her.”
“Oh, I did not say that. Only I don't know you, and you see I know Kathleen. She is so lovely and so good. I love her.” Jane's face was earnest and grave.
“And so do I, Jane, if I may call you so,” said Jack, “and I am going to try to be worthy of her.”
Jane's eyes rested quietly on his face. She made up her mind that it was an honest face and a face one could trust, but to Jane it seemed as if something portentous had befallen her friend and she could not bring herself immediately to accept this new situation with an outburst of joyous acclaim such as ordinarily greets an announcement of this kind. For a reason she could not explain her mind turned to the memory she cherished of her own mother and of the place she had held with her father. She wondered if this man could give to Kathleen a place so high and so secure in his heart. While her eyes were on his face Jack could see that her mind was far away. She was not thinking of him.
“What is it, Jane?” he said gently.
Jane started and the blood rushed to her face. She hesitated, then said quietly but with charming frankness, “I was thinking of my mother. She died when I was two years old. Father says I am like her. But I am not at all. She was very lovely. Kathleen makes me think of her, and father often tells me about her. He has never forgotten her. You see I think he loved her in quite a wonderful way, and he—” Jane paused abruptly.
Mrs. Waring-Gaunt rose quietly, came to her side. “Dear Jane, dear child,” she said, kissing her. “That's the only way to love. I am sure your mother was a lovely woman, and a very happy woman, and you are like her.”
But Jack kept his face turned away from them.
“Oh, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt,” cried Jane, shaking her head emphatically, “I am not the least bit like her. That is one of the points on which I disagree with father. We do not agree upon everything, you know.”
“No? What are some of the other points?”
“We agree splendidly about Kathleen,” said Jane, laughing. “Just now we differ about Germany.”
“Aha, how is that?” inquired Jack, immediately alert.
“Of course, I know very little about it, you understand, but last winter our minister, Mr. McPherson, who had just been on a visit to Germany the summer before, gave a lecture in which he said that Germany had made enormous preparations for war and was only waiting a favourable moment to strike. Papa says that is all nonsense.”
“Oh, Jane, Jane,” cried Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, “you have struck upon a very sore spot in this house. Jack will indorse all your minister said. He will doubtless go much further.”
“What did he say, Jane?” inquired Jack.
“He was greatly in earnest and he urged preparation by Canada. He thinks we ought at the very least to begin getting our fleet ready right away.”
“That's politics, of course,” said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, “and I do not know what you are.”
“I am not sure that I do either,” she replied, “but I believe too that Canada ought to get at her fleet without loss of time.”
“But what did he say about Germany?” continued Jack.
“I can't tell you everything, of course, but he assured us that Germany had made the greatest possible preparation, that the cities, towns and villages were full of drilling men; that there were great stores of war material, guns and shells, everywhere throughout Germany; that they were preparing fleets of Zeppelins and submarines too; that they were ready to march at twenty-four hours' notice; that the whole railroad system of Germany was organised, was really built for war; that within the last few years the whole nation had come to believe that Germany must go to war in order to fulfil her great destiny. Father says that this is all foolish talk, and that all this war excitement is prompted chiefly by professional soldiers, like Lord Roberts and others, and by armament makers like the Armstrongs and the Krupps.”
“What do you think about it all, Jane?” inquired Jack, looking at her curiously.
“Well, he had spent some months in Germany and had taken pains to inquire of all kinds of people, officers and professors and preachers and working people and politicians, and so I think he ought to know better than others who just read books and the newspapers, don't you think so?”
“I think you are entirely right, and I hope that minister of yours will deliver that lecture in many places throughout this country, for there are not many people, even in England, who believe in the reality of the German menace. But this is my hobby, my sister says, and I don't want to bore you.”
“But I am really interested, Mr. Romayne. Papa laughs at me, and Larry too. He does not believe in the possibility of war. But I think that if there is a chance, even the slightest chance, of it being true, it is so terrible that we all ought to be making preparation to defend ourselves.”
“Well, if it won't bore you,” said Jack, “I shall tell you a few things.”
“Then excuse me,” said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. “I have some matters to attend to. I have no doubt that you at least, Jack, will have a perfectly lovely time.”
“I am sure I shall too,” cried Jane enthusiastically. “I just want to hear about this.”
“Will you please pass me that green book?” said Jack, after Mrs. Waring-Gaunt had left the room. “No, the next one. Yes. The first thing that it is almost impossible for us Britishers to get into our minds is this, that Germany, not simply the Kaiser and the governing classes, but the whole body of the German people, take themselves and their empire and their destiny with most amazing seriousness. Listen to this, for instance. This will give you, I say, the psychological condition out of which war may easily and naturally arise.” He turned the leaves of the book and read:
“'To live and expand at the expense of other less meritorious peoples finds its justification in the conviction that we are of all people the most noble and the most pure, destined before others to work for the highest development of humanity.'
“One of their poets—I haven't got him here—speaks of the 'German life curing all the evils of humanity by mere contact with it.' You see that row of books? These are only a few. Most of them are German. They are all by different authors and on different subjects, but they are quite unanimous in setting forth the German ideal, the governing principle of German World politics. They are filled with the most unbelievable glorification of Germany and the German people, and the most extraordinary prophecies as to her wonderful destiny as a World Power. Unhappily the German has no sense of humour. A Britisher talking in this way about his country would feel himself to be a fool. Not so the German. With a perfectly serious face he will attribute to himself and to his nation all the virtues in the calendar. For instance, listen to this:
“'Domination belongs to Germany because it is a superior nation, a noble race, and it is fitting that it should control its neighbours just as it is the right and duty of every individual endowed with superior intellect and force to control inferior individuals about him.'
“Here's another choice bit:
“'We are the superior race in the fields of science and of art. We are the best colonists, the best sailors, the best merchants.'
“That's one thing. Then here's another. For many years after his accession I believe the Kaiser was genuinely anxious to preserve the peace of Europe and tried his best to do so, though I am bound to say that at times he adopted rather peculiar methods, a mingling of bullying and intrigue. But now since 1904—just hand me that thin book, please. Thank you—the Kaiser has changed his tone. For instance, listen to this:
“'God has called us to civilise the world. We are the missionaries of human progress.'
“And again this:
“'The German people will be the block of granite on which our Lord will be able to elevate and achieve the civilisation of the world.'
“But I need not weary you with quotations. The political literature of Germany for the last fifteen years is saturated with this spirit. The British people dismiss this with a good-natured smile of contempt. To them it is simply an indication of German bad breeding. If you care I shall have a number of these books sent you. They are somewhat difficult to get. Indeed, some of them cannot be had in English at all. But you read German, do you not? Kathleen told me about your German prize.”
“I do, a little. But I confess I prefer the English,” said Jane with a little laugh.
“The chief trouble, however, is that so few English-speaking people care to read them. But I assure you that the one all-absorbing topic of the German people is this one of Germany's manifest destiny to rule and elevate the world. And remember these two things go together. They have no idea of dominating the world intellectually or even commercially—but perhaps you are sick of this.”
“Not at all. I am very greatly interested,” said Jane.
“Then I shall just read you one thing more. The German has no idea that he can benefit a nation until he conquers it. Listen to this:
“'The dominion of German thought can only be extended under the aegis of political power, and unless we act in conformity to this idea we shall be untrue to out great duties toward the human race.'”
“I shall be very glad to get those books,” said Jane, “and I wish you would mark some of these passages. And I promise you I shall do all I can to make all my friends read them. I shall begin with Papa and Larry. They are always making fun of me and my German scare.”
“I can quite understand that,” replied Jack. “That is a very common attitude with a great majority of the people of England to-day. But you see I have been close to these things for years, and I have personal knowledge of many of the plans and purposes in the minds of the German Kaiser and the political and military leaders of Germany, and unhappily I know too the spirit that dominates the whole body of the German people.”
“You lived in Germany for some years?”
“Yes, for a number of years.”
“And did you like the life there?”
“In many ways I did. I met some charming Germans, and then there is always their superb music.”
And for an hour Jack Romayne gave his listener a series of vivid pictures of his life in Germany and in other lands for the past ten years, mingling with personal reminiscences incidents connected with international politics and personages. He talked well, not only because his subject was a part of himself, but also because Jane possessed that rare ability to listen with intelligence and sympathy. Never had she met with a man who had been in such intimate touch with the world's Great Affairs and who was possessed at the same time of such brilliant powers of description.
Before either of them was aware the party from the mine had returned.
“We have had a perfectly glorious time,” cried Nora as she entered the room with her cheeks and eyes glowing.
“So have we, Miss Nora,” said Jack. “In fact, I had not the slightest idea of the flight of time.”
“You may say so,” exclaimed Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. “These two have been so utterly absorbed in each other that my presence in the room or absence from it was a matter of perfect indifference. And how Jane managed it I don't know, but she got Jack to do for her what he has never done for me. He has actually been giving her the story of his life.”
Jane stood by listening with a smile of frank delight on her face.
“How did you do it, Jane?” asked Kathleen shyly. “He has never told me.”
“Oh, I just listened,” said Jane.
“That's a nasty jar for you others,” said Nora.
“But he told me something else, Kathleen,” said Jane with a bright blush, “and I am awfully glad.” As she spoke she went around to Kathleen and, kissing her, said, “It is perfectly lovely for you both.”
“Oh, you really mean that, do you?” said Jack. “You know she was exceedingly dubious of me this morning.”
“Well, I am not now,” said Jane. “I know you better, you see.”
“Thank God,” said Jack fervently. “The day has not been lost. You will be sure to come again to see me,” he added as Jane said good-bye.
“Yes, indeed, you may be quite sure of that,” replied Jane, smiling brightly back at him as she left the room with Nora.
“What a pity she is so plain,” said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt when she had returned from seeing Jane on her way with Nora and Mr. Wakeham.
“My dear Sybil, you waste your pity,” said her brother. “That young lady is so attractive that one forgets whether she is plain or not. I can't quite explain her fascination for me. There's perfect sincerity to begin with. She is never posing. And perfect simplicity. And besides that she is so intellectually keen, she keeps one alive.”
“I just love her,” said Kathleen. “She has such a good heart.”
“You have said it,” said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, “and that is why Jane will never lose her charm.”
When the week had fled Dr. Brown could hardly persuade himself and his hosts at Lakeside Farm that the time had come for his departure to the coast. Not since he had settled down to the practice of his profession at Winnipeg more than twenty years ago had such a holiday been his. Alberta, its climate, its life of large spaces and far visions, its hospitable people, had got hold of him by so strong a grip that in parting he vowed that he would not await an opportunity but make one to repeat his visit to the ranch. And so he departed with the understanding that Jane should follow him to Banff ten days later with her friend Nora.
The ten days were to Jane as a radiant, swiftly moving dream. Yet with so much to gratify her, one wish had remained ungratified. Though from early morning until late night she had ridden the ranges now with one and now with another, but for the most part with Larry, Jane had never “done the mine.”
“And I just know I shall go away without seeing that mine, and Winnipeg people will be sure to ask me about it, and what shall I say? And I have never seen that wonderful secretary, Mr. Switzer, either.”
“To-morrow,” said Larry solemnly, “no matter what happens we shall have you see that mine and the wonderful Mr. Switzer.”
It was the seeing of Mr. Switzer that brought to Jane the only touch of tragedy to the perfect joy of her visit to Alberta. Upon arrival at the mine she was given over by Larry to Mr. Switzer's courteous and intelligent guidance, and with an enthusiasm that never wearied, her guide left nothing of the mine outside or in, to which with painstaking minuteness he failed to call her attention. It was with no small degree of pride that Mr. Switzer explained all that had been accomplished during the brief ten weeks during which the mine had been under his care. For although it was quite true that Mr. Steinberg was the manager, Switzer left no doubt in Jane's mind, as there was none in his own, that the mine owed its present state of development to his driving energy and to his organising ability. Jane readily forgave him his evident pride in himself as he exclaimed, sweeping his hand toward the little village that lay along the coolee,
“Ten weeks ago, Miss Brown, there was nothing here but a little black hole in the hillside over there. To-day look at it. We have a company organised, a village built and equipped with modern improvements, water, light, drainage, etc. We are actually digging and shipping coal. It is all very small as yet, but it is something to feel that a beginning has been made.”
“I think it is really quite a remarkable achievement, Mr. Switzer. And I feel sure that I do not begin to know all that this means. They all say that you have accomplished great things in the short time you have been at work.”
“We are only beginning,” said Switzer again, “but I believe we shall have a great mine. It will be a good thing—for the Gwynnes, I mean—and that is worth while. Of course, my own money is invested here too and I am working for myself, but I assure you that I chiefly think of them. It is a joy, Miss Brown, to work for those you love.”
“It is,” replied Jane, slightly puzzled at this altruistic point of view; “The Gwynnes are dear people and I am glad for their sakes. I love them.”
“Yes,” continued Switzer, “this will be a great mine. They will be wealthy some day.”
“That will be splendid,” said Jane. “You see I have only got to know them well during this visit. Nine years ago I met them in Winnipeg when I was a little girl. Of course, Kathleen was with us a great deal last winter. I got to know her well then. She is so lovely, and she is lovelier now than ever. She is so happy, you know.”
Switzer looked puzzled. “Happy? Because you are here?”
“No, no. Because of her engagement. Haven't you heard? I thought everybody knew.”
Switzer stood still in his tracks. “Her engagement?” he said in a hushed voice. “Her engagement to—to that”—he could not apparently get the word out without a great effort—“that Englishman?”
Looking at his white face and listening to his tense voice, Jane felt as if she were standing at the edge of a mine that might explode at any moment.
“Yes, to Mr. Romayne,” she said, and waited, almost holding her breath.
“It is not true!” he shouted. “It's a lie. Ha, Ha.” Switzer's laugh was full of incredulous scorn. “Engaged? And how do YOU know?” He swung fiercely upon her, his eyes glaring out of a face ghastly white.
“I am sorry I said anything, Mr. Switzer. It was not my business to speak of it,” said Jane quietly. “But I thought you knew.”
Gradually the thing seemed to reach his mind. “Your business?” he said. “What difference whose business it is? It is not true. I say it is not true. How do you know? Tell me. Tell me. Tell me.” He seized her by the arm, and at each “Tell me” shook her violently.
“You are hurting me, Mr. Switzer,” said Jane.
He dropped her arm. “Then, my God, will you not tell me? How do you know?”
“Mr. Switzer, believe me it is true,” said Jane, trying to speak quietly, though she was shaking with excitement and terror. “Mr. Romayne told me, they all told me, Kathleen told me. It is quite true, Mr. Switzer.”
He stared at her as if trying to take in the meaning of her words, then glared around him like a hunted animal seeking escape from a ring of foes, then back at her again. There were workmen passing close to them on the path, but he saw nothing of them. Jane was looking at his ghastly face. She was stricken with pity for him.
“Shall we walk on this way?” she said, touching his arm.
He shook off her touch but followed her away from the busy track of the workers, along a quieter path among the trees. Sheltered from observation, she slowed her steps and turned towards him.
“She loves him?” he said in a low husky voice. “You say she loves him?”
“Yes, Mr. Switzer, she loves him,” said Jane. “She cannot help herself. No one can help one's self. You must not blame her for that, Mr. Switzer.”
“She does not love me,” said Switzer as if stunned by the utterly inexplicable phenomenon. “But she did once,” he cried. “She did before that schwein came.” No words could describe the hate and contempt in his voice. He appeared to concentrate his passions struggling for expression, love, rage, hate, wounded pride, into one single stream of fury. Grinding his teeth, foaming, sputtering, he poured forth his words in an impetuous torrent.
“He stole her from me! this schwein of an Englishman! He came like a thief, like a dog and a dog's son and stole her! She was mine! She would have been mine! She loved me! She was learning to love me. I was too quick with her once, but she had forgiven me and was learning to love me. But this pig!” He gnashed his teeth upon the word.
“Stop, Mr. Switzer,” said Jane, controlling her agitation and her terror. “You must not speak to me like that. You are forgetting yourself.”
“Forgetting myself!” he raged, his face livid blue and white. “Forgetting myself! Yes, yes! I forget everything but one thing. That I shall not forget. I shall not forget him nor how he stole her from me. Gott in Himmel! Him I shall never forget. No, when these hairs are white,” he struck his head with his clenched fist, “I shall still remember and curse him.” Abruptly he stayed the rush of his words. Then more deliberately but with an added intensity of passion he continued, “But no, never shall he have her. Never. God hears me. Never. Him I will kill, destroy.” He had wrought himself up into a paroxysm of uncontrollable fury, his breath came in jerking gasps, his features worked with convulsive twitchings, his jaws champed and snapped upon his words like a dog's worrying rats.
To Jane it seemed a horrible and repulsive sight, yet she could not stay her pity from him. She remembered it was love that had moved him to this pitch of madness. Love after all was a terrible thing. She could not despise him. She could only pity. Her very silence at length recalled him. For some moments he stood struggling to regain his composure. Gradually he became aware that her eyes were resting on his face. The pity in her eyes touched him, subdued him, quenched the heat of his rage.
“I have lost her,” he said, his lips quivering. “She will never change.”
“No, she will never change,” replied Jane gently. “But you can always love her. And she will be happy.”
“She will be happy?” he exclaimed, looking at her in astonishment. “But she will not be mine.”
“No, she will not be yours,” said Jane still very gently, “but she will be happy, and after all, that is what you most want. You are anxious chiefly that she shall be happy. You would give everything to make her happy.”
“I would give my life. Oh, gladly, gladly, I would give my life, I would give my soul, I would give everything I have on earth and heaven too.”
“Then don't grieve too much,” said Jane, putting her hand on his arm. “She will be happy.”
“But what of me?” he cried pitifully, his voice and lips trembling like those of a little child in distress. “Shall I be happy?”
“No, not now,” replied Jane steadily, striving to keep back her tears, “perhaps some day. But you will think more of her happiness than of your own. Love, you know, seeks to make happy rather than to be happy.”
For some moments the man stood as if trying to understand what she had said. Then with a new access of grief and rage, he cried, “But my God! My God! I want her. I cannot live without her. I could make her happy too.”
“No, never,” said Jane. “She loves him.”
“Ach—so. Yes, she loves him, and I—hate him. He is the cause of this. Some day I will kill him. I will kill him.”
“Then she would never be happy again,” said Jane, and her face was full of pain and of pity.
“Go away,” he said harshly. “Go away. You know not what you say. Some day I shall make him suffer as I suffer to-day. God hears me. Some day.” He lifted his hands high above his head. Then with a despairing cry, “Oh, I have lost her, I have lost her,” he turned from Jane and rushed into the woods.
Shaken, trembling and penetrated with pity for him, Jane made her way toward the office, near which she found Larry with the manager discussing an engineering problem which appeared to interest them both.
“Where's Ernest?” inquired Larry.
“He has just gone,” said Jane, struggling to speak quietly. “I think we must hurry, Larry. Come, please. Good-bye, Mr. Steinberg.” She hurried away toward the horses, leaving Larry to follow.
“What is it, Jane?” said Larry when they were on their way.
“Why didn't you tell me, Larry, that he was fond of Kathleen?” she cried indignantly. “I hurt him terribly, and, oh, it was awful to see a man like that.”
“What do you say? Did he cut up rough?” said Larry.
Jane made no reply, but her face told its own story of shock and suffering.
“He need not have let out upon you, Jane, anyway,” said Larry.
“Don't, Larry. You don't understand. He loves Kathleen. You don't know anything about it. How can you?”
“Oh, he will get over it in time,” said Larry with a slight laugh.
Jane flashed on him a look of indignation. “Oh, how can you, Larry? It was just terrible to see him. But you do not know,” she added with a touch of bitterness unusual with her.
“One thing I do know,” said Larry. “I would not pour out my grief on some one else. I would try to keep it to myself.”
But Jane refused to look at him or to speak again on the matter. Never in her sheltered life had there been anything suggesting tragedy. Never had she seen a strong man stricken to the heart as she knew this man to be stricken. The shadow of that tragedy stayed with her during all the remaining days of her visit. The sight of Kathleen's happy face never failed to recall the face of the man who loved her distorted with agony and that cry of despair, “I have lost her, I have lost her.”
Not that her last days at the ranch were not happy days. She was far too healthy and wholesome, far too sane to allow herself to miss the gladness of those last few days with her friends where every moment offered its full measure of joy. Nora would have planned a grand picnic for the last day on which the two households, including Jack Romayne, who by this time was quite able to go about, were to pay a long-talked-of visit to a famous canyon in the mountains. The party would proceed to the canyon in the two cars, for Mr. Wakeham's car and Mr. Wakeham's person as driver had been constantly at the service of the Gwynnes and their guests during their stay at the farm.
“But that is our very last day, Nora,” said Jane.
“Well, that's just why,” replied Nora. “We shall wind up our festivities in one grand, glorious finale.”
But the wise mother interposed. “It is a long ride, Nora, and you don't want to be too tired for your journey. I think the very last day we had better spend quietly at home.”
Jane's eyes flashed upon her a grateful look. And so it came that the grand finale was set back to the day before the last, and proved to be a gloriously enjoyable if exhausting outing. The last day was spent by Nora in making preparations for her visit with Jane to Banff and in putting the final touches to such household tasks as might help to lessen somewhat the burden for those who would be left behind. Jane spent the morning in a farewell visit to the Waring-Gaunts', which she made in company with Kathleen.
“I hope, my dear Jane, you have enjoyed your stay with us here at Wolf Willow,” said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt as Jane was saying good-bye.
“I have been very happy,” said Jane. “Never in my life have I had such a happy time.”
“Now it is good of you to say that,” said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. “You have made us all love you.”
“Quite true,” said her husband. “Repetition of the great Caesar's experience veni vidi vici, eh? What?”
“So say I,” said Jack Romayne. “It has been a very real pleasure to know you, Jane. For my part, I shan't forget your visit to me, and the talks we have had together.”
“You have all been good to me. I cannot tell you how I feel about it.” Jane's voice was a little tremulous, but her smile was as bright as ever. “I don't believe I shall ever have such a perfectly happy visit again.”
“What nonsense, my dear,” said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. “I predict many, many very happy days for you. You have that beautiful gift of bringing your joy with you.”
Jack accompanied them on their way to the road. “Kathleen and I are hoping that perhaps you may be able to come to our wedding. It will be very soon—in a few weeks.”
“Yes, could you, Jane, dear?” said Kathleen. “We should like it above everything else. I know it is a long, long journey, but if you could.”
“When is it to be?” said Jane.
“Somewhere about the middle of October.” But Jane shook her head disconsolately. By that time she knew she would be deep in her university work, and with Jane work ever came before play.
“I am afraid not,” she said. “But, oh, I do wish you all the happiness in the world. Nothing has ever made me so glad. Oh, but you will be happy, I know. Both of you are so lovely.” A sudden rush of tears filled the deep dark eyes as she shook hands with Jack in farewell. “But,” she cried in sudden rapture, “why not come to us for a day on your wedding trip?”
“That's a splendid idea.” For a moment or two Jack and Kathleen stood looking at each other.
“Jane, we shall surely come. You may count on us,” said Jack.
In the afternoon Mrs. Gwynne sent Jane away for a ride with Larry.
“Just go quietly, Larry,” said his mother. “Don't race and don't tire Jane.”
“I will take care of her,” said Larry, “but I won't promise that we won't race. Jane would not stand for that, you know. Besides she is riding Ginger, and Ginger is not exactly like old Polly. But never fear, we shall have a good ride, Mother,” he added, waving his hand gaily as they rode away, taking the coolee trail to the timber lot.
Larry was in high spirits. He talked of his work for the winter. He was hoping great things from this his last year in college. For the first time in his university career he would be able to give the full term to study. He would be a couple of weeks late on account of Kathleen's marriage, but he would soon make that up. He had his work well in hand and this year he meant to do something worth while. “I should like to take that medal home to Mother,” he said with a laugh. “I just fancy I see her face. She would try awfully hard not to seem proud, but she would just be running over with it.” Jane gave, as ever, a sympathetic hearing but she had little to say, even less than was usual with her. Her smile, however, was as quick and as bright as ever, and Larry chattered on beside her apparently unaware of her silence. Up the coolee and through the woods and back by the dump their trail led them. On the way home they passed the Switzer house.
“Have you seen Mr. Switzer?” said Jane.
“No, by Jove, he hasn't been near us for a week, has he?” replied Larry.
“Poor man, I feel so sorry for him,” said Jane.
“Oh, he will be all right. He is busy with his work. He is awfully keen about that mine of his, and once the thing is over—after Kathleen is married, I mean—it will be different.”
Jane rode on in silence for some distance. Then she said,
“I wonder how much you know about it, Larry. I don't think you know the very least bit.”
“Well, perhaps not,” said Larry cheerfully, “but they always get over it.”
“Oh, do they?” said Jane. “I wonder.”
And again she rode on listening in silence to Larry's chatter.
“You will have a delightful visit at Banff, Jane. Do you know Wakeham is going to motor up? He is to meet his father there. He asked me to go with him,” and as he spoke Larry glanced at her face.
“That would be splendid for you, Larry,” she said, “but you couldn't leave them at home with all the work going on, could you?”
“No,” said Larry gloomily, “I do not suppose I could. But I think you might have let me say that.”
“But it is true, isn't it, Larry?” said Jane.
“Yes, it's true, and there's no use talking about it, and so I told him. But,” he said, cheering up again, “I have been having a holiday these two weeks since you have been here.”
“I know,” said Jane remorsefully, “we must have cut into your work dreadfully.”
“Yes, I have loafed a bit, but it was worth while. What a jolly time we have had! At least, I hope you have had, Jane.”
“You don't need to ask me, do you, Larry?”
“I don't know. You are so dreadfully secretive as to your feelings, one never knows about you.”
“Now, you are talking nonsense,” replied Jane hotly. “You know quite well that I have enjoyed every minute of my visit here.”
They rode in silence for some time, then Larry said, “Jane, you are the best chum a fellow ever had. You never expect a chap to pay you special attention or make love to you. There is none of that sort of nonsense about you, is there?”
“No, Larry,” said Jane simply, but she kept her face turned away from him.
The results of the University examinations filled three sheets of the Winnipeg morning papers. With eager eyes and anxious hearts hundreds of the youth of Manitoba and the other western provinces scanned these lists. It was a veritable Day of Judgment, a day of glad surprises for the faithful in duty and the humble in heart, a day of Nemesis for the vainly self-confident slackers who had grounded their hopes upon eleventh hour cramming and lucky shots in exam papers. There were triumphs which won universal approval, others which received grudging praise.
Of the former, none of those, in the Junior year at least, gave more general satisfaction than did Jane Brown's in the winning of the German prize over Heinrich Kellerman, and for a number of reasons. In the first place Jane beat the German in his own language, at his own game, so to speak. Then, too, Jane, while a hard student, took her full share in college activities, and carried through these such a spirit of generosity and fidelity as made her liked and admired by the whole body of the students. Kellerman, on the other hand, was of that species of student known as a pot-hunter, who took no interest in college life, but devoted himself solely to the business of getting for himself everything that the college had to offer.
Perhaps Jane alone, of his fellow students, gave a single thought to the disappointment of the little Jew. She alone knew how keenly he had striven for the prize, and how surely he had counted upon winning it. She had the feeling, too, that somehow the class lists did not represent the relative scholarship of the Jew and herself. He knew more German than she. It was this feeling that prompted her to write him a note which brought an answer in formal and stilted English.
“Dear Miss Brown,” the answer ran, “I thank you for your beautiful note, which is so much like yourself that in reading it I could see your smile, which so constantly characterises you to all your friends. I confess to disappointment, but the disappointment is largely mitigated by the knowledge that the prize which I failed to acquire went to one who is so worthy of it, and for whom I cherish the emotions of profound esteem and good will. Your devoted and disappointed rival, Heinrich Kellerman.”
“Rather sporting of him, isn't it?” said Jane to her friend Ethel Murray, who had come to dinner.
“Sporting?” said Ethel. “It is the last thing I would have said about Kellerman.”
“That is the worst of prizes,” said Jane, “some one has to lose.”
“Just the way I feel about Mr. MacLean,” said Ethel. “He ought to have had the medal and not I. He knows more philosophy in a minute than I in a week.”
“Oh, I wouldn't say that,” said Jane judicially. “And though I am awfully glad you got it, Ethel, I am sorry for Mr. MacLean. You know he is working his way through college, and has to keep up a mission through the term. He is a good man.”
“Yes, he is good, a little too good,” said Ethel, making a little face. “Isn't it splendid about Larry Gwynne getting the Proficiency, and the first in Engineering? Now he is what I call a sport. Of course he doesn't go in for games much, but he's into everything, the Lit., the Dramatic Society, and Scuddy says he helped him tremendously with the Senior class in the Y. M. C. A. work.”
“Yes,” said Jane, “and the Register told Papa that the University had never graduated such a brilliant student. And Ramsay Dunn told me that he just ran the Athletic Association and was really responsible for the winning of the track team.”
“What a pity about Ramsay Dunn,” said Ethel. “He just managed to scrape through. Do you know, the boys say he kept himself up mostly on whiskey-and-sodas through the exams. He must be awfully clever, and he is so good-looking.”
“Poor Ramsay,” said Jane, “he has not had a very good chance. I mean, he has too much money. He is coming to dinner to-night, Ethel, and Frank Smart, too.”
“Oh, Frank Smart! They say he is doing awfully well. Father says he is one of the coming men in his profession. He is a great friend of yours, isn't he, Jane?” said Ethel, with a meaning smile.
“We have known him a long time,” said Jane, ignoring the smile. “We think a great deal of him.”
“When have you seen Larry?” enquired Ethel. “He comes here a lot, doesn't he?”
“Yes. He says this is his Winnipeg home. I haven't seen him all to-day.”
“You don't mean to tell me!” exclaimed Ethel.
“I mean I haven't seen him to congratulate him on his medal. His mother will be so glad.”
“You know his people, don't you? Tell me about them. You see, I may as well confess to you that I have a fearful crush on Larry.”
“I know,” said Jane sympathetically.
“But,” continued Ethel, “he is awfully difficult. His people are ranching, aren't they? And poor, I understand.”
“Yes, they are ranching,” said Jane, “and Larry has had quite a hard time getting through. I had a lovely visit last fall with them.”
“Oh, tell me about it!” exclaimed Ethel. “I heard a little, you know, from Larry.”
For half an hour Jane dilated on her western visit to the Lakeside Farm.
“Oh, you lucky girl!” cried Ethel. “What a chance you had! To think of it! Three weeks, lonely rides, moonlight, and not a soul to butt in! Oh, Jane! I only wish I had had such a chance! Did nothing happen, Jane? Oh, come on now, you are too awfully oysteresque. Didn't he come across at all?”
Jane's face glowed a dull red, but she made no pretence of failing to understand Ethel's meaning. “Oh, there is no nonsense of that kind with Larry,” she said. “We are just good friends.”
“Good friends!” exclaimed Ethel indignantly. “That's just where he is so awfully maddening. I can't understand him. He has lots of red blood, and he is a sport, too. But somehow he never knows a girl from her brother. He treats me just the way he treats Bruce and Leslie. I often wonder what he would do if I kissed him. I've tried squeezing his hand.”
“Have you?” said Jane, with a delighted laugh. “What did he do?”
“Why, he never knew it. I could have killed him,” said Ethel in disgust.
“He is going away to Chicago,” said Jane abruptly, “to your friends, the Wakehams. Mr. Wakeham is in mines, as you know. Larry is to get two thousand dollars to begin with. It is a good position, and I am glad for him. Oh, there I see Mr. MacLean and Frank Smart coming in.”
When the party had settled down they discussed the Class lists and prize winners till Dr. Brown appeared.
“Shall we have dinner soon, Jane?” he said as she welcomed him. “I wish to get through with my work early so as to take in the big political meeting this evening. Mr. Allen is to speak and there is sure to be a crowd.”
“I shall have it served at once, Papa. Larry is coming, but we won't wait for him.”
They were half through dinner before Larry appeared. He came in looking worn, pale and thinner even than usual. But there was a gleam in his eye and an energy in his movements that indicated sound and vigorous health.
“You are not late, Larry,” said Jane; “we are early. Papa is going to the political meeting.”
“Good!” cried Larry. “So am I. You are going, Frank, and you, MacLean?”
“I don't know yet,” said MacLean.
“We are all due at Mrs. Allen's, Larry, you remember. It is a party for the Graduating Class, too,” said Jane.
“So we are. But we can take in the political meeting first, eh, Mac?”
But MacLean glanced doubtfully at Ethel.
“I have just had a go with Holtzman,” said Larry, “the German Socialist, you know. He was ramping and raging like a wild man down in front of the post office. I know him quite well. He is going to heckle Mr. Allen to-night.”
The girls were keen to take in the political meeting, but Larry objected.
“There will be a rough time, likely. It will be no place for ladies. We will take you to the party, then join you again after the meeting.”
The girls were indignant and appealed to Dr. Brown.
“I think,” said he, “perhaps you had better not go. The young gentlemen can join you later, you know, at Allens' party.”
“Oh, we don't want them then,” said Ethel, “and, indeed, we can go by ourselves to the party.”
“Now, Ethel, don't be naughty,” said Larry.
“I shall be very glad to take you to the party, Miss Murray,” said MacLean. “I don't care so much for the meeting.”
“That will be fine, Mac!” exclaimed Larry enthusiastically. “In this way neither they nor we will need to hurry.”
“Disgustingly selfish creature,” said Ethel, making a face at him across the table.
Jane said nothing, but her face fell into firmer lines and her cheeks took on a little colour. The dinner was cut short in order to allow Dr. Brown to get through with his list of waiting patients.
“We have a few minutes, Ethel,” said Larry. “Won't you give us a little Chopin, a nocturne or two, or a bit of Grieg?”
“Do, Ethel,” said Jane, “although you don't deserve it, Larry. Not a bit,” she added.
“Why, what have I done?” said Larry.
“For one thing,” said Jane, in a low, hurried voice, moving close to him, “you have not given me a chance to congratulate you on your medal. Where have you been all day?”
The reproach in her eyes and voice stirred Larry to quick defence. “I have been awfully busy, Jane,” he said, “getting ready to go off to-morrow. I got a telegram calling me to Chicago.”
“To Chicago? To-morrow?” said Jane, her eyes wide open with surprise. “And you never came to tell me—to tell us? Why, we may never see you again at all. But you don't care a bit, Larry,” she added.
The bitterness in her voice was so unusual with Jane that Larry in his astonishment found himself without reply.
“Excuse me, Ethel,” she said, “I must see Ann a minute.”
As she hurried from the room Larry thought he caught a glint of tears in her eyes. He was immediately conscience-stricken and acutely aware that he had not treated Jane with the consideration that their long and unique friendship demanded. True, he had been busy, but he could have found time for a few minutes with her. Jane was no ordinary friend. He had not considered her and this had deeply wounded her. And to-morrow he was going away, and going away not to return. He was surprised at the quick stab of pain that came with the thought that his days in Winnipeg were over. In all likelihood his life's work would take him to Alberta. This meant that when he left Winnipeg tomorrow there would be an end to all that delightful comradeship with Jane which during the years of his long and broken college course had formed so large a part of his life, and which during the past winter had been closer and dearer than ever. Their lives would necessarily drift apart. Other friends would come in and preoccupy her mind and heart. Jane had the art of making friends and of “binding her friends to her with hooks of steel.” He had been indulging the opinion that of all her friends he stood first with her. Even if he were right, he could not expect that this would continue. And now on their last evening together, through his selfish stupidity, he had hurt her as never in all the years they had been friends together. But Jane was a sensible girl. He would make that right at once. She was the one girl he knew that he could treat with perfect frankness. Most girls were afraid, either that you were about to fall in love with them, or that you would not. Neither one fear nor the other disturbed the serenity of Jane's soul.
As Jane re-entered the room, Larry sprang to meet her. “Jane,” he said in a low, eager tone, “I am going to take you to the party.”
But Jane was her own serene self again, and made answer, “There is no need, Larry. Mr. MacLean will see us safely there, and after the meeting you will come. We must go now, Ethel.” There was no bitterness in her voice. Instead, there was about her an air of gentle self-mastery, remote alike from pain and passion, that gave Larry the feeling that the comfort he had thought to bring was so completely unnecessary as to seem an impertinence. Jane walked across to where Frank Smart was standing and engaged him in an animated conversation.
As Larry watched her, it gave him a quick sharp pang to remember that Frank Smart was a friend of older standing than he, that Smart was a rising young lawyer with a brilliant future before him. He was a constant visitor at this house. Why was it? Like a flash the thing stood revealed to him. Without a doubt Smart was in love with Jane. His own heart went cold at the thought. But why? he impatiently asked himself. He was not in love with Jane. Of that he was quite certain. Why, then, this dog-in-the-manger feeling? A satisfactory answer to this was beyond him. One thing only stood out before his mind with startling clarity, if Jane should give herself to Frank Smart, or, indeed, to any other, then for him life would be emptied of one of its greatest joys. He threw down the music book whose leaves he had been idly turning and, looking at his watch, called out, “Do you know it is after eight o'clock, people?”
“Come, Ethel,” said Jane, “we must go. And you boys will have to hurry. Larry, don't wait for Papa. He will likely have a seat on the platform. Good night for the present. You can find your way out, can't you? And, Mr. MacLean, you will find something to do until we come down?”
Smiling over her shoulder, Jane took Ethel off with her upstairs.
“Come, Smart, let's get a move on,” said Larry, abruptly seizing his hat and making for the door. “We will have to fight to get in now.”
The theatre was packed, pit to gods. Larry and his friend with considerable difficulty made their way to the front row of those standing, where they found a group of University men, who gave them enthusiastic welcome to a place in their company. The Chairman had made his opening remarks, and the first speaker, the Honourable B. B. Bomberton, was well on into his oration by the time they arrived. He was at the moment engaged in dilating upon the peril through which the country had recently passed, and thanking God that Canada had loyally stood by the Empire and had refused to sell her heritage for a mess of pottage.
“Rot!” cried a voice from the first gallery, followed by cheers and counter cheers.
The Honourable gentleman, however, was an old campaigner and not easily thrown out of his stride. He fiercely turned upon his interrupter and impaled him upon the spear point of his scornful sarcasm, waving the while with redoubled vigour, “the grand old flag that for a thousand years had led the embattled hosts of freedom in their fight for human rights.”
“Rot!” cried the same voice again. “Can the flag stuff. Get busy and say something.” (Cheers, counter cheers, yells of “Throw him out,” followed by disturbance in the gallery.)
Once more the speaker resumed his oration. He repeated his statement that the country had been delivered from a great peril. The strain upon the people's loyalty had been severe, but the bonds that bound them to the Empire had held fast, and please God would ever hold fast. (Enthusiastic demonstration from all the audience, indicating intense loyalty to the Empire.) They had been invited to enter into a treaty for reciprocal trade with the Republic south of us. He would yield to none in admiration, even affection, for their American neighbours. He knew them well; many of his warmest friends were citizens of that great Republic. But great as was his esteem for that Republic he was not prepared to hand over his country to any other people, even his American neighbours, to be exploited and finally to be led into financial bondage. He proceeded further to elaborate and illustrate the financial calamity that would overtake the Dominion of Canada as a result of the establishment of Reciprocity between the Dominion and the Republic. But there was more than that. They all knew that ancient political maxim “Trade follows the flag.” But like most proverbs it was only half a truth. The other half was equally true that “The flag followed trade.” There was an example of that within their own Empire. No nation in the world had a prouder record for loyalty than Scotland. Yet in 1706 Scotland was induced to surrender her independence as a nation and to enter into union with England. Why? Chiefly for the sake of trade advantages.
“Ye're a dom leear,” shouted an excited Scot, rising to his feet in the back of the hall. “It was no Scotland that surrendered. Didna Scotland's king sit on England's throne. Speak the truth, mon.” (Cheers, uproarious laughter and cries, “Go to it, Scotty; down wi' the Sassenach. Scotland forever!”)
When peace had once more fallen the Honourable B. B. Bomberton went on. He wished to say that his Scottish friend had misunderstood him. He was not a Scot himself—
“Ye needna tell us that,” said the Scot. (Renewed cheers and laughter.)
But he would say that the best three-quarters of him was Scotch in that he had a Scotch woman for a wife, and nothing that he had said or could say could be interpreted as casting a slur upon that great and proud and noble race than whom none had taken a larger and more honourable part in the building and the maintaining of the Empire. But to resume. The country was asked for the sake of the alleged economic advantage to enter into a treaty with the neighbouring state which he was convinced would perhaps not at first but certainly eventually imperil the Imperial bond. The country rejected the proposal. The farmers were offered the double lure of high prices for their produce and a lower price for machinery. Never was he so proud of the farmers of his country as when they resisted the lure, they refused the bait, they could not be bought, they declined to barter either their independence or their imperial allegiance for gain. (Cheers, groans, general uproar.)
Upon the subsidence of the uproar Frank Smart who, with Larry, had worked his way forward among a body of students standing in the first row immediately behind the seats, raised his hand and called out in a clear, distinct and courteous voice, “Mr. Chairman, a question if you will permit me.” The chairman granted permission. “Did I understand the speaker to say that those Canadians who approved of the policy of Reciprocity were ready to barter their independence or their imperial allegiance for gain? If so, in the name of one half of the Canadian people I want to brand the statement as an infamous and slanderous falsehood.”
Instantly a thousand people were on their feet cheering, yelling, on the one part shouting, “Put him out,” and on the other demanding, “Withdraw.” A half dozen fights started up in different parts of the theatre. In Smart's immediate vicinity a huge, pugilistic individual rushed toward him and reached for him with a swinging blow, which would undoubtedly have ended for him the meeting then and there had not Larry, who was at his side, caught the swinging arm with an upward cut so that it missed its mark. Before the blow could be repeated Scudamore, the centre rush of the University football team, had flung himself upon the pugilist, seized him by the throat and thrust him back and back through the crowd, supported by a wedge of his fellow students, striking, scragging, fighting and all yelling the while with cheerful vociferousness. By the efforts of mutual friends the two parties were torn asunder just as a policeman thrust himself through the crowd and demanded to know the cause of the uproar.
“Here,” he cried, seizing Larry by the shoulder, “what does this mean?”
“Don't ask me,” said Larry, smiling pleasantly at him. “Ask that fighting man over there.”
“You were fighting. I saw you,” insisted the policeman.
“Did you?” said Larry. “I am rather pleased to hear you say it, but I knew nothing of it.”
“Look here, Sergeant,” shouted Smart above the uproar. “Oh, it's you, Mac. You know me. You've got the wrong man. There's the man that started this thing. He deliberately attacked me. Arrest him.”
Immediately there were clamorous counter charges and demands for arrest of Smart and his student crew.
“Come now,” said Sergeant Mac, “keep quiet, or I'll be takin' ye all into the coop.”
Order once more being restored, the speaker resumed by repudiating indignantly the accusation of his young friend. Far be it from him to impugn the loyalty of the great Liberal party, but he was bound to say that while the Liberals might be themselves loyal both to the Dominion and to the Empire, their policy was disastrous. They were sound enough in their hearts but their heads were weak. After some further remarks upon the fiscal issues between the two great political parties and after a final wave of the imperial flag, the speaker declared that he now proposed to leave the rest of the time to their distinguished fellow citizen, the Honourable J. J. Allen.
Mr. Allen found himself facing an audience highly inflamed with passion and alert for trouble. In a courteous and pleasing introduction he strove to allay their excited feelings and to win for himself a hearing. The matter which he proposed to bring to their attention was one of the very greatest importance, and one which called for calm and deliberate consideration. He only asked a hearing for some facts which every Canadian ought to know and for some arguments based thereupon which they might receive or reject according as they appealed to them or not.
“You are all right, Jim; go to it,” cried an enthusiastic admirer.
With a smile Mr. Allen thanked his friend for the invitation and assured him that without loss of time he would accept it. He begged to announce his theme: “The Imperative and Pressing Duty of Canada to Prepare to do Her Part in Defence of the Empire.” He was prepared frankly and without hesitation to make the assertion that war was very near the world and very near our Empire and for the reason that the great military power of Europe, the greatest military power the world had ever seen—Germany—purposed to make war, was ready for war, and was waiting only a favourable opportunity to begin.
“Oh, r-r-rats-s,” exclaimed a harsh voice.
“That's Holtzman,” said Larry to Smart.
(Cries of “Shut up!—Go on.”)
“I beg the gentleman who has so courteously interrupted me,” continued Mr. Allen, “simply to wait for my facts.” (“Hear! Hear!” from many parts of the building.) The sources of his information were three: first, his own observation during a three months' tour in Germany; second, his conversations with representative men in Great Britain, France and Germany; and third, the experience of a young and brilliant attache of the British Embassy at Berlin now living in Canada, with whom he had been brought into touch by a young University student at present in this city. From this latter source he had also obtained possession of literature accessible only to a few. He spoke with a full sense of responsibility and with a full appreciation of the value of words.
The contrast between the Honourable Mr. Allen and the speaker that preceded him was such that the audience was not only willing but eager to hear the facts and arguments which the speaker claimed to be in a position to offer. Under the first head he gave in detail the story of his visit to Germany and piled up an amazing accumulation of facts illustrative of Germany's military and naval preparations in the way of land and sea forces, munitions and munition factories, railroad construction, food supplies and financial arrangements in the way of gold reserves and loans. The preparations for war which, in the world's history, had been made by Great Powers threatening the world's freedom, were as child's play to these preparations now made by Germany, and these which he had given were but a few illustrations of Germany's war preparations, for the more important of these were kept hidden by her from the rest of the world. “My argument is that preparation by a nation whose commercial and economic instincts are so strong as those of the German people can only reasonably be interpreted to mean a Purpose to War. That that purpose exists and that that purpose determines Germany's world's politics, I have learned from many prominent Germans, military and naval officers, professors, bankers, preachers. And more than that this same purpose can be discovered in the works of many distinguished German writers during the last twenty-five years. You see this pile of books beside me? They are filled, with open and avowed declarations of this purpose. The raison d'etre of the great Pan-German League, of the powerful Navy League with one million and a half members, and of the other great German organisations is war. Bear with me while I read to you extracts from some of these writings. I respectfully ask a patient hearing. I would not did I not feel it to be important that from representative Germans themselves you should learn the dominating purpose that has directed and determined the course of German activity in every department of its national life for the last quarter of a century.”
For almost half an hour the speaker read extracts from the pile of books on the table beside him. “I think I may now fairly claim to have established first the fact of vast preparations by Germany for war and the further fact that Germany cherishes in her heart a settled Purpose of War.” It was interesting to know how this purpose had come to be so firmly established in the heart of a people whom we had always considered to be devoted to the cultivation of the gentler arts of peace. The history of the rise and the development of this Purpose to War would be found in the history of Germany itself. He then briefly touched upon the outstanding features in the history of the German Empire from the days of the great Elector of Brandenburg to the present time. During these last three hundred years, while the English people were steadily fighting for and winning their rights to freedom and self-government from tyrant kings, in Prussia two powers were being steadily built up, namely autocracy and militarism, till under Bismarck and after the War of 1870 these two powers were firmly established in the very fibre of the new modern German Empire. Since the days of Bismarck the autocrat of Germany had claimed the hegemony of Europe and had dreamed of winning for himself and his Empire a supreme place among the nations of the world. And this dream he had taught his people to share with him, for to them it meant not simply greater national glory, which had become a mania with them, but expansion of trade and larger commercial returns. And for the realisation of this dream, the German Kaiser and his people with him were ready and were waiting the opportunity to plunge the world into the bloodiest war of all time.
At some length the speaker proceeded to develop the idea of the necessary connection between autocracy and militarism, and the relation of autocratic and military power to wars of conquest. “The German Kaiser,” he continued, “is ready for war as no would-be world conqueror in the world's history has ever been ready. The German Kaiser cherishes the purpose to make war, and this purpose is shared in and approved by the whole body of the German people.” These facts he challenged any one to controvert. If these things were so, what should Canada do? Manifestly one thing only—she should prepare to do her duty in defending herself and the great Empire. “So far,” he continued, “I have raised no controversial points. I have purposely abstained from dealing with questions that may be regarded from a partisan point of view. I beg now to refer to a subject which unhappily has become a matter of controversy in Canada—the subject, namely, of the construction of a Canadian Navy. [Disturbance in various parts of the building.] You have been patient. I earnestly ask you to be patient for a few moments longer. Both political parties fortunately are agreed upon two points; first, that Canada must do its share and is willing to do its share in the defence of the Empire. On this point all Canadians are at one, all Canadians are fully determined to do their full duty to the Empire which has protected Canada during its whole history, and with which it is every loyal Canadian's earnest desire to maintain political connection. Second, Canada must have a Navy. Unfortunately, while we agree upon these two points, there are two points upon which we differ. First, we differ upon the method to be adopted in constructing our Navy and, second, upon the question of Navy control in war. In regard to the second point, I would only say that I should be content to leave the settlement of that question to the event. When war comes that question will speedily be settled, and settled, I am convinced, in a way consistent with what we all desire to preserve, Canadian autonomy. In regard to the first, I would be willing to accept any method of construction that promised efficiency and speed, and with all my power I oppose any method that necessitates delay. Considerations of such questions as location of dockyards, the type of ship, the size of ship, I contend, are altogether secondary. The main consideration is speed. I leave these facts and arguments with you, and speaking not as a party politician but simply as a loyal Canadian and as a loyal son of the Empire, I would say, 'In God's name, for our country's honour and for the sake of our Empire's existence, let us with our whole energy and with all haste prepare for war.'”
The silence that greeted the conclusion of this address gave eloquent proof of the profound impression produced.
As the chairman rose to close the meeting the audience received a shock. The raucous voice of Holtzman was heard again demanding the privilege of asking two questions.
“The first question I would ask, Mr. Chairman, is this: Is not this immense war preparation of Germany explicable on the theory of the purpose of defence? Mr. Allen knows well that both on the eastern and southern frontiers Germany is threatened by the aggression of the Pan-Slavic movement, and to protect herself from this Pan-Slavic movement, together with a possible French alliance, the war preparations of Germany are none too vast. Besides, I would ask Mr. Allen, What about Britain's vast navy?”
“The answer to this question,” said Mr. Allen, “is quite simple. What nation has threatened Germany for the past forty years? On the contrary, every one knows that since 1875 five separate times has Germany threatened war against France and twice against Russia. Furthermore military experts assure us that in defensive war an army equipped with modern weapons can hold off from four to eight times its own strength. It is absurd to say that Germany's military preparations are purely defensive. As for Britain's navy, the answer is equally simple. Britain's Empire is like no other Empire in the world in that it lies spread out upon the seven seas. It is essential to her very life that she be able to keep these waterways open to her ships. Otherwise she exists solely upon the sufferance of any nation that can wrest from her the supremacy of the sea. At her will Germany has the right to close against all the world the highways of her empire; the highways of Britain's empire are the open seas which she shares with the other nations of the world and which she cannot close. Therefore, these highways she must be able to make safe.”
“If Mr. Allen imagines that this answer of his will satisfy any but the most bigoted Britain, I am content. Another question I would ask. Does not Mr. Allen think that if the capitalistic classes, who leave their burdens to be borne by the unhappy proletariat, were abolished wars would immediately cease? Does he not know that recently it was proved in Germany that the Krupps were found to be promoting war scares in France in the interests of their own infernal trade? And lastly does not history prove that Britain is the great robber nation of the world? And does he not think that it is time she was driven from her high place by a nation which is her superior, commercially, socially, intellectually and every other way?”
As if by a preconcerted signal it seemed as if the whole top gallery broke into a pandemonium of approving yells, while through other parts of the house arose fierce shouts, “Throw him out.” Mr. Allen rose and stood quietly waiting till the tumult had ceased.
“If the gentleman wishes to engage me in a discussion on socialism, my answer is that this is not the time nor place for such a discussion. The question which I have been considering is one much too grave to be mixed up with an academic discussion of any socialistic theories.”
“Aha! Aha!” laughed Holtzman scornfully.
“As for Britain's history, that stands for all the world to read. All the nations have been guilty of crimes; but let me say that any one who knows the history of Germany for the last three hundred years is aware that in unscrupulous aggression upon weaker neighbours, in treachery to friend and foe, Germany is the equal of any nation in the world. But if you consider her history since 1864 Germany stands in shameless and solitary pre-eminence above any nation that has ever been for unscrupulous greed, for brutal, ruthless oppression of smaller peoples, and for cynical disregard of treaty covenants, as witness Poland, Austria, Denmark, Holland and France. As to the treachery of the Krupps, I believe the gentleman is quite right, but I would remind him that the Kaiser has no better friend to-day than Bertha Krupp, and she is a German.”
From every part of the theatre rose one mighty yell of delight and derision, during which Holtzman stood wildly gesticulating and shouting till a hand was seen to reach his collar and he disappeared from view. Once more order was restored and the chairman on the point of closing the meeting, when Larry said to his friend Smart:
“I should dearly love to take a hand in this.”
“Jump in,” said Smart, and Larry “jumped in.”
“Mr. Chairman,” he said quietly, “may I ask Mr. Allen a question?”
“No,” said the chairman in curt reply. “The hour is late and I think further discussion at present is unprofitable.”
But here Mr. Allen interposed. “I hope, Mr. Chairman,” he said, “you will allow my young friend, Mr. Gwynne, of whose brilliant achievements in our University we are all so proud, to ask his question.”
“Very well,” said the chairman in no good will.
“Allow me to thank Mr. Allen for his courtesy,” said Larry. “Further I wish to say that though by birth, by training, and by conviction I am a pacifist and totally opposed to war, yet to-night I have been profoundly impressed by the imposing array of facts presented by the speaker and by the arguments built upon these facts, and especially by the fine patriotic appeal with which Mr. Allen closed his address. But I am not satisfied, and my question is this—”
“Will not Mr. Gwynne come to the platform?” said Mr. Allen.
“Thank you,” said Larry, “I prefer to stay where I am, I am much too shy.”
Cries of “Platform! Platform!” however, rose on every side, to which Larry finally yielded, and encouraged by the cheers of his fellow students and of his other friends in the audience, he climbed upon the platform. His slight, graceful form, the look of intellectual strength upon his pale face, his modest bearing, his humorous smile won sympathy even from those who were impatient at the prolonging of the meeting.
“Mr. Chairman,” he began with an exaggerated look of fear upon his face, “I confess I am terrified by the position in which I find myself, and were it not that I feel deeply the immense importance of this question and the gravity of the appeal with which the speaker closed his address, I would not have ventured to say a word. My first question is this: Does not Mr. Allen greatly exaggerate the danger of war with Germany? And my reasons for this question are these. Every one knows that the relations between Great Britain and Germany have been steadily improving during the last two or three years. I note in this connection a statement made only a few months ago by the First Lord of the Admiralty, Mr. Winston Churchill. It reads as follows:
“'The Germans are a nation with robust minds and a high sense of honour and fair play. They look at affairs in a practical military spirit. They like to have facts put squarely before them. They do not want them wrapped up lest they should be shocked by them, and relations between the two countries have steadily improved during the past year. They have steadily improved side by side with every evidence of our determination to maintain our naval supremacy.'
“These words spoken in the British House of Commons give us Mr. Winston Churchill's deliberate judgment as to the relations between Germany and Great Britain. Further Mr. Allen knows that during the past two years various peace delegations composed of people of the highest standing in each country have exchanged visits. I understand from private correspondence from those who have promoted these delegations that the last British delegation was received in Germany with the utmost enthusiasm by men of all ranks and professions, generals, admirals, burgomasters, professors and by the Kaiser himself, all professing devotion to the cause of peace and all wishing the delegation Godspeed. Surely these are indications that the danger of war is passing away. You, Sir, have made an appeal for war preparation tonight, a great and solemn appeal and a moving appeal for war—merciful God, for war! I have been reading about war during the past three months, I have been reading again Zola's Debacle—a great appeal for preparedness, you would say. Yes, but a terrific picture of the woes of war.”
Larry paused. A great silence had fallen upon the people. There flashed across his mind as he spoke a vision of war's red, reeking way across the fair land of France. In a low but far-penetrating voice, thrilling with the agonies which were spread out before him in vision, he pictured the battlefield with its mad blood lust, the fury of men against men with whom they had no quarrel, the mangled ruins of human remains in dressing station and hospital, the white-faced, wild-eyed women waiting at home, and back of all, safe, snug and cynical, the selfish, ambitious promoters of war. Steady as a marching column without pause or falter, in a tone monotonous yet thrilling with a certain subdued passion, he gave forth his indictment of war. He was on familiar ground for this had been the theme of his prize essay last winter. But to-night the thing to him was vital, terrifying, horrible. He was delivering no set address, but with all the power of his soul he was pleading for comrades and friends, for wives and sweethearts, for little babes and for white-haired mothers, “and in the face of all this, you are asking us to prepare that we Canadians, peaceful and peace-loving, should do our share to perpetrate this unspeakable outrage upon our fellow men, this insolent affront against Almighty God. Tell me, if Canada, if Britain, were to expend one-tenth, one-hundredth part of the energy, skill, wealth, in promoting peace which they spend on war, do you not think we might have a surer hope of warding off from our Canadian homes this unspeakable horror?” With white face and flaming eyes, his form tense and quivering, he stood facing the advocate of war. For some moments, during which men seemed scarcely to breathe, the two faced each other. Then in a voice that rang throughout the theatre as it had not in all his previous speech, but vibrant with sad and passionate conviction, Mr. Allen made reply.
“It is to ward off from our people and from our Canadian homes this calamity that you have so vividly pictured for us that I have made my appeal to-night. Your enemy who seeks your destruction will be more likely to halt in his spring if you cover him with your gun than if you appeal to him with empty hands. For this reason, it is that once more I appeal to my fellow Canadians in God's name, in the name of all that we hold dear, let us with all our power and with all speed prepare for war.”
“God Save the King,” said the Chairman. And not since the thrilling days of Mafeking had Winnipeg people sung that quaint archaic, but moving anthem as they sang it that night.
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