"Another side? How can there be another side? When our Amba.s.sador met the German Chancellor, what took place? The Chancellor had the audacity to make what our Prime Minister called an 'infamous proposal.'

He suggested that we should break our word to Belgium, and remain neutral so that Germany could crush France. Then when our Amba.s.sador asked, as any gentleman would ask, 'But what about the treaty we signed?' he replied, 'What is a treaty? A thing to be broken! A sc.r.a.p of paper! Will you go to war for that?'"

"But consider what war means!" cried Bob. "Does it follow that because the Germans are willing to plunge Europe into war, we should do likewise? Does anything, _anything_, justify the violation of every law, human and divine?"

"Bob, do please just call to mind what that horrible German, who had not even the first instincts of a gentleman, said, 'Have you counted the cost, and still stand by your honour and plighted word?' As if an English gentleman could ever count the cost when his plighted word was given!"

"Yes," said Bob, "but any statesman ought to count the cost. Think of what it will all mean, Nancy; think of all the hatred, the feelings of devilish revenge, the mad pa.s.sions that will be roused; think of countries lying waste, think of the whole spirit of war, of the untold misery and horror of it all, and then ask if anything justifies war. I know you have a strong case, but two wrongs cannot make a right.

Suppose a man broke his word to me, outraged my feelings, did me great wrong; would that justify my driving a knife into his heart? I should be called a murderer if I did it, and be hanged for my deed. Besides, to come back to where we were just now, Nancy, how could I pretend to be a Christian, if I enlisted, and went to the war for the purpose of killing my fellow-men? Christ said, 'Love your enemies, do good to them that hate you, pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you. If a man smite thee on thy right cheek turn to him the other.' Oh, Nancy, can't you see how utterly opposed Christianity is to the whole ghastly thing? Here is the German Emperor saying to his soldiers, 'Go to church and pray--we are fighting G.o.d's battle.' Here are our clergymen saying to our people, 'Go to church and pray--we are fighting G.o.d's battle.' How can G.o.d answer both our prayers? They believe they are in the right, we believe we are in the right, and so to uphold what we both believe to be right we engage in this h.e.l.lish business."

"And that is your explanation," she said.

"Yes, Nancy; I cannot, I simply cannot be a soldier and a Christian at the same time. But you will not let this come between us, will you? I am trying to be true to my conscience, to act in accordance with the teaching of the New Testament, and I cannot reconcile Christianity with war."

"Do you believe that we shall win in this fight?" and the girl's voice became hard as she asked the question.

"Yes," said Bob. "Yes, I believe we shall in the end. After rivers of blood have been shed, after horrors worse than can be described have been realised, after tens and tens of thousands of men have been killed, after a whole continent has been desolated, I believe we shall win. We shall be stronger than the Germans because we have such vast numbers of men in reserve; yes, I expect that in the long run we shall be able to dictate terms of peace; yes, I expect that."

"But you believe that no war can be justified?"

Bob shook his head.

"Think," said the girl, "think of the sixteenth century, when Philip of Spain made such great preparations to conquer and subdue England. If he had succeeded, our religion would have been destroyed, our homes taken away from us, our liberty torn from us, our existence as a nation would have been practically wiped out. Do you believe G.o.d meant Drake and Hawkins and the rest of them to sit down quietly while the Spaniards invaded our land and destroyed our liberties? Do you believe that?"

Bob was silent.

"No, you do not believe it. You know that had Philip II succeeded there would be no England to-day such as we know. Well, now it comes to this: A greater and a more terrible power than Spain seeks to crush us; but our men, thank G.o.d, have not ceased to be Englishmen, and they will safeguard our liberties, and keep for us still the England we love. When the war is over, and all danger is gone, I suppose that you, who stand idly by, and talk about the ethics of war, will think it your right to enjoy the liberties which these brave fellows suffer and die to give you. Is that it?"

"Nancy, that's not fair."

"I want to be fair. Tell me, is that your att.i.tude? It is un-English, and it is cowardly. Is it yours?"

"I will not try to answer you, Nancy--I should be sorry afterwards, perhaps; but--but--Nancy, is everything over between us?"

"That's for you to say."

"For me?"

"Yes, you. You have your choice. I--I had nearly overcome dad's--objections to you."

"But, Nancy, do you mean to say that----"

"I can never marry a man who shrinks from his duty at such a time as this? Yes, I mean that."

"Nancy, you make it a choice between you and my conscience."

For a few seconds she looked at him without speaking. Her lips were quivering, and her hands were trembling. It was easy to see that she was greatly wrought upon.

"No, that is not the choice," she said, and her voice had a hard ring in it.

"What is it, then?"

"A choice between me and cowardice."

He staggered as if some one had struck him. "Do you mean that?" he asked hoa.r.s.ely.

"Yes, I mean that."

Without speaking another word, he staggered blindly out of the house.

Nancy heard him close the front door behind him, and then, throwing herself into a chair, sobbed as though her heart would break.

CHAPTER VIII

For the next few days St. Ia was completely under the influence of the war fever. Although we have only about three thousand inhabitants, three hundred of our men belonging to the Naval Reserve left in one day, while many who were away in their fishing-boats were expected to join their vessels as soon as they could return home. Young territorials left the neighbourhood by the score, and many a lad who had previously been laughed at, when wearing his uniform, was looked upon as a kind of hero, and everywhere one turned, the only subject of conversation was the war.

Each morning at eight o'clock, the time at which our newspapers usually arrive, there was such a rush for the train, in order to obtain early copies, as I had never seen before; and presently, when the news came that an army consisting of one hundred thousand men had landed on French soil without even a hitch or casualty, we cheered wildly.

Evidently our War-office machinery was in good order, and our soldiers, perhaps the best armed and equipped that ever left our sh.o.r.es, would, we were sure, give a good account of themselves.

Among the older and more staid people the inwardness of the situation was more and more realised. It seemed so strange that the German nation, which a few weeks before was looked upon as a nation of friends, was now spoken of as "the enemy." We held our breaths when we read of the bombardment of Liege, and cheered wildly at the thought of the brave Belgian army holding the forts against the opposing forces, and driving back the hordes of Huns with such valour. "How long will the English take to get there?" we asked again and again. "When shall we come to close grips with them?" Many a mother grew pale as she thought of her boy in the line of battle.

Presently news came of the fall of Liege and the victorious march of the Germans towards Brussels. The terror of the whole thing got hold of us, as we thought of the unfortified capital being seized by the advancing hosts of a great military Power. We troubled very little about French successes or losses in Alsace and Lorraine. We knew that the French, true to their characters, had yielded to sentiment rather than to strategy in making what seemed to us a foolish attempt to win back these provinces. Of course it was only forty-four years ago that they had been taken from them by their conquerors in the Franco-German war. We knew too that, ever since, they had been longing for revenge, longing to win back what they felt to be part of their own country.

Naturally we sympathised with the French in this, and tears came to our eyes, and sobs to our throats, when we read how old Frenchmen who had been through the Franco-German war, welcomed the soldiers with wild and tumultuous joy. Nevertheless we knew that victory could not be won by sentiment, and that if the carefully trained German soldiers were to be driven back, there must be strategy on our side equal to theirs, and that the armies must be led, not only courageously, but intelligently.

Thus, although we had no proof of the rumour, we rejoiced when we heard that Lord Kitchener had gone to Paris, and by his wise counsels and tremendous personality had altered the whole course of the campaign.

"He's the man!" one would say to another; "he's like the Iron Duke in Boney's time. Nerves like steel, a mind like a razor, and the heart of a lion."

Nevertheless day by day our hearts grew heavier and heavier as we read of the steady German advance towards Paris. "If the capital is taken,"

men said, "Isn't everything done for?" and then we weighed the pros and cons with all the wisdom of a rustic population.

Another thing added to our discomfort. The lads of Cornwall were not responding as we thought they should, to the call of their country.

From all parts of England young men were coming forward, and London was enlisting volunteers at the rate of a thousand a day. Yorkshire and Lancashire proved their devotion and their loyalty. Devon, too, our sister county, more than maintained her traditions. We read how in one little village where only thirty young men lived, twenty-five of them had volunteered. "It is because our boys don't understand, don't realise what we are fighting for," said one to another; and then we heard with delight that Admiral Tresize and the Member of Parliament for St. Ia were arranging for a public meeting, at which truth should be made known.

During this time Bob Nancarrow was much alone. He seldom left the house, neither was he to be seen in any of his old favourite haunts.

No one followed the fortunes of the war more closely than he. With almost feverish eagerness he read every item of news, although, by his own decision, he was an outsider. He was torn by two opposing forces.

One was the love of his country and his own people, and the other was the voice of his conscience. He thought, when he happened to go into the little town, that people nudged each other significantly as he pa.s.sed, and made unflattering remarks about him. As a matter of fact, however, no such thing happened. True, there were some who wondered why he remained at home, while all his schoolfellows and friends had volunteered; but many more remembered that he was the son of Dr.

Nancarrow, a man who, to the time of his death, was an apostle of peace. Of course the inner circle of his acquaintances knew the truth, but they only talked of it among their own set, and thus Bob's fears were groundless.

One day he was attracted by a large placard which appeared on all the public h.o.a.rdings headed by the Royal Coat of Arms: "'Your King and Country Need You!' A great meeting will be held in the Public Hall on Thursday night in order to explain why this war has taken place, and why it is the duty of every man to help." It announced also that Admiral Tresize was to take the chair, while, in addition to the local Member, the meeting was to be addressed by Captain Trevanion, who was coming down from Plymouth for this purpose, just before leaving for the front.

"Of course I shan't go," said Bob to himself. "I know the reasons for the war, and I should be in utter misery if I went." Nevertheless he found himself making plans for going.

For several days Mrs. Nancarrow had been cold and uncommunicative, and he knew that a cloud of reserve hung between them. He felt that his mother despised him. He felt sure, too, that she knew all that had taken place at Penwennack--that he was henceforth to be treated, in what he had regarded as his second home, as worse than a stranger.

"There is to be a great meeting at the Public Hall to-night," said Mrs.

Nancarrow, on the day of the meeting. "Are you going?"