"That was Lethbridge's daughter, wasn't it?" asked the Squire, as we drove towards my little house.

"Yes," I replied.

"I am surprised that she should be there;" and I noticed that the Squire's voice seemed tense and angry.

"Surprised! Why?"

He hesitated a second, then went on.

"I had a row with the man this morning. I—I could not help it."

"A row with Mr. Lethbridge?"

"Yes, he made me mad. I tried to act as generously as I could; but there are limits."

I was silent, although, truth to tell, I wanted to know what had caused the Squire's anger.

"I went to see him this morning," he went on presently. "You see, I wanted the platform to be as representative as possible, and knowing that Lethbridge is a large employer of labor, and therefore has a great deal of influence among working men, I thought he might be of value to us. I suppose I ought to have gone to see him before; but the meeting was arranged in a hurry, and—and—anyhow, I didn't. But I went this morning, and asked him to propose the chief resolution."

"And what did he say?"

"He refused pointblank, and added an insulting remark to his refusal."

"And then what?" I asked.

"I am afraid I lost my temper. You see, I did not understand his point of view—how could I? Whatever he is, he was born in England, and I am afraid I told him some home truths. I told him he was a disgrace to his country, that he was unworthy to be called an Englishman, and that I should refuse ever to enter his house again."

"Pretty drastic," I remarked.

"Drastic!" replied the old man. "How could I help being drastic? He abused the Army, abused our statesmen, said we had been dragged into the war by a bungling diplomacy, told me we were as guilty as the Germans were, and that we had torn up more scraps of paper than the Germans had. I asked him to prove his words, I challenged him to bring forward a single instance where we had treated any country as the Germans had treated Belgium."

"And he?" I asked.

"He couldn't answer me."

"Well, what was the upshot of it?"

"After a bit I got rather ashamed of myself for having lost my temper; besides, I thought I might have misunderstood him, and I wanted his help in the fund we are raising."

"And did he help you?"

I felt the old man's body quiver as he sat by my side in the carriage.

"Not a penny, sir, not a penny. He actually had the cheek to tell me that he had lost a large sum through the war, and that he would be bled to death with taxes. God bless my soul! What have we English people to do talking about taxes at a time like this! Besides, he is a rich man. If he lost a hundred thousand pounds to-morrow, he would hardly feel it. He has been making money hand over fist for a quarter of a century, and now, when the country is in peril, he complains about taxes; squeals like a stoat caught in a gin! I have no patience!"

"And you got no further than that with him?"

"I got no further with him because I didn't stay. I have tried to be neighborly with the man, although I hate his views. But when one's country is at stake, when a man tries to hide his meanness and niggardliness by whining about taxes!—well, you see, we had nothing more to say to each other. He proved himself to be a bounder, a rank outsider. I told him so, too. I said, 'Henceforth, Mr. Lethbridge, we shall be strangers. I shall never enter your doors again, and naturally you won't want to enter mine.' Then he turned round and asked me what I had sacrificed for the country. I suppose he thought he was going to make a point against me there, but he didn't get much satisfaction out of it. I told him I had written to Headquarters and offered everything I have. If they wanted my house for a hospital, they could have it; if they wanted my land for a camping-ground, they could have it. At that he sneered, and said I was perfectly safe in making such an offer. Think of it, Erskine, think of it! What can you do with a man like that?"

"His only son has enlisted," I said.

"What, Hugh! You don't mean it?"

"Yes, I do. He has enlisted as a private, although I understand that owing to his knowledge of modern languages, and his skill in mechanics, besides being a very good shot, they are going to make a special case of him. All the same, he enlisted as a private."

"God bless my soul! That's good."

"I am afraid that is why Mr. Lethbridge is so angry," I went on. "You see, he is one of those men who hate war."

"Hates war! Well, what of that? We all do. We English are a peace-loving people, and we detest war, we loathe it, shudder at it. Did I not lose my only son in the Boer War? But in this case everything is at stake, our plighted word, our honor! If we slunk out of it, we should be a byword among the nations. Besides, think what these Germans mean to do. If they are not crushed we shall have no country, no home. Have you read what they are doing in Belgium? Have you read about Louvain, Malines, Aerschot? It is devilish, man, devilish. They have violated every law, human and divine. I never thought that any fiend from hell could do what they are doing. And if they can do these things in Belgium, what will they do in England, if they get here? What would become of our women and children? No, no, it is a call of God, my boy, it is a call of God. You put it straight to-night, hot and strong. I nearly lost my head when I heard you."

"Anyhow, Hugh Lethbridge has joined the Army. And what has hurt his father even more than that is that he has married that girl Mary Treleaven."

"God bless my soul! You don't mean that!" and the old man lapsed into silence. "I am glad he did it," he went on presently. "It serves his father right. And—and Hugh is a fine lad."

"He is a fine lad," I assented. "But you can understand how his father feels about it."

"Yes, yes," said the Squire. "All the same, I am glad I gave him a piece of my mind. I could not help it, Erskine. I am a peaceful man, and I hate losing my temper, though, God knows, I am a bit given to it. But I was surprised to see his daughter there to-night," he went on, "and she was carried away by what you said too. Well, she has good blood on her mother's side. The Vivians are good people, and the family has owned land in the county for centuries. Ah, here we are. I hope you won't suffer for what you have done to-night, my boy."

"I do not think I shall," I replied. "I dare say I was very foolish, but I could not help it."

"I am proud of you!" and the old Squire gripped my hand heartily. "You have got good English blood in you, you have got the old Cornish feeling. By the way, I hope you will come over and see me sometimes. I am a poor man, Erskine, and we shall all of us have to retrench, but you will always find a welcome at my house."

Then he left me, and I found my way through the copse to my lonely little house.

For the next few days I was almost prostrate. I was paying the penalty for my foolishness. I knew I ought not to have gone to the meeting, and yet, I was glad I had.

So ill did I become that Simpson, without obtaining my permission, sent for the local doctor to come and see me. This doctor was a tall, gaunt Scotsman, who had, as he informed me, come to Cornwall rather for the purpose of building up his own health than for building up a practice. I was vexed that Simpson had sent for him, but I could not remain angry with the poor fellow, for I was so ill that he dare not be left alone with me without having some one to advise him. Dr. Wise was one of the most talkative men I ever met in my life, and after he had asked me a few questions about my illness, he assured me that I had not long to live, and that in all probability what I had done had curtailed the few months which otherwise would have been left to me. I found out, however, that his chief interest in me was not the malady from which I was suffering, or how he might get me better, but to have me as a listener to his views.

"The country is in a bad way," he said. "We have neither arms nor munitions. Even now the Woolwich Arsenal is only working two days a week."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Oh, I got it from a man who knows a man who lives near Woolwich," he replied. "I got a letter yesterday morning, telling me about it."

"Has your informant an entrÉe into Woolwich Arsenal?" I asked.

"Oh, I know it is true," he replied. "Our house-maid has a brother who works there too, and he says the same thing. Oh, the country is in a bad way."

"It must be," I replied.

"Yes, and then there is all this talk about the Russians coming over to help us; do you know there is a plot in that, a deep-laid plot?" he asked in serious tones.

"You don't mean it!" I said, for by this time the man had begun to amuse me.

"Yes, I do," he replied. "I have heard on good authority that the Russians mean to turn round on us. They are in league with the Germans, and they are sending over half a million men to attack our Army at the back. I am not at liberty to tell how I got my information, but it is true. Then there is the Army food. Do you know, it is in a terrible condition."

"How is that?"

"Our soldiers at the front haven't got enough to eat. I know it for a fact. One of the men who went out with the Expeditionary Force wrote and told me that if it were not for the food they took from the German prisoners they would be starving."

"That is terrible," I replied.

"You would not believe it, would you?" he went on, "but the whole country is governed wrongly, and they are allowing the Germans to hoodwink us at every corner."

"If that is so," was my answer, "it seems strange that the Germans should have been driven back from the Marne. How is it that when they got so near to Paris they did not take it?"

"Ah, that is because they hated the English so. They had Paris in their hands practically, and might have been there now if they had not hated the English."

"That is very interesting," I said. "How did it come about?"

"Well, you see, the German generals had made all arrangements to march into Paris, but they gave way to a fit of anger, and determined to crush the English instead. It was a false move on their part, and but for that we should have been done for."

"How lucky for us," I replied.

"Yes, but they are arranging to get to Calais by another road now. They have everything fixed up for the invasion of England."

"What, the Germans have?"

"What they are going to do is this," and he spoke very solemnly. "First of all they are going to take Calais; then they are going to bring their big guns and bombard Dover. After that, they are going to lay mines in two lines, allowing a lane for the German boats to land two hundred thousand men in Dover. They are going to be flat-bottomed boats, and I have it on good authority that the Kaiser is coming with them."

"What! that he is coming over in these flat-bottomed boats with two hundred thousand men?" I asked.

"Yes, that is it. He is going to march on London with all these men, and dictate terms of peace from there," he added.

"And can you inform me what the British Fleet is going to be doing all this time?" I asked.

"We have no coal, man," was his answer. "Besides, think of the German submarines. They will sink all our ships as fast as we can bring them up."

How long he went on in this strain I hardly know, but that he believed in all he said was evident, and that he took a delight in his mournful prognostications was just as evident.

"Simpson," I said, "Dr. Wise has done me good. I feel better than I have felt for days."

"Yes, sir; thank you, sir," said Simpson. "Has he given you any medicine, sir?"

"Oh, no," I replied. "But he has done me a world of good; only, Simpson, don't allow him to come again."

September passed slowly away, and although I gradually recovered from the effects of the excitement through which I had passed, I did not go far afield, and beyond going into the village, and roaming round the cliffs, I took little or no exercise.

I discovered, as far as the people of St. Issey were concerned, that no sooner had the first effects of the declaration of war passed away, than they settled down to the old mode of living. Indeed, the war was not real to them at all. It was something that was happening a long way off. Only a few of them read the newspapers, and in spite of the bad news which circulated, they had not the slightest doubt about the English soon bringing the Germans to their knees. They found, too, that the war did not affect them in the way they had expected. There was neither scarcity of money nor food; work went on as usual, the harvest was garnered, and there were no prospects of a famine, which they had feared, coming to pass.

Indeed, as I think of those days, and as I reflect upon my own experiences, I do not so much wonder at the general prevailing sentiment. We are far out of the world down here in Cornwall—St. Issey is some miles from a railway station—and removed as we are from the clash and clamor of the world, it is difficult for us to realize what is going on in the great centres of life. That the war existed we knew, that a great struggle was going on hundreds of miles away was common knowledge, but it did not come home to us.

The following incidents will give some idea of what I mean.

One day, while walking through the fields towards St. Issey, I passed a cottage, by the door of which a woman of about forty years of age was sitting.

"Look 'ere, maaster," she said. "I want to ax 'ee a question."

"Well," I asked. "What?"

"Well, 'tis like this," she said. "Me an' my 'usband 'ave come to words."

"I am sorry for that," I said. "But that is not so bad as coming to blows."

"Oh, we do'ant come to blows, maaster, and 'ard words break no boans; but that is ev et; we 'ave come to words about this, and we 'ave 'ad several arguments about et, and I d'old to one thing, and my 'usband to another; and I thought you bein' from London would be able to put us right."

"If I can I will, but I have my doubts."

"'Tis this," replied the woman. "'Tis about Lord Kitchener. My 'usband d'say that Lord Kitchener is for the Germans, and I d'say 'e ed'n. I d'say 'e's for the English. Now which is right, maaster?"

Later in the afternoon I met Martha Bray, who, it may be remembered, proffered her services to Simpson on the day of my arrival.

"'Ow be 'ee gettin' on then, maaster?"

"Oh, better than I deserve, Martha," I replied. "Thank you for the ham you sent over."

"Oh, tha's all right, sur. Es the war still goin' on?"

"Yes," I replied; "still going on."

"Ter'ble pity," was her answer. "It ought to be stopped."

"The question is, Martha, how can we stop it?"

"We could stop et all right," said Martha, "ef everybody made up their minds to send them no more money. They would have to stop et."

"Send who any more money?" I asked.

"Why, Lloyd George, maaster; ef everybody in the country refused to send 'un a penny, he'd 'ave to stop et, and then the war would be over."

I could not help laughing at Martha's method for ending the great struggle of the world, neither would I have mentioned it, but to give an idea of the feelings which obtained in certain sections of the country.

But although to many the great carnage of blood which was convulsing Europe was not real, the fact of war brooded over us like a great black cloud. In a sense we did not realize it, everything was so quiet and peaceful; but in another we did. It was in the background of all our lives, it colored all our thoughts.

Although I had given up all hope of getting any answers to the questions which troubled me either at Church or Chapel, I still went almost regularly. I could not understand how, but I had a feeling that it was here I should solve the problems which faced me.

For the first two or three weeks after war was declared there was a slight improvement in the congregations, and then things seemed to settle down to their normal condition again. And yet there was a difference, a subtle, indefinable difference. In a way I could not explain, it colored, as I have already said, all our thoughts and feelings. The services both at the Church and the Chapel were conducted just as they had been, except that some new prayers had been added to the Church liturgy, while the preacher at the Chapel generally made some mention of the war in some part of the service.

It seemed to me, too, that the people were thinking more than usual. Questions were being asked, which they had never thought of asking when I first came to the village. They did not go very deep, but they were suggestive of the new forces which were being realized. The change was so slight that a casual observer might not have noticed it; but it was there. I could not help thinking of the old Biblical story I had read at school, about the cloud the prophet saw which at first was no bigger than a man's hand, but which presently overspread the whole sky.

One day, when I went into the village, a woman stopped me rather angrily.

"Look 'ere, Mr. Erskine, I 'ave got somethin' to say to 'ee."

"What is it?" I asked.

"Well, a few weeks agone my boy Jim enlisted as a sojer 'cause of what you said at the meetin'."

"Very sensible of Jim," I replied.

"I ded'n like it at the time," said the woman.

"I'm very sorry."

"Well, none of my family have ever come so low as that before, and the mornin' after he'd enlisted I told my sister Betty, who comed over to see me about it. I said to 'er, 'Jim's goin' for a sojer,' and she says to me, 'God help us, Mary!' she said,'to think that one of our family should sink so low as that.'"

"Yes," I said. "And what then?"

"Well, sur, he went away, and a week agone he didn't get on very well with one of the officers."

"No," I said, "that is a pity. Didn't the officer behave nicely?"

"No, 'e didn', that is, what I call nicely. He spoke to my son 'bout what I call nothin' 't 'oal."

"Well, what then?"

"Well, Jim wad'n pleased, so he gived a fortnight's notice to leave."

"What! to leave the Army?" I asked.

"Yes. You see, down 'ere wi' we, when a man d'want to leave 'is job, 'ee d'give a week's notice; but Jim thought he would be generous, so 'e gived a fortnight's notice. He went to the officer, and he said, 'I d'want to give a fortnight's notice to leave.'"

"And then?" I asked.

"Well, first the officer laughed, and then 'e told Jim to go back to 'is work, and said ef 'e left the Army before the war was over, 'e would be shot. I do'ant 'old with things like that, so now Jim 'as got to stay, whether 'e d'like it or not."

"And Jim doesn't like it?"

"No, 'e ain't bin used to bein' treated like that, and it was all because of you, too. Ef et ad'n bin for the speech you made in the schoolroom, 'e would'n 'ave joined."

But although humorous incidents were often happening, the grave realities were slowly gripping our minds and hearts. Day after day, this and that lad was leaving his home to prepare for the war, while many of the Naval Reserve men were already away in the North Sea, or elsewhere, waiting to give their lives, if need be, for their country's safety. Indeed, the Navy was far more real to us than the Army. The Cornish have never been a military people, but have always been at home on the waters. Many a time, as I have watched those great steel monsters ploughing the Atlantic, I have reflected that they were manned very largely by the Cornish, and that they were the chief bulwark against enemy invasion.

"I wonder if my boy is on her?" said an old man to me, as one day I watched the smoke from a great warship in the distance. And that question was echoed by thousands of hearts all over the county.

Week after week passed away, until the days became short and the nights grew cold. Blacker and blacker grew the clouds, while the lists of casualties which daily appeared in the newspapers made us feel that it was no game we were playing, but that we were engaged in a death struggle.

I had not been to Josiah Lethbridge's house, neither had I seen anything of the family, since the night of Hugh's departure, and then—I think it was the beginning of November—I was greatly surprised to see Josiah Lethbridge come to my door.