Part 44 (2/2)

'The psychology of America, which had been hidden beneath the physical side of our rebellion, took definite form as a result. The gates of the country were open to the entire world. The down-trodden, the persecuted, the discouraged, the helpless, no matter of what creed or nationality, saw the rainbow of hope. By hundreds of thousands they poured into this country. Slav and Teuton, Galician, Italian, Belgian, Jew, in an endless stream they came to America, and, true to Was.h.i.+ngton and Lincoln, she received them with the words, ”Welcome--free men.” And so we shouldered the burdens of the Past, and men who had been slaves--white as well as black--drank of freedom.'

There was no applause, but men were leaning forward, afraid they might miss a single word. Van Derwater's depth of human understanding, his lack of pa.s.sion, his solitariness that had been likened to an air of impending tragedy, held his listeners with a magic no one could have explained. He might have come as a spirit of times that had pa.s.sed, so charged with the ages was his strange, powerful personality.

'From an open sky,' he continued, 'came the present war. The older nations, knit by tradition and startled by its imminence, flew to arms at a word from their leaders. France, who had been our friend, looked to us; but what was our position? In fifty tongues our citizens cried out that it was to escape war that they had come to America. Could we tell the Jew that Russia, which had persecuted him to the point of madness, was on the side of mercy? Could we convince the Teuton that his Fatherland had become suddenly peopled with savages? Could we say to the Irishman, bitterly antagonistic to England, that Britain was fighting for the liberation of small nations? Could we ask the Greek, the Pole, the Galician, to go back to the continent from which they had come, and give their blood that the old order of things might go on?

'But, you ask, what of the real American, descended from the men who fought in the War of Independence and the Civil War. Yes--what of him?

From earliest boyhood he has been taught that Britain is our traditional enemy. To secure existence we had to fight her. To maintain existence we fought her again in 1812. When we were locked in a death-struggle with the rebellious South, she tried to hurt our cause--although history will show that the real heart of Britain was solidly with the North. In our short life as a people we find that, always, the enemy is Britain.

In one day could we change the teaching of a lifetime? The soul of America was not dead, but it was buried beneath the conflicting elements in which lay her ultimate strength, but her present weakness.

'What, then, was the situation? Events had outridden our national development. Whether it could have been avoided or not I do not know.

Whether our education was at fault, or whether materialism had made us blind--these things I cannot tell you. I only know that this war found us potentially a nation, but actually a babel of tongues. Without philosophy and humanitarianism this nation could not go to war--and in those two things we were not ready.

'I do not belittle the many gallant men who have left these sh.o.r.es to fight with the Allies, but I say that in a world-crisis the voices of individuals cannot be heard unless they speak through the medium of their nationality. The question from France is not ”Will Americans never come?” but ”Will America never come?” When the war found the Americanisation of our people unfinished, it became the duty of every loyal man in the Republic to give his very life-blood to achieve solidarity. Do you think we could not see that the Allies were fighting our battle? It was impossible for this nation that had shouldered the problems of the Old World not to see it; so we began the education of all our people. We could have hurled this nation into war at almost any hour by an appeal to national dignity, but our destiny was imperative in its demands. Not in heat, which would be bound to cool; not in revenge, which would soon be forgotten; but by philosophy and humanitarianism alone could this great Republic go to war.

'Yet, when this Administration looked for help, what did it find? The two races that come to this country and never help its Americanisation are the Germans and the English. They remain true to their former citizens.h.i.+p, and they die true to them. Gentlemen, that must not be again. America will always be open to the world, but he who pa.s.ses within these gates to live must accept responsibilities as well as privileges.

'I am almost finished. For two years and a half we have fought against the disintegrating forces within our country. We have endured the sneers of belligerents, the insults of Germany, and the tolerance of Britain--and still we have fought on. Literally we were struggling, as did our forefathers, for nationhood. But let me ask Mr. Watson if our psychological unpreparedness was entirely our fault. When Britain allied herself with Russia, did she give a thought to the effect it would have on the American mind? To us, Russia was the last stronghold of barbaric despotism, and yet Britain made that alliance, identifying herself with the forces of reaction. I do not say that we would have entered into a similar or any agreement with Britain, but there are alliances of the spirit far more binding than the most solemn treaties. I accuse Britain of failing to make the advances toward a spiritual covenant with the United States, in which lay--and still lies--the hope of this world.'

A messenger had entered the room and handed a note to the chairman. It was pa.s.sed along to Van Derwater's place and left in front of him. He took it up without opening it, and fingered it idly as he spoke.

'A nation does not need to be at war,' he went on, 'to find that traitors are in her midst. The struggle of this Administration for unity of thought has been thwarted right and left by men of no vision, men drunk with greed, men blinded with education and so-called idealism. Mr.

Watson, you ask what we have done with America's soul. I will tell you what we have done _for_ it. There are many of us in this room who have given everything we have--our time, our friends, and things which we valued more than life--because we have respected the trust imposed on us of maintaining America's destiny. I am sorry for your empty sleeve. But let me a.s.sure you that we, also, have known suffering. Because we believe in America--_first, last, and always in America_--we have stayed here, enduring sneers and contumely, in order that when America speaks it will be like the sound of a rus.h.i.+ng cataract--one voice, one heart, but the voice and heart of Humanity. In no other way can America go to war.

. . . And until that moment arrives I shall wear this garb of neutrality as proudly as any soldier his uniform of honour.'

He sat down, and in an instant the whole crowd was on its feet. Men cheered and shouted, and, unashamed, tears ran down many faces. With his heart pounding and his eyes blinded with emotion, Selwyn did not make a move. He could only watch, through the mist, the figure of Gerard Van Derwater with its cloak of loneliness. He saw him look down at the message and break the seal of the envelope. He saw a flush of colour sweep into the pallid cheeks and then recede again. Still with the air of calmness and self-control, Van Derwater rose again to his feet.

'Gentlemen,' he said. The room was hushed instantly and every face was turned towards him. 'Gentlemen, I have received a message from my headquarters. Germany has announced the resumption of unrestricted submarine warfare.'

For a moment the room swam before Selwyn's eyes. The shouts and exclamations of the others seemed to come from a distance. And suddenly he found that he was on his feet. His eyes were like brilliants and his voice rang out above all the other sounds.

'Van!' he cried, 'does this mean war--at last?'

With steady, unchanging demeanour his former friend looked at him.

'Yes,' he said. 'At last.'

And as they watched they saw Van Derwater's hands contract, and for a moment that pa.s.sed as quickly as it came his whole being shook in a convulsive tremor of feeling. Then, in a silence that was poignant, he sank slowly into his chair, his shoulders drooping, listless and weary.

With eyes that were seeing into some secret world of their own he gazed dreamily across the room, and a smile crept into his face--a smile of one who sees the dawn after a long, bitter night.

'Thank G.o.d,' he said, with lips that trembled oddly. 'Thank G.o.d.'

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE SMUGGLER BREED.

I.

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