"Hugh thinks so much of you, and he is so proud that you are his friend," she went on. "He says you were awfully clever at college, and that if you live you will make a great name for yourself. He says he never felt towards any one like he feels towards you. Oh, it would be lovely if you got well, and could be our neighbor and be near us always."

I saw the tears roll down her face as she said this, and I, who have never known what it is to have a sister, felt towards her as, I think, brothers feel towards a sister whom they love.

"You don't think badly of me, do you?" she went on. And I could see a look of longing in her eyes.

"What makes you ask such a question?" I said.

"Oh, Hugh says his father has quite taken to you too, and thinks a great deal of your opinion. I wonder if--if----"

"I am afraid Hugh is mistaken," I said. "But if any word of mine can soften his heart----"

"Oh, you are good!" she interrupted impulsively, "and you don't think that Hugh would be throwing himself away on me, do you?"

"Throwing himself away?" I cried, and at that moment I thought of Miss Treherne, whom I had seen at Church on the previous Sunday morning, and mentally I compared them. The Squire's daughter was a staid-looking spinster of about thirty years of age. She had never been beautiful, and no one by the utmost stretch of imagination could call her attractive.

"If I were Hugh," I said, "I would not give you up for anything or anybody, and I should regard myself as the luckiest fellow in the world to get you."

She laughed like a child. It was easy to see that I had gladdened her heart, and when a few minutes later she walked away hanging on her lover's arm, I heaved a sigh of envy.

"They are right, both of them," I said to myself. "What is all the money in the world, and all the rank, compared to the infinite trustfulness and affection of those two?

"Surely G.o.d, if there is a G.o.d, wants them to be happy," I reflected, and I formed a sort of quixotic resolution that I would speak to Mr.

Lethbridge, and try to persuade him to withdraw his opposition to his son's marriage with this pure, sweet, simple-minded country girl.

I did not carry my resolution into effect, however. The next day I suffered a kind of reaction from the little excitement caused by what had taken place, and immediately afterwards it seemed as though all my thoughts and resolutions were scattered to the wind.

"Please, sir," said Simpson, entering my room, "here's the paper, sir. I thought you might like to look at it, sir."

"Is there anything particular in it, Simpson?"

"Yes, sir; war is declared, sir."

I took the paper from his hand, feeling strangely heavy-hearted, and on opening it, saw, staring me in large letters:

"ENGLAND DECLARES WAR ON GERMANY.

GERMANY DETERMINES TO VIOLATE HER TREATY.

ENGLAND DECIDES TO RISK ALL FOR HONOR.

GREAT SCENE IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

THE WHOLE NATION UNANIMOUS."

No sooner had I read this, than a strange calm came upon me, and I scanned the paper in a detached sort of way. I seemed to have nothing to do with it; I was cut off from everything. I read what had been written, rather as one who read the history of another country, than as something which vitally affected England.

In a way I had expected it. My conversation at Trecarrel had somewhat prepared me, and yet events had moved so rapidly, that declaration of war came like a shock. The whole story was set forth in the newspapers, and from the dispatches it was made plain that, while Germany had hoped that England would remain neutral, and had been willing to offer bribes for our neutrality, she had planned this war, and made arrangements for it. There was no doubt that she believed both Russia and France to be entirely unprepared, and that both she and Austria were prepared. It was plain too that unless we were willing to violate our plighted word, and to allow our honor to be dragged in the dust, we must stand by Belgium.

I saw more than this. I saw that a critical moment had come in the life of our nation and Empire.

For I realized, knowing Germany as I did, that this was not a war to be "muddled through," as had been the case with other wars. I knew that England must make sacrifices, such as had hitherto been unknown to her.

I knew that before German militarism could be crushed, all the vast resources of our Empire would have to be utilized, and that we must be prepared to spend our last penny, and shed the last drop of our blood.

But even then I did not realize what this war would mean to our Island home, never saw, even from afar, how it would revolutionize the thoughts and feelings of our land, never dreamed how it would affect the lives of the people in this little Cornish village.

XII

FIRST DAYS OF THE WAR

Next morning I took a walk into the village, and just as I was entering it saw a group of youths reading a placard on the wall. It was headed by the British Coat of Arms, and contained an appeal from Lord Kitchener for five hundred thousand men. The youths looked at it stolidly. They did not seem to think that it affected them. Farther on I saw a woman brushing the little pathway which led to the front door of her cottage.

By this time I had become on friendly terms with many of the people in the village, who spoke of me as "the poor young man, staying up to Father Abraham's hut." They evidently knew why I had come to Cornwall, and looked on me pityingly as I pa.s.sed by.

"Mornin', sur."

"Good-morning, Mrs. Crantock."

"This es ter'ble news, sur."

"Yes, very terrible."

"I d' think et es judgment from G.o.d."

"Why do you think that, Mrs. Crantock?"

"Ah, sur, w've a forgot G.o.d, sur. Things be'ant what they used to be, and G.o.d's goin' to teach us a lesson."

She was a woman perhaps sixty years of age, and had a patient, kindly face, even although it was not without signs of determination and vigor.

"What reason have you for saying that we have forgotten G.o.d?" I asked. I reflected that she was an intelligent woman, and represented the cla.s.s to which she belonged.

"Ah, sur, I've lived in Cornwall all my life, and I ca'ant 'elp seein'

the deffurence between things now and what they used to be."

"Oh," I said, "and how is that?"

"Ah, sur, the young people be'ant the same. Why, sur, when I was a young woman, we didn't spend all our time gaddin' about, like young people do nowadays. We wad'n all for pleasure then. Why, sur, every Sunday mornin'

I used to go to seven o'clock prayer-meetin', and there would be thirty or forty of us. The people had'n forgot 'ow to pray then, sur."

"And have they now?" I asked.

"Why, sur, there ed'n no seven o'clock meetin'; we d'ardly ever 'ave prayer-meetin' like we used to. There ed'n n.o.body to pray, so to speak, and when they do pray, 'tis deffurent. Ah, sur, we 'ad power then. We felt the power, too. As for the Chapel, it was full nearly every Sunday, and nearly everybody went."

"And they don't go now?" I suggested.

"No, sur, they do'ant go now. That is, nothin' like they used to. Young people do'ant seem to have no relish for the House of G.o.d."

"What is the reason of it?" I asked.

"Worldliness and pleasure, sur. Everybody be a thinkin' 'ow they shall enjoy theirselves. Yes, sur, we 'ave forgotten G.o.d, and He is goin' to bring us back to our senses. Yes, war is a ter'ble thing, but ef et will do that et'll be good for us. We d'need strong physic sometimes."