Chapter I

“And do you mean to tell me,” Mrs. Ryan said severely, “that Dennis is appealing for exemption _again_?”

Mrs. Blackwood looked troubled. “You see, the local tribunal passed him for General Service, so he’s appealing against that at the House of Commons.”

“I should have thought that being refused once would have brought him to his senses,” persisted Mrs. Ryan. Mrs. Blackwood glanced helplessly across at Antoinette. They had met at Dennis’s tribunal, for which Mrs. Blackwood and Doreen had come up to London; and they had invited Antoinette to England for the following week-end. Dennis had remained in town pending his new appeal.

In answer to Mrs. Blackwood’s look, Antoinette rose in his defence. “Naturally he’s appealing again. The local tribunal scarcely listened to what he had to say.”

“I should think not,” snorted Mrs. Ryan.

“But surely the object of a tribunal _is_ to listen to what people have to say...?”

Momentarily routed, Mrs. Ryan occupied herself with the sleeve of the pyjama she was sewing. All the ladies present were either sewing or knitting, and Doreen was busy with the tea. Antoinette found it both amusing and stimulating to be championing Dennis’s views in his own home-circle. Mrs. Blackwood was too worried, and also a little shamefaced before her visitors to do much in the championing line; and Doreen apparently shared this attitude. It therefore devolved upon Antoinette alone to defend the conscientious objector against these female militarists—Mrs. Ryan and Mrs. Hallard the most rabid ones; Mrs. Griggs merely woolly and futile; little Miss Simpkins torn between admiration of “our gallant boys,” and a reluctant personal admiration for Dennis. Unlike Mrs. Blackwood and Doreen, Antoinette had no regard whatever for the susceptibilities of the old ladies of Eastwold, and so felt quite equal to her task.

Mrs. Ryan returned to the offensive. “I suppose if he appeals long enough he will get himself put into that Non-Combatant Corps. A shame, I call it, for a healthy young man.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t dream of accepting Non-Com,” Antoinette replied loftily, “that’s only a compromise.” She was glad that she had picked up enough at Miss Mowbray’s to enable her to carry on the argument—carry it on clumsily, perhaps, but with Dennis’s own weapons.

Mrs. Hallard, biting off the end of her cotton, said with brisk cheerfulness: “Well, there’s always Work of National Importance for him to undertake if he won’t fight. Plenty of that going, isn’t there?”

“Dennis won’t undertake anything that means releasing another man to be killed in his place,” said Antoinette, and Mrs. Blackwood supported her weakly with: “You see, Dennis is a socialist.”

“One of those horrid people who wear red ties and are always having riots ...” quavered Mrs. Griggs.

“Dennis doesn’t wear a red tie!” declared his mother.

“As he doesn’t believe in war himself, he won’t help others to wage it,” Antoinette ignored the asides.

“So selfish ...” murmured Mrs. Griggs.

“He might at least make munitions,” was Mrs. Hallard’s next bright suggestion.

“Isn’t that helping to kill people, just as much as going to the Front? It’s doing it at home in comfort, instead of out there in danger.”

“But—but the Germans _have got_ to be killed,” expostulated Mrs. Ryan, “how else are we to win the war?”

Antoinette plunged round for some of the remembered arguments. “Pacifists don’t see why we should win it, any more than the Germans. They think a decisive victory for either side wouldn’t mean lasting peace, but would only be the foundation for future wars. Nothing will move Dennis from that belief!” she added proudly.

“It’s quite a wrong-headed belief and someone ought to talk it out of him,” said Mrs. Ryan, “I hope you’ve used all your influence, Mrs. Blackwood?”

“Oh, I can’t argue with him,” the mother shook her head, “his brains are so much better than mine ... and of course he must do as he thinks right.”

“But do you realise that if he persists in upholding such nonsense, he runs the risk of being put in prison?”

Mrs. Blackwood did realise. To anyone observing under her eyes the dark hollows that told of many sleepless nights, the fact would have been obvious.

“Think of the disgrace!” said Mrs. Ryan in sepulchral tones.

“Yes, the disgrace that a man _should_ be put in prison for standing by his convictions!” Antoinette blazed out.

Mrs. Ryan glared at her. “Well, really ... these people are put in prison for being cowards, and quite right too.”

“But the C.O.s who stand out aren’t cowards: cowards take the easy way—they commit suicide.” She was thinking of young Oswald Forsyth, who, maddened by fear of that which awaited him no matter in which direction he turned, had found a solution by taking his own life. “They’re not all cowards—there are some exceptions to the rule.”

“I always distrust the exception to the rule.”

“But you can’t have a world with everyone in it absolutely true to type, and built upon the same model by the dozen. Think how dull and tidy it would be—how German, in fact.”

“I trust that my ideas do not in any respect savour of the _Kultur_ of that despicable country,” said Mrs. Ryan with dignity; “but I maintain that anything that puts itself outside the general rule and diverges too widely from the ordinary type, is an undesirable element, and should be barred out.”

“That means that you’d bar out genius too, and lots of other fine qualities that only exist in the brains of people who are exceptions to the rule.”

“... Such a very gifted young man,” sighed Miss Simpkins, smoothing her buttonhole with her thimble, “it seems such a pity....”

“In times like these,” pronounced Mrs. Ryan, “if he can find nothing else to do, he should at least devote his gifts solely to composing Battle-Hymns for our men....”

“... And she won’t be budged from her opinion any more than Dennis will be from his,” reflected Antoinette. It suddenly made her feel tired to think of the perpetual clash and battle of opposing belief and opposing opinion going on all over the world now—and no party ever coming round to see the point of view of the other.

Mrs. Ryan, by way of intimating that the discussion was at an end, pointedly asked Doreen if she had news from Hugh, who was in the trenches.

“I haven’t heard for some days, Mrs. Ryan. He was all right when he wrote last, but the post comes so irregularly now....” Doreen also was paler and thinner with the strain of waiting for letters, and dreading a certain kind of telegram from the War Office.

There was a sympathetic murmur from all the ladies; then Mrs. Hallard spoke with her habitual brightness: “Never mind, dear. Just think how you and Lily will value the boys when they do come home to you for good. I expect we shall have a double wedding, sha’n’t we, Mrs. Blackwood? Clive and Lily, and Doreen and Hugh.”

“There’s nothing so pretty as a really pretty wedding, I always think,” came Miss Simpkins’ gentle voice.

“Arthur was the first man to enter Combles,” said Mrs. Griggs for the tenth time that afternoon. “He entered it at the head of his men, although he was badly wounded in the knee, which I am sure was very painful indeed, though he made light of it at the time.”

“Yes, he’s quite a hero, isn’t he?” said Mr. Blackwood, and Mrs. Ryan put in: “He sent the girls a letter the other day; it had been opened by the censor, and they were ever so proud of it.”

In imagination Antoinette could hear Amy’s excited lisp: “Fanthy the thenthor reading all our thecreth—doethn’t it make one feel important?”

Later on Lily Hallard made her appearance. Hands plunged deep in the pockets of her khaki coat, she greeted the assembled company with: “Afternoon, everybody!” and helping herself to the sandwiches sat down between her mother and Doreen.

“I’ve had a letter from Clive, so I thought I’d better toddle round with it at once and show you. Says he’s feeling awfully fit. Killed three Huns all on his own—sniped ’em. Good man!”

“Oh, well done, well _done_!” cried Mrs. Hallard, “that ought to mean a decoration of some sort. Well, if he gets it or not, he’ll have deserved it. Your boy has given you something to be proud of, Mrs. Blackwood.”

“Yes—yes, indeed....” But Mrs. Blackwood’s mind was troubled by an echo of something her other boy had once said to her: “Do you think because they’re Germans they love their sons less?”

“Oh, by the way,” Lily continued with her mouth full, “Tom Sanderson’s been rather badly smashed up. I met his mother this morning. They had to amputate both legs—the one only as far as the knee, though. They say he’s wonderfully cheerful—learning to knit and make himself useful with his hands, now he’ll never be able to ride or walk again. I won’t tell Clive when I write; he’d be so cut up. He’s awfully fond of Tom. Rotten shame, isn’t it?”

“The brutes!” exclaimed Mrs. Ryan.

... Those who had maimed Tom were brutes; but Clive, who had sniped three of the enemy, was a hero. And to the other side Clive was the brute, and Tom’s assailants were heroes. Antoinette marvelled that the one-sided absurdity of it all should be apparent to no one save herself. But she recognised that it would not even have been apparent to her were she not seeing the world through Dennis’s eyes. And had he been a soldier she would have collected his badges and buttons, and listened to his stories from the Front with just as much zest as Doreen or Lily. But while she utterly lacked convictions of her own, there was a certain pride in taking up the attitude which she knew would have been his if he had been here.

Mrs. Blackwood’s invitation to Eastwold had been a god-send. Ever since Alan’s arrest, two months ago, she had felt strangely shy of Dennis; had feared that he might think she was taking an unfair advantage over Alan. He might hate her and recoil from her, just because she was there, and he did not want her; and Alan, whom he did want, was inaccessible. All she prayed for now was not that Dennis should love her, but that he should not hate her.

And at Eastwold, surrounded by people and things that belonged to him, she was continually being reminded of his personality. There were the old photographs of him as a baby, as a boy ... such a serious-eyed little boy. There were his books which she was invited to borrow if she liked. There was in Doreen that faint family-likeness to Dennis; an expression in the big light-brown eyes; the curve of the lips. There was the fascination of listening to Mrs. Blackwood’s stories of him as a child.... Antoinette felt nearer to him here than when she was actually with him in London.

After the sewing-party had broken up, Lily, Antoinette and Doreen sat talking in the latter’s bedroom.

Doreen appealed to Antoinette: “Can’t you do anything to make Dennis give up his dreadful ideas?”

Antoinette smiled inwardly at the assumption that she had some influence over Dennis; but thought it just as well to keep up the illusion before Dennis’s sister. “Why should I, Doreen? Surely every man has a right to his opinions, and I think it’s splendid of Dennis to stand by his, as he’s doing.”

“Splendid!” cried Lily, “sheer theatricality, I call it. They should never have had the chance of making such an exhibition of themselves. I’d shoot ’em all if I had my way.”

“When so many are being shot already—and some are shooting themselves for fear of being shot—and some are shooting themselves rather than shoot others?”

“Oh, I like your so-called humanitarian who is so squeamish that he won’t take the lives of his country’s enemies, and yet doesn’t scruple to take his own, rather than let it be of service to the State.”

“Rather than use it for a purpose which he considers vile!” Antoinette broke in. “There’s some heroism in that too, even if there isn’t in the suicide of the person who’s just afraid. That’s only pitiful ...” she added softly.

“Why concern yourself with such riff-raff? The C.O.s and all their like are just a lot of contemptible weaklings.”

“You’re not very complimentary to your future brother-in-law, are you?”

“Doreen knows well enough what I think of Dennis’s behaviour; there is no need for compliments. People of his sort are no good to the nation. Cut ’em out I say!”

“You can’t call a man who’s ready to go to prison for his convictions a weakling or a coward.”

“Prison’s safe. What’s prison compared with the trenches?”

“They do queer things to the C.O.s in prison—forcing food through tubes up their noses if they won’t eat, putting them in chains and painful irons—yes, you _shall_ listen, Doreen.... The officials have more or less got a free hand with them, and backed up by public opinion they can wreak their spite upon them as they please, giving them ghastly punishments that may injure them for life.”

Lily shrugged her shoulders. “If a man disobeys orders he’s got to be punished. The men in the trenches run other risks—real risks.”

“The men in the trenches also stand a sporting chance of escape. Those in prison don’t. They have to undergo deliberate, cold-blooded torture. It—it’s like atrocities!”

Lily snorted. “Well, it would be a nice thing if these precious pacifists of yours were allowed to run loose and enjoy themselves while all the really decent people have to suffer.”

“No, you’d like to see them punished just for having ideas that are different from other people’s. You rampant militarists at home can’t endure the thought of any joy or freedom being left in the world. You seem to take a ghoulish pleasure in crushing it all out. It galls you to think of anyone escaping with a lesser share of the general misery.”

“Frankly I don’t see why the C.O.s should escape. Why should men enjoy the freedom and the rights of citizenship that they won’t fight for?”

“They’re not given their rights of citizenship as a free gift or a charity; they pay for them in rates and taxes: that’s fair. But why should they also be expected to pay in flesh and blood?”

“You’ve a very lofty idea of patriotism, I must say!”

“I hate all the talk about ‘a man’s duty to the State.’ Why should the State have the right to claim a man’s life when it can’t _give_ him life—when it can’t give him back as much as a finger-nail that he may lose in the war? Why has the State the right to take more than it can give?”

“You’re mad,” said Lily; and having thus clinched the argument, departed.

Doreen sighed. “Dennis can’t stop the war by keeping out of it, so I do wish he’d join in like everybody else, and help to win it.”

“Of course one man can’t stop the war by standing out, any more than one man by joining in can win it. Each man can only answer for himself, and do what he thinks right.”

Doreen cried impulsively, “I love you for sticking up for Denny like that, but only because I love him too—not because I think he’s right. I think it’s right to do what Hugh’s doing, even though I sometimes feel I just can’t bear it a second longer—the waiting for news—and knowing he’s in danger always—and hating the sight of a telegraph-boy.”

“Yet you wouldn’t want him not to be at the Front, would you?”

Doreen shook her head.

“And I don’t want Dennis not to stand by his views, either.”

“Oh, that’s different,” said Doreen childishly.

Antoinette smiled. “Is it...? And supposing Hugh had been a pacifist, Doreen?”

“Oh, he never could have been ... but if he had,” Doreen softened, “if he had, I suppose I should have tried to find excuses for him.” She added after a moment: “But how I should have hated having to!”