Part 34 (2/2)

Greyson spoke with an enthusiasm that was unusual to him. So many of our wars had been mean wars--wars for the wrong; sordid wars for territory, for gold mines; wars against the weak at the bidding of our traders, our financiers. ”Shouldering the white man's burden,” we called it. Wars for the right of selling opium; wars to perpetuate the vile rule of the Turk because it happened to serve our commercial interests. This time, we were out to play the knight; to save the smaller peoples; to rescue our once ”sweet enemy,” fair France. Russia was the disturbing thought.

It somewhat discounted the knight-errant idea, riding stirrup to stirrup beside that barbarian horseman. But there were possibilities about Russia. Idealism lay hid within that sleeping brain. It would be a holy war for the Kingdom of the Peoples. With Germany freed from the monster of blood and iron that was crus.h.i.+ng out her soul, with Russia awakened to life, we would build the United States of Europe. Even his voice was changed. Joan could almost fancy it was some excited schoolboy that was talking.

Mary had been clasping and unclasping her hands, a habit of hers when troubled. Could good ever come out of evil? That was her doubt. Did war ever do anything but sow the seeds of future violence; subst.i.tute one injustice for another; change wrong for wrong. Did it ever do anything but add to the world's sum of evil, making G.o.d's task the heavier?

Suddenly, while speaking, she fell into a pa.s.sionate fit of weeping. She went on through her tears:

”It will be terrible,” she said. ”It will last longer than you say.

Every nation will be drawn into it. There will be no voice left to speak for reason. Every day we shall grow more brutalized, more pitiless. It will degrade us, crush the soul out of us. Blood and iron! It will become our G.o.d too: the G.o.d of all the world. You say we are going into it with clean hands, this time. How long will they keep clean? The people who only live for making money: how long do you think they will remain silent? What has been all the talk of the last ten years but of capturing German trade. We shall be told that we owe it to our dead to make a profit out of them; that otherwise they will have died in vain.

Who will care for the people but to use them for killing one another--to hound them on like dogs. In every country nothing but greed and hatred will be preached. Horrible men and women will write to the papers crying out for more blood, more cruelty. Everything that can make for anger and revenge will be screamed from every newspaper. Every plea for humanity will be jeered at as 'sickly sentimentality.' Every man and woman who remembers the ideals with which we started will be shrieked at as a traitor. The people who are doing well out of it, they will get hold of the Press, appeal to the pa.s.sions of the mob. n.o.body else will be allowed to speak. It always has been so in war. It always will be. This will be no exception merely because it's bigger. Every country will be given over to savagery. There will be no appeal against it. The whole world will sink back into the beast.”

She ended by rising abruptly and wis.h.i.+ng them good-night. Her outburst had silenced Joan's impish drummer, for the time. He appeared to be nervous and depressed, but bucked up again on the way to the bus. Greyson walked with her as usual. They took the long way round by the outer circle.

”Poor Mary!” he said. ”I should not have talked before her if I had thought. Her horror of war is almost physical. She will not even read about them. It has the same effect upon her as stories of cruelty.”

”But there's truth in a good deal that she says,” he added. ”War can bring out all that is best in a people; but also it brings out the worst.

We shall have to take care that the ideals are not lost sight of.”

”I wish this wretched business of the paper hadn't come just at this time,” said Joan: ”just when your voice is most needed.

”Couldn't you get enough money together to start something quickly,” she continued, the idea suddenly coming to her. ”I think I could help you.

It wouldn't matter its being something small to begin with. So long as it was entirely your own, and couldn't be taken away from you. You'd soon work it up.”

”Thanks,” he answered. ”I may ask you to later on. But just now--” He paused.

Of course. For war you wanted men, to fight. She had been thinking of them in the lump: hurrying ma.s.ses such as one sees on cinema screens, blurred but picturesque. Of course, when you came to think of it, they would have to be made up of individuals--gallant-hearted, boyish sort of men who would pa.s.s through doors, one at a time, into little rooms; give their name and address to a soldier man seated at a big deal table. Later on, one would say good-bye to them on crowded platforms, wave a handkerchief. Not all of them would come back. ”You can't make omelettes without breaking eggs,” she told herself.

It annoyed her, that silly saying having come into her mind. She could see them lying there, with their white faces to the night. Surely she might have thought of some remark less idiotic to make to herself, at such a time.

He was explaining to her things about the air service. It seemed he had had experience in flying--some relation of his with whom he had spent a holiday last summer.

It would mean his getting out quickly. He seemed quite eager to be gone.

”Isn't it rather dangerous work?” she asked. She felt it was a footling question even as she asked it. Her brain had become stodgy.

”Nothing like as dangerous as being in the Infantry,” he answered. ”And that would be my only other alternative. Besides I get out of the drilling.” He laughed. ”I should hate being shouted at and ordered about by a husky old sergeant.”

They neither spoke again till they came to the bridge, from the other side of which the busses started.

”I may not see you again before I go,” he said. ”Look after Mary. I shall try to persuade her to go down to her aunt in Hamps.h.i.+re. It's rather a bit of luck, as it turns out, the paper being finished with. I shouldn't have quite known what to do.”

He had stopped at the corner. They were still beneath the shadow of the trees. Quite unconsciously she put her face up; and as if it had always been the custom at their partings, he drew her to him and kissed her; though it really was for the first time.

She walked home instead of taking the bus. She wanted to think. A day or two would decide the question. She determined that if the miracle did not happen, she would go down to Liverpool. Her father was on the committee of one of the great hospitals; and she knew one or two of the matrons. She would want to be doing something--to get out to the front, if possible. Maybe, her desire to serve was not altogether free from curiosity--from the craving for adventure. There's a spice of the man even in the best of women.

Her conscience plagued her when she thought of Mrs. Denton. For some time now, they had been very close together; and the old lady had come to depend upon her. She waited till all doubt was ended before calling to say good-bye. Mrs. Denton was seated before an old bureau that had long stood locked in a corner of the library. The drawers were open and books and papers were scattered about.

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